The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | ||
THE LEGEND OF SAINT ALEXIS.
A ROMAN LEGEND.
(DIED A.D. 398.)
I. PART I.
ARGUMENT.
Euphemian, the descendant of a great Roman stock, is a Christian, as is Aglaë, his wife; and each day they have three tables set forth—one for orphans, one for widows, and one for pilgrims. After many years a son is granted to their prayers. While yet a child, he is esteemed by all Christian Rome to be a Saint. In time, his parents contract the youth to a Greek maiden. On the day of his marriage, there is sent to Alexis one of those wondrous mandates from on high, whereof men read in the sacred Scriptures; and he at once leaves all, and abides at Edessa, among the pilgrims who kneel in the porches of its chief church. After many years, a second divine mandate requires him to return to his father's house, and abide there unknown till death. There he lies ever in a little cell under a marble staircase, being unable to rise through great pains. After many years, when death draws nigh, he commands that paper and ink should be brought; and he writes down his history and dies alone. As soon as that scroll is read there is great lamentation in the house; but God turns that sorrow into joy, and Alexis is followed to his grave by all the great ones of Rome; and the house of his fathers is changed into a church, which remains to this day.
There stood a marble palace vast and fair
'Mid gardens rich in mulberry and vine,
With columned atrium and Parian stair,
Statued by godlike forms at either side,
Ancestral chiefs, a Roman noble's pride.
Ancient when Hannibal with gloomy brow
From Zama rode, till then invincible;
Ancient when Cincinnatus left his plough;
Ancient when Liberty in crimson dyed
Leaped forth, re-virgined, from a virgin's side—
Ancient when Rome in civil conflict reeled
By rapine torn or fratricidal strife
Ill fruit of that Licinian Law repealed,
And free-born peasants, famed in peace and war,
Gave place to slaves, base scum from realms afar.
Above the custom new and mist of error;
The native husbandmen with freedom's tread
Walked still its fields; in gladness not in terror
Their young, fair daughters, rising from the board,
Greeted the entrance of an unfeared lord.
To claim his half; when corn-clad slopes grew fat;
When russet sheaves to golden barns were borne;
When olives bled, or grapes made red the vat:
He stood among them when the son was wed;
He followed to his grave the grandsire dead.
That Senate-Order of a later day,
Fooled by their flatterers, by their slaves abhorred,
Reaped as they sowed, each upstart anarch's prey
Successively proscribed. 'Mid seas of blood
The Empire by the dead Republic stood.
Even then to save that Empire: nought availed
The name invoked but not the Faith of Christ,
Or Faith that made its boast in words, but failed
To rear on Pagan wrecks of sense and pride
The Christian throne of greatness sanctified.
Left prouder still the West. More high each day
The pomp up-swelled of Rome's great Houses, stirred
By legendary lore and servile lay,
And hungry crowds contented long to wait
The bread-piled basket at the palace-gate.
Freedman and slave, Greek cook and Syrian priest,
Wizard and mime, adepts in dance or song;
The perfumed patron, recent from the feast
Or drunken slumbers reddening still his eyes,
Enters; and plausive shouts insult the skies,
That bend lean foreheads, seamed by fevered veins,
Across the ledger broad or mouldering desk;
For then each Roman noble held domains
By Rhenus, Rhodanus, and every shore
That hears or viol's sigh or panther's roar.
They steered to distant ports no ships broad-sailed;
But well they knew that gain which usury yields;
Or, borrowing oft, when tricksome fortune failed
Pawned their best plate and many a gem beside,
Knee-crooked to soothe some upstart lender's pride.
Drag back the flashing oars; a second score
With incense charge each wind that curls the waves,
Or harmonize blue Baiæ's watery floor
With strains that charmed Calypso's halls erewhile,
Or lured Ulysses t'ward the Siren's isle.
Their skirts aflame with legend-broideries;
Bull-born, Europa here the Bosphorus passed,
The Idean shepherd there adjudged the prize;
Or Venus, fisher turned, with bending rod
Down dropped a wet-winged Cupid on the sod.
On August noons Soracte's steepest ridge;
Or, pinnace-cradled, pushed the creamy foam
Onward through dusk Avernus' waving sedge;
They turned not there great Maro's page, yet oft
Alike the Poet and his Sibyl scoffed.
Syrian the rite once Roman, later Greek:
Old libraries remained: they sought them less
For song heroic than for tale lubrique;
Here sophists warred in turn on body and soul;
There dust lay thick on Plato's godlike scroll.
Their carrucæ were silver, gold-émbossed;
In festal barge they coasted Cumæ's bay:
If there a keener gust the ripple crossed
They shook like some sick child that sees in dream
Ixion's doom or rage of Polypheme.
But witless, loud, or shrill was every strain:
They feared the incense-breath of innocent flowers
Yet quaffed their wine-cups near the uncovered drain;
Feared omens more than wrath divine, and fled
The fevered child, the parent's dying bed.
Self-love had slain or fouled each household tie:
The wedded seldom loved, or loved amiss:
Child-birth was tribute paid to ancestry;
Rottenness reigned: the World, grown old, stripped bare,
More ruled than when the Witch was young and fair.
Once more on man as in man's prime estate,
And, teaching that the ‘First Command’ is first
The ‘Second’ second only, vindicate
For human loves that greatness theirs alone
When Love's far source and heavenly end are known.
Heroic Virtue could alone defray:
The limb ill-joined could never be re-set
Till broken; Love, till cleansed, resume its sway.
Conventual cells that seemed to spurn the earth
And hermit caves, built up the Christian Hearth.
'Twas in thy lion's abdicated lair
Ascetic Virtue laid its infant head:
The heart, dried up, found waters only there:
By pain, sent up at last Faith's offspring—Love.
Infected least by wealth and popular praise
Could walk in strength, in dignity repose,
In part were faithful to the old Roman ways:
Matrons there were on whom Cornelia's eye
Might rest; and youths well pleased like Regulus to die.
Venus than Pallas, Plutus less than Pan:
The gods ‘Pandemian’ they nor loved nor feared:
In nobler gods the noblest thoughts of man
Looked down, so deemed they, from the Olympian throne,
Or types or delegates of that ‘God Unknown.’
Reluctant bade the fane profaned adieu,
But with the Sophist's godless rhetoric
Their own hearts wronged not. Far as truth they knew
They lived it; wrought for man, and peace ensued
Branding the Bad, and cleaving to the Good.
Moved o'er the Empire from the Martyrs' tombs:
Christians, oft slaves, were found in every place;
Their words, their looks, brightened the heathen gloom:
Such gleams still hallow Antoninus' page,
The saintly Pagan and Imperial Sage.
Helpless though huge, dying and all but dead;
The young Faith clasped it as the keen new moon
A silver crescent risen o'er ocean's bed
Clasps that sad orb whose light from earth is won:—
Its youthful conqueror parleys with the sun.
Old Houses next: Truth loves Humility:
Humility is humblest when most hard
To reach—the lowliness of high degree:
Such bowed to Christ: in turn He gave to them
The stars of Truth's whole heaven for diadem.
The difference 'twixt the greatness counterfeit
And genuine greatness plainly now they felt:
Eyes had they; and they saw it. Henceforth sweet
Was every sacrifice that Vision brought:
No wish had these to purchase heaven for naught.
In unguents drenched, that won the world for Rome:
Sublimer ends sublimer pains demand:
A spiritual kingship, country, hope, and home
Shone out and hailed them from the far-off shore—
‘To sea, though tempests rage and breakers roar!’
On all which God to Rome in trust had given;
The majesties profaned, the rights abused:
What help to earth, what reverence to heaven,
Had these bequeathed? What meant her realm world-wide?
Injustice throned, and Falsehood deified!
Had Virtue flowered? Had Wisdom come to fruit?
Had Freedom raised to heaven her lordlier crest?
Had household Peace pushed down a deeper root?
More true were wives, were maids more pure that day
Than Portia, Clelia, or Nausicaa?
The fruitage fruits of hate and self-disgust;
Knowledge had bathed her roots in lethal dew:
If higher now her branching head she thrust
The Upas shade spread wider than of old;
And wealth had bound man's heart in chains of gold.
Whate'er the Christian prized the Pagan hated,
And clasped, his zeal by wrath intensified,
Rome's meanest boasts with passion unabated:
Their homes stood near: for that cause further still
The inmates were estranged in thought and will.
The poor its price; another kept his lands
But spent their increase freeing serf and slave,
Himself sustained by labour of his hands:
Thus each renounced himself, for others wrought
Yet found that personal good he had not sought.
Upreared a race to Him obedient. Some
For His sake hearth and household sacrificed;
Others, in that fresh dawn of Christendom,
Though spoused lived on in vestal singleness,
Young chastity's severe yet sweet excess.
Was that huge palace on Mount Aventine:
Fortune and Pagan spite had done their worst:
They maimed it, yet not marred. The time's decline
Made it but holier seem. The Christian Truth
Shone, starlike, from its breast in endless youth.
Bondsmen whilom. The clients of old time
Walked there as children, parasites no more;
Mastery and service, like recurrent rhyme,
Kissed with pure lip; for one great reverence swayed
Alike their hearts who ruled and who obeyed.
In nearer stream had earlier quenched his thirst,
Nor laboured over-burdened: placable
Was each man: vengeance there was held accursed:
Before one altar knelt the high, the low;
Heard the same prayer: it rose for friend and foe.
The lord of all those columned porticoes
Those gardens vast with ilex alleys dim
Those courts enriched with orange and with rose:
Happy in youth; thrice happier since his bride,
Aglae, paced those halls her lord beside.
Tender and pliant to her husband's will
As to the wind that flower each breath can sway
While branch and blade hang near it hushed and still,
And therefore ‘wind-flower’ named. On her Christ's Poor
Looked ever with moist eyes and trust secure.
The sound of children's feet patting the floor,
The ring of children's laughter on the air,
Their clamorous joy at opening of a door
To see, to clasp their parents newly come
From watery Tibur or green Tusculum.
From countless hearths ascending eve and morn;
From countless hearts. The joy so long deferred
Was sent at last; the longed-for boy was born.
That day all Rome kept festival; that night
Each casement shone, and every face was bright.
Well loved that Babe; the poor man's boast was he,
The theme of neighbour's tale and minstrel's ditty:
Maiden and matron clasped him on her knee:
And many a saintly mother said—and smiled—
‘Christ died a Man: but came to earth a Child!’
She prayed as never she had prayed before,
And, praying, such an inspiration felt
As though some breeze from God o'er ocean's floor
Missioned from Bethlehem's star-loved crib, came flying
O'er her and him in that small cradle lying.
Simeon to Blessed Mary spake erewhile,
‘Also through thine own soul shall pierce the sword;’
She mused, like those who weep at once and smile,
‘The Mother of a Saint, how great soe'er
Her joy, in Mary's sacred grief must share!’
‘Salve Regina,’ while a tear down stole,
Spake thus, that anthem through the rafters ringing,
‘That voice is music of a singing Soul!
Yon child shall live on earth as lives a Spirit;
When dead, some crown seraphic shall inherit!’
That charm which beautified his childhood's ways:
Skilful the most of those the quoit who tossed
Or chased the boar, he nothing did for praise,
Nor e'er in feast or revel sought a part;
Rome was to him pure as a forest's heart.
The Father-Judge who doomed his sons to die;
The Wife that, sentencing another's crime,
Pierced her own heart, then sank without a sigh.
Great Acts to him were all: not then he knew
That oft Endurance wins a crown more true.
Greatness more great than Action's, and more dear:
The weight of Thought with neck unbowed he bore
As Saints their aureole crowns. All objects near
Were lost in lights of sunset or sunrise:
His one sole passion was Self-Sacrifice.
Boasted untired the youth's intelligence:
Ere long he marked these twain were still at war,
The prophets one of Spirit, one of Sense:
‘I will not serve two masters;’ thus he cried,
And pushed the flower-decked pagan scroll aside.
Keeping it flawless? Thousands safeliest pace
Faith's lower road, dusty and dinned with strife;
Not so the man elect to loftier place,
For sins in others small are great in him
Whose grace is large—such grace least stains bedim.
To him, since Suffering had the world redeemed;
For that cause still he sought the haunts of pain;
Still on the sufferer's couch like morn he beamed,
And in his father's house with wine and bread
Served still God's Poor, or with them sat and fed.
Discords of earth by faith grew harmonized;
He lived in a great silence, spirit and will
Hushed in his God. Because naught else he prized
Loud as that first, great world-creating word,
God's ‘small, still voice’ within him, still he heard.
The serious face still tended to a smile;
In him sorrow and joy still harboured close,
Like eve and dawn met in some boreal isle.
Bad actions named, sad looked he and surprised;
But seldom strove, rebuked, or criticised.
There were who marvelled at his simpleness:
High Truths, and Inspirations rapture-fraught
Came to his mind like angels: not the less
Where fools walk well at times his footstep erred:
He heard the singing spheres, or nothing heard.
Loved him: there only, pride regained a part;
They who had spurned the world, its scorn defied,
Now gladdened that their son had won its heart.
They smiled when kinsmen said: ‘This boy shall raise
Waste places of thy House in later days!’
He answered. Then the mother, ‘Who is she
Worthy by race, by beauty, and by merit
To be to him true wife as I to thee?’
Such maid they sought long time; when hope was o'er
They found her—found on earth's most famous shore.
With Sparta for the foremost place in Greece;
Earlier, in Colchian vales, less known had nestled
Ere Jason thence had filched the Golden Fleece.
Thus to his mates on wintry nights her sire
Boasted—true Greek—beside the fir-cone fire.
So far as Greek and Roman friends might be,
Friends in their youth; but though unlikeness blends
Natures cognate with finer sympathy,
So diverse these, men said 'twas memory's tie,
Not love's, that held them still, through severance, nigh.
Had sought him out, and standing by his bed,
Had vowed to nurture in his own fair fold
That orphan lonely left. Her father dead,
And sacred mourning days expired, the twain
Spread sail for Rome across the wine-dark main.
The sweet and venerable name of Sire;
Her winsome grace, her wit, her every look—
But few could witness such and not admire;
Gravely Euphemian marked them, sadly smiled;
Yet loved her as a father loves his child.
A thought recurred: ‘The girl is light of wing!
What then? Alexis is too grave and staid:
Christian she is; to each the years must bring
Fit aid by friendly difference best supplied:
Ere three months more Zoe shall be his bride.’
Was prouder thrice to bear the Athenian name
Than if the East had rained its gems and pearls
Knee-deep about her path. To Rome she came
Curious, yet spleenful too. The world's chief site
To her meant sceptred dulness, brainless might.
Creature so bright; smooth seas revered their charge:
Cythera's uplands, as she neared them, laughed:
The Ætnean heights, Trinacria's wave-washed marge,
Gladdened; they sang, ‘Our Proserpine again
Is come to gather flowers on Enna's plain!’
From arch and column flattering regal pride,
From cliff-like walls up-piled of sun-burned brick
Beneath whose shade men lion-torn had died,
From alien obelisks hieroglyph-o'ergraven,
For centuries glassed in Egypt's stillest haven.
And, shaking from lashed lids an angry tear,
To that mute man beside her, laughing, turned
And spake: ‘The trophies of all lands are here!
Rome conquered earth: but why? Too dull her brain
For better tasks, the victories which remain!
Lo, there! An Emperor stands yon column's crown!
What Greek would strain his eyes to scan a spot
Jet-black in sun-bright skies? No Attic clown!
There Trajan towers, and, eastward, Antonine:
O brains Beotian, fatter than your kine!’
Nor noted that, as one in still disdain,
Her comrade silent rode. A fixed regard
He bent upon a cross-surmounted fane:
A Grecian temple near it stood: his eye
Saw but that small, low church, that sunset sky.
Daughter, and Rome's old pagan pride of arms,
Alike stand sentenced here. For Christian heart
No greatness save of heavenly birth hath charms.
In Rome the Faith found martyrs three long ages:
She won but audience from the Athenian sages!’
And tender cheek asked leave, it seemed, to smile;
Then, as a bud that frosts of April nip,
That smile, discouraged, died. Pensive awhile
She rode; her palfrey nearer drew to his:
She raised his hand, and pressed thereon a kiss.
Wisdom serene, and Virtue proved by years,
Note not—’ She wept; but soon her cheek in sooth
Like leaves rain-washed beamed brighter for her tears,
And livelier than before her critic tongue
This way and that its shafts of satire flung.
At times the patriot stern essayed to frown:
She noted either mood; and her discourse
Accordant winged its light way up or down
Like those white-pinioned birds that sink then soar
O'er high-necked waves breasting a sandy shore.
That Augur-haunted height. They paused: she saw
Old Tiber, lately bright, in sanguine line
Wind darkening t'wards the sea. A sudden awe
Chilled her. She felt once more that evening breeze
Which waves that yew-grove of the Eumenides
Sat Destiny's blind mark, King Œdipus;
And, oft as she had passed it, shudderings cold
Ran through her fibred frame, made tremulous
As the jarred sounding-board of lyre or harp:
So thrilled the girl that hour with shiverings sharp.
Dreadful it looks; a western Calvary!
A sacrificial aspect dark and still
It wears, that saith, “Prepare, O man, to die!”
Father! you house not on this mount of Fate?’
Thus as she spake they reached his palace gate.
She who had made her husband's youth so bright:
Long to her neck the Athenian Exile clung
Wearied and sad. Not less that festal night
The gladsomest of the radiant throng was she,
Centre and soul of Roman revelry.
PART II.
From Ganges' flood to Atlas' snowy crown:
Heavenward from cape and coast her praise is hurled:
She lifts the nations up and casts them down:
Like some great mountain city-thronged she stands
Her shade far cast eclipsing seas and lands.
Not less than o'er the unmeasured fields of space;
Processional the Empires paced sublime;
Her heralds these; they walked before her face:
Assyrian, Persian, Grecian—what were they?
Poor matin streaks, yet preludes of the day!
When near her legions drew bowed low their heads;
Indus and Oxus from their mountain springs
Whispered, “She cometh.” Dried-up river-beds
From Dacian plains to British cried aghast,
“This way but now the Roman eagles passed!”
With arch o'er arch; the mountain-crests she carves
Wolf-like the race that mocks her bleeds or starves;
Alike they lived their lives, they had their day:
Her laws abide; men hear them and obey.
Houses at will all nations and their gods
Content to know herself of all the Queen.
Who spake that word: “The old Religion nods?”
Ah fools! at times, but gathering heat, the levin
Sleeps in Jove's hand. Yet Jove reigns on in heaven.’
Girdling the palace pleasaunce swelled what time
Zoe awoke, till then sleep's lovely thrall,
And marked the splendours of the dewy prime
Brightening the arras nymphs beyond her bed;
Upright she sat, and propped a listening head.
Lessening from stem to stem, from stone to stone;
Then rose, and, tossing wide the casement, sang
In briefer note a challenge of her own:
‘Ye prized the old Faith—dying or dead condole it—
That Faith was Greek, my masters! Rome but stole it!’
Still gleamed 'mid all those golden tissues woven
Which decked her fancy's world of thought and love;
Her conscience clung to Truths revealed, heartproven:
Her fancy struck no root into the true,
A rock-flower fed on ether and on dew.
That mother taught her girl the Christian Creed;
She learned it, she believed: yet scarce could smother
Memories first hers of heathen race and breed
Which, claiming to be legend only, won
Perchance more credence as exacting none.
The Christian Faith, that only, she revered;
Yet oft at Christian hearths with sceptics sided:
Sacred Religion less she loved than feared,
Still muttering sadly; ‘Easy 'tis, I wean,
To dread the Unknown, but hard to love the Unseen.’
In intellect's self less strong than keen and swift:
Immeasurable in beauty, interest, merit
To her was Nature's sphere; but hers no gift
To roam through boundless empires of the Soul:
She craved the definite path—not distant goal.
When first she housed in that Euphemian home
So rich in loftiest reverence, lowliest worth:
There the great ways of Apostolic Rome
Confronted her, and steadied and upraised:
A part of heaven she saw where'er she gazed.
When, by Aglae led, she trod those spots
Where bled the martyrs. Oft, torch-lit, they roved
Those dusky ways like sea-wrought caves and grots
Rome's subterranean city of the tombs,
This hour her noblest boast—the Catacombs.
Still lay the martyr in sepulchral cell
The ensanguined vial close beside his head,
‘In pacé’ at his feet. Ineffable
That peace around: the pictured walls confessed
Its source divine in symbols ever blessed.
The sheep long lost. The all-wondrous Eucharist
Was emblemed near. Close-bound in grave-clothes, there
Lazarus stood still, fixed by the eye of Christ:
Below his gourd the Prophet bowed his head,
Prophet unweeting of the Three-days-Dead.
Whom most the Greek in wonder venerated,
Cecilia and her spouse, that wedded pair
Who lived their short, glad life like Spirits mated
And hand in hand passed to the Crucified:
‘Oh, how unlike Aspasia!’—Zoe cried.
‘Husband, bestow this maiden on thy son!
She loves our martyrs: that high love will make
Their marriage blest and holy!’ It was done:
By parents at that time were bridals made
In Rome. Alexis heard them and obeyed.
‘Unsued, and scarce consulted, to be wed!’
She mused again; this marriage, wisely used,
May lift once more my country's fallen head:
That was my dream since childhood: till I die
That stands my purpose: now the means are nigh.’
To some she seemed a Muse: to sterner eyes
A Siren to be dreaded: but the creature
Beneath her sallies gay and bright disguise
Was inly brave and serious, strong and proud;
A child of Greece, to that sad mother vowed.
Whitening Soracte's scalp were caked with frost:
The marriage was postponed till April's close,
Then later till the Feast of Pentecost.
Meantime they met not oft. The youth had still
High tasks—he loved all duties—to fulfil.
In all the Roman houses of old fame,
Welcomed by pagans most: they set great store
Upon her thoughtful wit and Attic name,
And learned with help from her to read with ease
The songs of Sappho and Simonides.
On all the classic myths of ancient days:
In each she found unrecognized intent
Occult, and oft her jetty brows would raise
Much wondering how a child of Academe
Could slight Greek wisdom for a Hebrew dream.
Most confident belike when certain least.
A perilous staff, for such, is boastful reason;
On that whene'er she leaned her doubts increased;
The Catacombs propped best a faith unstable:
She said, ‘Those dear ones died not for a fable.’
Illumed her pathway. 'Twas the heaven-lit face
Of him, her destined husband. None therein
Might gaze ungladdened by a healing grace;
Round him he breathed Faith's sweet yet strengthening clime,
Like sea-winds sent o'er hills of rock and thyme.
Felt oft he told of things to him well known,
And for an hour through God's high worlds unseen
Advanced as one who sees. But when alone
Faith lacked what Love Divine alone could lend her:
Her nature, was impassioned, yet not tender.
Ardent her heart, but yet to earth confined:
Her sympathies trod firm on solid ways
But cast no heavenward pinions on the wind,
Felt not the gravitation from above:
The depths they knew, but not the heights of love.
Unknown, long checked like tarns on hillside stayed
By bars of virgin ice not quick to melt:
In vain her country's sons their court had paid:
She spurned them: Greece lay bound, a spoil, a jest;
They in her degradation acquiesced!
Save one: she saw in each her country's foe:
That one, strange nurseling of a mystic lore,
Was brave as wise, and just to high and low:
‘How slowly comes,’ she thought, ‘this marriageday!’
Better, not more. She loved with all her heart;
He with a portion, for he brooked no fetter
That bound his spirit to earth. To her a part
He gave in his large being—not the whole;
'Tis thus they love whose love is of the soul.
Deeming her love repaid by his but half:
Ofttimes she wept; but, fearing he should know it,
Drank down her tears, or praised with petulant laugh
What least he loved; or curtsied in her spleen
Passing the fane, still thronged, of Beauty's Queen.
That lifted o'er vast courts their shadowing span
As o'er dusk waters frown Egean isles,
St. Paul's, the Lateran, or the Vatican,
She seemed to see them not; but stooped and raised
A violet from the grass, and kissed and praised.
‘This marriage—will it help yon orphan maid?’
The answer followed plain: ‘I never sought
The tie. My parents willed it: I obeyed:
If they have erred, ere long a hand more high
Will point my way. Till then no choice have I.’
Airs as from heaven played on her spirit's chords;
She sighed; ‘A man is he of deeds not words!’
Poor child! She guessed not 'twas her wayward will
Slighting the themes he loved that held him silent still.
They wist not this, that, though to seats divine
Great Love at times can lift the earthly heart,
On hearts enskied as oft it works decline.
Their course was well-nigh run, their heaven nigh gained;
One sole temptation—and its cure—remained.
Ere sunrise yet the dewy groves had dried
The youth was praying in a chapel small
That stood retired by Tiber's streaming tide;
Though dull the morn, the boats with flags were gay:
A pagan Feast they kept—Rome's natal day.
That 'mid these boats white-winged, and by the bank
A bark lay moored where Tiber seaward curved;
It bore no flag; its sails were black and dank—
A stern sea-stranger seemed it, sad, alone;
A raven 'mid bright birds of dulcet tone.
With sunburnt brow, worn cheek, and mournful eyes:
He to the youth made way, and straight began:
‘A sailor I, and live by merchandise:
Edessa we shall reach in three days more.
Abides for aye that “Venerable Face”
Which, like those shadows Apostolical
That healed the sick, fill all that land with grace.
Thou know'st not of that mystery. Give ear!
Elect are they who hold that picture dear.
Bearing His Cross ascended Calvary,
O'er-spent at last He sank upon His knees:
Then of the Holy Women clustering nigh
One forward stept. Above that Face, bedewed
With blood, she pressed her veil, and weeping stood.
Edessa's Boast, that imaged Face Divine
Thereon that hour by miracle impressed:
Some see it not. Who see it never pine
Thenceforth for earthly goods. True merchant he
Who all things sells for one. This night embark with me!’
Then round them closed sea-farers loud of cheer
And severed was that Stranger from his side:
Through all their din thenceforth he seemed to hear
Sad memory's iteration wearisome,
‘Wedded am I: therefore I cannot come.’
Once more he heard, ‘He who great wealth hath won
Let that man live as pilgrims who have naught;
The wedded man as he who wife hath none’—
Words heard at Mass the morning of that Feast
Whereon his bride had landed from the East.
Euphemian thus had sworn: ‘For one day more
Return old times! The poor man's glad carouse;
The harps and dances of our Rome of yore.
Rome reverenced marriage once: this marriage long
Shall boast its place in Roman tale and song.’
The mail of Consuls famed in days that were?
Banners as old as Cannæ swung and hovered
Shifting with gusts of laughter-shaken air;
And on the walls hung faded tapestries old
The Pagan mostly dimmed by moth and mould.
Brightening her brow: that Radiance disarrayed
Whitened with imaged shape the forest stream:
There Galatea with sea-monsters played;
The self-same breeze that landward o'er the rocks
Waved the dark pine blew back her refluent locks.
Levelled beneath strong brows and helmèd crest
Though stern looked forth in wisdom clear and high:
The Gorgon Mask lay moveless on a breast
That ne'er had heaved with love or shook with fear;
High up her hand sustained that steadying spear.
Blessed Sebastian, pierced by arrows, stood
In maid-like and immaculate beauty. Joy
Illumed his front, though dying, unsubdued:
And well those lifted eyes discerned in heaven
That Face Divine His Martyr hailed—Saint Stephen.
By fingers lean of cedar-shaded Ind,
Embossed with emblems, shapes grotesque yet saintly;
And gods Egyptian, taloned, winged or finned;
And ivory cabinets with ebon barred,
Musk-scented, pale with pearl, and opal-starred.
Gold goblets, pledge from satraps of the East;
Huge incense-burning lamps on demon wings
Suspense, for rites of funeral or feast;
And shells for music strung and bows for war,
Fantastic toys, tribute from regions far.
With Sphinx, or Zodiac-Beast, or Hieroglyph,
As oft with Lotos blossom. Leaned, new-budded
The April Almond from his shaggy cliff,
Or rained red flakes on Ocean's blameless daughters
Oaring their placid way o'er purple waters.
For many a grey-haired noble told his tale
And many a youthful minstrel sang his song;
Some marked a trembling in the bride's white veil,
But on her long-lashed lids there hung no tear;
Flushed was her cheek; her voice was firm and clear.
Whose tallest palm-grove crowned Mount Aventine,
Hour after hour rang out that ardent revel,
While flashed above it many a starry sign;
Untired that Bride danced on; beneath the shade
The night-bird sang to listening youth and maid.
Yet welcoming friend or guest. Pastimes like these
His eyes had never looked upon before;
Now seeing, he misliked them. Ill at ease,
One voice he heard 'mid all that buzz and hum;
‘I have a Wife; therefore I cannot come.’
He heard, though faint, that hymn at morning sung,
More near, then first, those verses Fescennine
Trolled by boy pagans as their nuts they flung:
He sought the house, passed to its farthest room,
Lit by one lamp that scarcely pierced the gloom.
He stood beneath that lamp; its downward shade
Clasped the slight form, and on him seemed to plant
A dusky cowl. Sudden with heart dismayed
The youth that morning's stranger saw, and nigh
The Saviour on His Cross, and Calvary.
That Bridegroom heard: ‘Edessa—meet Me there;
There bide with Me alone; and thence depart
When I that sow, homeward My sheaves shall bear.
Those three thou lov'dst so well in days of old
Shall then be thine—and Mine—in love tenfold.’
And wreathed with rose the Bride before him stood
Warm from the dance, and blithesome as a bird.
He spake: ‘Fear naught! What God decrees is good.’
Within her hand he placed a ring, and said:
‘Farewell! Wear this till many years are fled.
Farewell! God calls me to a far-off land;
But He will lead me back Who bids me hence,
And draw us near; and yet between us stand.
Farewell, poor child!’ He passed into the night
And soon was hidden wholly from her sight.
They found her with wide eyes and lips apart
Standing, a statue wreathed, in white array;
One wedded hand was pressed against her heart;
One clasped a ring. ‘Tis time to sleep,’ she said;
‘Lay the poor Bride—'tis late—upon her bed.’
PART III.
From heights of Taurus seaward winds in flood
Its mighty youth replenishing for ever,
In days of yore a royal city stood:
Two lesser streams embraced it like two arms
That clasp some bright one in her bridal charms.
In Syrian gales tempered by mountain snows,
And gardens green traversed by runnels quivering
And Palms at each side set in columned rows:
High in the midst a church of ancient fame
There rose. Edessa was that city's name.
Wherein the maimed and crippled sued for alms;
Likewise God's penitents, admitted there
As men beloved, might hear the hymns and psalms
Until, their penance past, once more the shrine
Received them, and they fed on food divine.
Of race unknown, and humbler than the rest,
His garment hair-cloth 'neath a leathern belt;
He deemed himself unmeet to stand a guest
Within that hallowed precinct whose embrace
Cherished the Veil all-blest and ‘Sacred Face.’
Although in spirit kneeling still within;
And neither civic pomp nor popular shout
Made way to him. Propping a haggard chin
On haggard hand he sat with low-bent brows
Absorbed in heavenly thoughts, unearthly vows.
Euphemian sent wise men to seek his son:
Some to Laodicea sailed, and thence
Their way like others to Edessa won;
Near him they drew; upon him turned their eye;
They knew him not; yet passed him with a sigh.
Lodged on those fingers worn a piece of bread;
And he with gladness ate it, for his thought
Grew humbler daily; breaking it, he said
‘Thank God that I have eaten of their hand
Whom once I fed and held at my command!’
And next through heart self-emptied to its core,
The inmost of Christ's Teaching on him burst;
And ‘Blessed they who mourn,’ ‘Blessed the poor,’
Lived on his lips, as he in them with awe
The shrouded vision of God's greatness saw.
Nearer to God than Nature's best, in Man
He saw that God Who ever is and was:
In those whom this world lays beneath her ban
The halt, the stricken, saw their Maker most:
The saved he saw in those the fool deems lost.
One day, as vespers ceased, was heard a Voice,
‘Bring in My Son who kneeleth in the porch:
The same shall see My Countenance and rejoice.’
Then forth God's people rushed, both old and young,
And haled the man to where that picture hung.
And saw that Countenance through its mist of blood
Which some see not: and still, ere set of sun,
A change miraculous swifter than a flood
O'erswept it. Grief and shame far off were driven:
It shone as shines the Saviour's Face in heaven.
Reveal the portions twain to man allowed;
For one of these is earth and Holy Pain,
And one is heavenly Glory, when the cloud
Of time dissolves.’ And still his prayer he made
For those far off: ‘Aid them, Thou Saviour, aid!’
His mother sat in ashes on the ground,
And thenceforth day by day; and still she said,
‘Lo, thus I sit until the Lost is found!’
And night by night murmured the one-day bride,
‘His wife I am: faithful I will abide.
Nor dance, as once, in palace halls of Rome;
Until this wedded widowhood shall cease,
Here with his parents I will make my home:
I must be patient now, though proud of yore:
He called me “Child!” He said, “We meet once more.”’
The shadow reacheth soon the valley's breast;
More late it climbeth to the mountain's head—
His loved one gone, Euphemian hoped the best:
Not yet the shade had reached him. Every morn
He said: ‘Ere night Alexis may return!
I shook the dust from many a treasured scroll
Precious with lore which time would fain devour,
The great deeds of our House. In one fair whole
To blend those annals was my task for years:
The pages bled: they cannot end in tears.’
Returning, early some, and others late,
From Gaul, Iberia, Thrace, from Syrian sands,
Red Libyan coasts, and Calpé's golden gate,
Brought back the self-same tidings as the first,
That grief which reached him last was grief the worst.
Sent was our child, that late-conceded boy,
To be the lamb unblemished of our fold,
Then vanish, and to by-word change our joy?
Had he but won the martyr's crown and fame!
But now God's Church shall never hear his name.
House blind yet just, I deemed that years to be
Fourfold to thee, now Christian, would restore
What time or heathen hate had reft from thee,
And of thy greatness make a boon for all—
That dream is over! Let the roof-tree fall!’
One day before that picture-hallowed shrine,
When suddenly he heard at once and felt
A voice oracular, awful yet benign:
‘This day in prayer be mighty for those Three,
Since what to them I grant I grant through thee.’
And on that far-off Three, they knew not why,
There fell a calm undreamed of till that day,
As when some great storm ceases from the sky
Sudden, and into harbour sweeps the bark,
And green hills laugh, and singing mounts the lark.
And of the joy to come had oftener vision;
Thenceforth self-will inflamed not heart-distress,
Nor pride that draws from pain perverse fruition:
The parents saw their son once more a child;
The wife, as when he saw her first, and smiled.
That son received an answer from his God:
‘Go to the great sea down, and thence depart
To Tarsus, where My servant, Paul, abode;
For I will show thee there by tokens true
The things which thou must suffer and must do.’
To where Laodicea's mast-thronged bay
Mirrored that queenly city's towery crown,
And found a ship for Tarsus bound that day,
And sailed till o'er the morn-touched deep arose
Her walls, and hills beyond her white with snows.
An eagle from high cliffs has kenned its quarry;
And the black ship before it raced like men
Who flee the uplifted sword they dare not parry
With necks low bent. So fled that ship: each sail
Split; and the masts low leaned like willows in the gale.
And roar of winds and billows far and near
Astonished stood those sea-worn mariners
Yet mute, since none his neighbour's voice might hear:
Then heard God's Saint: ‘For all this company
Fear nought; for thine they are. They shall not die.
The same shall lay thee by thy father's door:
There shall the last storm greet thee—storm benign,
For what I take, that fourfold I restore.’
Next morn they entered Tiber's mouth: at Rome
He stood ere noon, and saw his father's home,
To earth's cathedral metropolitan,
‘Mother and Head of Churches,’ there to pray
That what to him remained of life's brief span
Might, through God's help, accomplish God's decree,
And praise His name for all eternity.
Where in a subterranean chapel small
Reposed, awaiting God's Last Trumpet's sound,
The sacred bones of Peter and of Paul:
A child he oft had knelt its gates before;
There learned what God had yet for him in store.
Anon, as slow he paced Rome's stateliest street,
From Cæsar's palace issued forth a man
Though bent, majestic, with attendance meet.
That man Alexis knew. With steadfast eye
The sire drew near the son; and passed him by.
‘Servant of God, revered and loved of all,
Within thy house yield me a little place
That I may daily eat the crumbs that fall
Down from thy table.’ And his sire replied:
‘So be it, Pilgrim: walk thou by my side.’
That sire and son made way, and neither spake
Till, step by step climbing Mount Aventine
They reached that well-known mansion. Flake by flake
The snows were falling. 'Twas not like the day
Of that fair bridal in that far-off May.
Ofttime thy house; memory thereof I keep:
Beneath the great stair—on a bed of straw—
Slept then a mastiff: there I fain would sleep.’
And answered thus Euphemian: ‘Let it be!
Long since he died: his place remains for thee.’
'Tis time to sleep: my pilgrimage is made:
The mastiff died: the Pilgrim soon will die.’
Then down upon the straw his limbs he laid,
And sank asleep. For hours, as there he slept
Two women by his couch their vigil kept.
Rolled waves of hair: the younger kept her bloom
Though worn. They sat beside him till twilight
At last was lost in evening's deepening gloom,
And longed that he might wake and eat; and spread
Their silks and velvets closelier on his bed.
Fixed from that hour their eyes on that sole man;
And like to dead men on the battle-plain
Silent he lay. In pain his day began,
In pain worked on till daylight's last had fled
As though great nails had fixed him to his bed.
Who loved that sufferer well yet knew him not:
For at the first note of the wakening bird
That mother came who o'er her infant's cot
Ere break of day so oft had peered; at noon
His sire drew nigh: and when the rising moon
As that long path wherewith it paves the sea
Softly she came upon whose bridal night
So black a shade had fallen so suddenly;
And on his bed sat in the white moonshine
Like one that inly says: ‘This place is mine.’
Fierce Syrian suns that sweet face had imbrowned;
And some because at God's command there clung
A mist illusive still their eyes around;
While some are sure that mist, deepening with years,
Was unmiraculous, and a mist of tears.
Year after year upon that Sacred Face,
Its semblance spread that Pilgrim's countenance o'er,
Its anguish fixed, its gleams of heavenly grace,
So that who saw the living face, beneath
That veil saw, too, the Face of Christ in death.
Serving the mighty Rite were absent long
A slave, late Pagan, reared in those great halls
Of him had charge. At times he did him wrong;
Then cried—that blow rebuked by no complaint—
‘The man's a fool! Not less the fool's a Saint!’
Old ere his time, with haught yet pleading eye,
Who spake: ‘My sires to me an ancient name
Bequeathed. When I am dead, that name shall die.’
The pilgrim answered: ‘Household none on earth
Can last, save Christ's. The rest are nothing worth.’
Meek-eyed, with soft white hair: ‘A child had I:
The twentieth winter now is past and fled:
That child returns not. O that I might die!’
And he replied: ‘Have courage, and endure;
Pray well; and find thy children in Christ's Poor.’
One proud of old, still fair as fair may be,
Though bright no longer, spake: ‘Pray, man of God,
That, living yet, my husband I may see
A living man!’ Softly he made reply:
‘Yea, thou shalt see thy husband ere thou die!’
Euphemian sent him viands, flesh and wine,
But he of barley crusts alone would eat:
And still, he spake to them of things divine;
And still, when back he sank and ceased from speech
Musing they sat, or staring each on each.
Divulged to faith: he spake of great things seen
That flash as stars descried through ether clear,
Clearer for frosty skies and north wind keen:
The Martyr means the Witness: such was he,
Martyr, not slain, of selfless charity.
At times the wound half-healed welled forth anew;
Then to that man of woes those strong ones turned,
Child-like; and thus he gave them solace true:
‘God yearns to grant you peace, yet waits until
Your wills are one with His all-loving Will.’
Because God hath not given us that we sought,’
He answered: ‘Love in God, and work, and bear;
Let no man say, “Serve they their God for nought?”
Pray for great Rome; for him your Lost One pray,
That he be faithful till his dying day.’
Upon that House settled a gradual peace
Breathed from that spot obscure and pallet low;
Yea, as the dews of midnight drench a fleece
So drenched was every heart with that strange calm,
And wounds long festered felt the healing balm.
There came from God an answer to His Saint:
‘Rejoice! Thy work is worked, and thou shalt die:’
Then gave he thanks in happy tone though faint,
And, turning to that slave with quiet smile,
Demanded parchment scroll and writing-style.
And God's Command in love that spares not, given;
And ended thus: ‘O Parents, and O Wife!
We meet ere long: no partings are in heaven.
I loved you well. Strangely my faith God proved:
Yet know that few are loved as ye were loved.
Because for you He keeps great thrones on high:
Likewise by you God willeth to bestow
New gifts on man. Each dear domestic tie
Whereof so many a year ye stood amerced
Shall yet rule earth—but raised and hallowed first.
He called you forth His witnesses to be
That Love there is all human loves above,
A Love all-gracious in its jealousy
That, all exacting, all suffices too;
The world must learn this lesson, and from you.’
His arms, and in his right hand clasped that scroll:
And as the Roman monks arose from rest
Nocturns to chant, behold, that dauntless soul
Cleansed here on earth by fire expiatory
When none was near passed hence into the glory:
Blessed Pope Innocent who, throned that day
High in Saint Peter's world-wide bishopric
O'er all the churches of the world held sway
Had sung at Mass that text, though dread, benign,
‘Unless a man leave all he is not Mine.’
Went forth: ‘All ye who labour, come to Me:’
And yet again: ‘All ye that weep, rejoice!’
At once that mighty concourse sank on knee
And each man laid his forehead near the ground:
Then, close to each, those pillared aisles around
‘Seek out My Saint, and bid him pray for Rome:
Yea, if he pray, his pleading shall be heard
That lighter thus My Judgments may become,
For now the things concerning Rome have end.
Seek in Euphemian's house My Servant and My Friend.’
The Roman People. With them paced that day
The Emperors twain, and holy Innocent
Between them, higher by the head than they.
Their crowns Arcadius and Honorius wore,
His mitre Blessed Peter's successor.
There dwelt a Saint. The Christians said: ‘Not here;’
Then rose that whilome slave that sat aloof,
He who had watched the sick man all that year:
He spake: ‘A Saint is here; I did him wrong,
Yet never heard from him upbraiding tongue.’
And passed beneath its central arch; and lo!
Dead on his small straw pallet lay the man;
And on that face, so long a face of woe,
Strange joy there lived and mystical content;
And o'er him with wide wings an Angel bent.
And saw and knelt. But some that stood espied
That parchment in the dead hand clasped and wound,
And strove to loose it. To that pallet's side
To win it from his hold, but strove in vain.
Softly upon the dead man's hand his own;
And lo, that parchment dropped upon the bed:
Long, standing by that sacred head alone
The Pontiff eyed that scroll—at last he raised;
While each man, rising, nearer drew and gazed.
Each heart beat slow, and every cheek grew pale
And strong men wept with passion undissembled;
For short, and plain, and simple was that tale:
No praise it sued; no censure seemed to shun:
Record austere of great things borne and done.
Motionless stood the man like shape of stone;
Ere long he fell a-shivering without word;
And lastly dropped upon the pavement prone:
But when kind arms had raised him, on the dead
He fixed unseeing eyes, and nothing said.
‘Let be! Shall I not see the babe I bore?’
And reached the dead; and then, her forces failing,
Sank to her knees, and eyed him, weeping sore;
And as a poplar sways in stormy air
So swayed she; and back streamed her long white hair.
Had lived the soft and silent life of flowers
Had held, unconscious all those years and hours
A fire within hidden 'neath ashes frore:
It rose—to speak but once, and spake no more.
Sought thee while near thou lay'st, but vainly sought,
Likewise a household slave right ruthlessly
Smote thee at seasons: thou didst answer nought:
Thou didst not stanch our tears! O Son, O Son!
Make answer from the dead, was this well done?’
And looked on him, and said: ‘I know that face!
Dead is the hope that cheered the widow's life:
'Tis time the Wife her Husband should embrace!’
She spake, and sank in swoon upon his breast,
And in that swoon her heart—then first—had rest.
His deacons placed the mitre on his head;
And on his pastoral staff the old man leant:
Upon that throng his eye he fixed, and said,
‘Henceforth I interdict all tears. A Saint
Lies here. Insult not such with grief or plaint.
He walked God's prophet in an age impure:
Ye knew him, sirs, harmless and undefiled
He nothing preached. To act and to endure,
To live in God's light hid, unknown to die—
This task was his. He wrought it faithfully.
True measure since His Work Who still divides
To each man severally as He wills;
He common souls in common courses guides:
To some He points strange paths till then untrod:
This thing had been ill-done had it not come from God.
And blesses those that walk there pure and lowly:
Behold! He calls, “Ascend My hill, and pray,
And holy be ye for your God is holy:
Let each man hear My Voice and heed My Call:
For what I give to each I give for all.”’
At first breathed softly round that straw-laid bed
Swelled through those halls: and with it mingled plain
That voice so loved of him so lately dead
Then when, a child, he breathed that vesper hymn
‘Salve, Regina,’ through the twilight dim.
And in it, sweeter each time than before,
The child-voice with the angelic met and blended;
The courts, the garden bowers were flooded o'er,
Till sorrow seemed to all some time-worn fable,
As when, to lull sick babes, old nurses babble.
Men stretched the Dead upon a golden bier
For kings ordained and passed the palace gate
And laid him in a church to all men dear;
And lo! that night blind men who near him prayed
Made whole, gave thanks, departing without aid.
Till death his parents, sad no more, abode;
And, yearly as recurred her marriage morn,
His wife put on her wedding-dress, and showed
A paler, tenderer reflex, many said,
Of what she looked the morning she was wed.
Serving their God, and, in their God, His poor,
They lived; and God, Whose best gift is His last,
Suffered not these that anguish to endure
Worn patriots feel watching their land's decay:
Ere Rome had fall'n they died—on the same day.
To raise where stood his Fathers' house in pride
A church to God. This day that church doth stand
Honouring the spot whereon his dearest died
Of that huge house remains that stony stair
Alone, which roofed the dying lion's lair.
Young children peer therein, then shrink away
Between those columned ranges twain that blot
With evening shades the glistening pavements grey;
And oft the latest lingerer drops a tear
For those so sternly tried, and yet so dear.
When from the darksome womb of mortal life
Their Saint into the heavenly realm was born,
Old Aventine with bannered throngs is rife;
They mount o'er ruins where the great courts stood:
They mark old Tiber, now a shipless flood.
The Benediction Hymn ascends once more:
Nearer they gather: Apostolic hands
Uplift the Eternal Victim: all adore.
The world without is nought: within that fane
Abide the things that are and that remain.
There and in heaven, rooted in endless peace—
Thou, and those Three—like trees beside a river
That clothe each year their boughs with fresh increase
Of flower and fruit embalming airs divine:
In that high realm forget not me and mine!
The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | ||