University of Virginia Library

Come, friends, where I shall lead you. Follow on
To where, o'er tangled briar and sandy heap,
Yon cypress waves its head; and there, half-hid
In all the wild confusion of the place,
An entrance arched, and hollowed in the rock,
Shall meet your eyes. Fear not the dim, dark gloom
That makes a midnight while the noontide sun
Floods all above with fire. The shadows soon
Will grow familiar. Through the mazy tracks
Your feet will wander, threading out your way
To cave and cell, a labyrinth of rock;
And there, while overhead the city's stir,
Like sullen murmurs of a distant sea,
Floats evermore, for you is refuge safe.
No bloodhound's bay shall hunt you to the death,
Nor hungry Greekling play the informer's part,
Eaves-dropping at your converse. I have known
Worse times than these, when loud the cry was heard,
“The Christians to the lions,” and the flames
Glared horribly, as torches meet for hell,
Where Nero's gardens spread their terraced walks,
And murmuring fountains mingled with the cry
Of sharpest torment; yet we shelter found
Beneath the shadow of the caves and rocks,
Beneath the shadow of the wings of God,
Until the tyrant's storms were overpast;
And so shall ye find refuge. Morn and eve,
In secret gathering, where the flickering lamp
Gleams redly through the darkness, prayer and hymn
Our true hearts offer to our Shepherd true,
For those that live, and those that sleep in Him;
We break the bread and drink the wine of God,
And so our lone, dark catacomb becomes
The great King's banquet-hall, and we, His guests,
Are sharers in His kingdom. Onward then,
And, when the sun is crimson in the west,
Meet me once more in peace. Till then, farewell.

'Tis well: I see you, and I count you up,
As shepherd counts his gathered flock at night,
In fear lest wolf have seized his wandering sheep,
And, should one fail, goes forth upon the hills
To seek and save the lost one. Now, thank God,
Not one is wanting. Neither through the maze
Of these rough chambers, nor in crowded lanes,
The dens of shame and guilt, beyond the bridge
Which spans the widening Tiber, need I roam
In that sore quest. I see and know you all;
I know your tales of suffering and of crime:
Thou hast looked on and seen thy master burn,
And stretched no hand to help him, breathed no prayer
To soothe him in his anguish:—thou, though young,
Art stained with evil. Here I see the brow
Still bright with guileless truth; and there the cross
Speaks of Christ's faithful soldier. Scars of scourge,
Half healed, proclaim the slave's hard punishment;
And Roman matron, stripped of ring and robe,
Tells of the husband's power to curse and wrong,
Forgiving every crime of sense or soul,
The harlot's life, the wild imperious speech,
All but the one offence unpardonable,
The sin of being a Christian. So it is;
And, penitent or steadfast, ye are met,
Like those of old, in dens and caves of earth,
And bear your witness to an evil world
Of Him who is to conquer. He will give
His peace to those that seek it. Praise His name,
Praise Him for this sure refuge, praise yet more
For all our brothers who at last have won
The martyr's crown, and 'neath the altar rest,
And cry, “How long, O Lord?” and blend their prayers
With incense-wreaths that float toward the throne,
And, robed in white, and bearing branch of palm,
Go forth to meet the Monarch on His path,
In statelier march than that on Olivet,
When He, the Prince of Peace, His people sought,
And they received Him not. And ye shall hear,
Now that their course is ended, what till now
Was kept in darkness. For a while forget
Your separate sorrows, all your selfish griefs,
And listen while I tell you what I know
Of Claudia and of Pudens.

Many springs
Have gladdened earth, and many winters bound
The streams in fetters, since the early youth
When first I saw them. I, whom now ye know,
Your elder, and the bishop of your souls,
Eubulus, then in boyhood grew, a slave
Sold in the market, bought, and sold again,
Till, so God willed it, pudens made me his,
And I in that new service found new life.
Young was he then, the pride of all the youth,
The glory of the wrestling-ground and schools;
No feet more swift to race the Circus round,
No arms more strong to stem the swollen stream
Of Tiber in the spring-tide: so he lived,
Wealthy, of noble lineage, genial too,
With kindly smile rewarding willing toil,
And ruling, not as others rule, by fear
Of brand or scourging, but by gentlest law
Of noblest nature. True, the taint was there,
The taint which clung to all our older life:
He laughed, and sang, and revelled with the rest,
Half shrinking from the foulness, half enthralled
(As sailors venturing near the Siren's shores
Hear the sweet song, and lose their power to steer)
By the bright sparkling of the flashing wit,
The ever-ready answer. Even there,
In that putrescent slime of forms unclean,
There gleamed a phosphor-lustre, and it hid
The naked shame. And so he lived his youth,
A soldier in the high Prætorian band
That guards the Emperor's safety; and ere long
There came a prisoner, sent by Festus here,
(Ye know his name; give thanks for all he did,
And pray that he may find his rest in Christ,)
Paul, born in Tarsus, and our Pudens chanced,
From soldiers who had watched the prisoner well,
Fast bound to him with chains, to hear the tale
Of all that wondrous life. 'Twere long to tell
The story of the magic of his speech,
The words that went like arrows to their mark,
The subtle tact, the mystic ecstasy,
The playful humour, not one whit behind
Our Martial or Catullus; dauntless soul,
Meekness unfeigned, and wondrous charity;
With prætors and centurions bold to claim
His utmost right, and with the humblest slave
Conversing as an equal, so he came,
A marvel and a mystery. Pudens heard,
Went, saw, was conquered. Then there came the change,
The strivings of a life of nobler aims,
New hopes, and wider thoughts. Half breaking off,
Half letting fall the old companionships,
He turned from those gay revellers of the past,
To join the pale young Jew who came with Paul,
Reserved and thoughtful, shunning feast and dance,
In lonely walks on yonder Alban hills,
Or, where his race across the Tiber dwell,
Went with him to the chamber where they met
To eat, and worship God. And me he taught
What thus he learnt, yea, told me all the tale
Of Him who died on Golgotha, and rose
Lord of the dead and living. Slave no more,
I served him as a brother, rendering back
All former kindness, counting all I did
As done to One in whom we both were free.
His former friends looked on and smiled, and shrugged
Their shoulders with the scorn of men who know
Mankind in all their weakness. “Lo! one more
Is added to the dreamers of the world,
Who fain would turn the old earth upside down:
These fancies of the new philosophy,
Whose founder, scorned and hated by his own,
Died as a brigand dies, will run their course,
Turn some few weak ones mad, like this our friend,
And then die out. 'Twere well imperial Rome
Should crush it down at once.”

So spake they then;
And Martial, he made merry with it all,
Called me Eucolpus, bosom friend and true,
Instead of trusty slave; and once, when I,
(Pudens being smitten with the fever's touch,)
In new-born zeal of anxious faith and fear,
Took on my head the Nazarite's holiness,
He with glib tongue, and ready thought of ill,
Made sport of me, as though I still had lived
As others lived, and to Apollo made
My offering of the golden locks of youth.
But Claudia .... lo! I linger on my way,
And tell you not of her who needs must be
The centre of my story.

Fair she was
With all her nation's beauty, (for she came
From far Britannia, where the Ocean girds
Its last and wildest islands,) and her blood
Flowed from the veins of King Cogidobun,
Barbarian monarch wearing crown of gold,
And amber armlets wreathed with rows of pearls,
Whom Pudens once had known when Claudius sent
His legion to the Regni. Courteous guest
Found kindly host; and thus, through all the change
Of time and fortune, still the king was firm
In friendship to the Romans, wavering not
When others fell away in open fight,
Or mined and countermined in secret plot;
And so our Pudens helped to build a shrine
For Neptune and Minerva; and the King,
To that barbaric name we scarce can speak
Joined that which Cæsar bore, full cheap reward,
Which yet he prized above all gold or gems,
As craving for a fellowship with us,
The world's great rulers. So his infant child
Grew up as Claudia, very fair to see,
Eyes of clear azure, as the sapphire shines
In softest moonlight, brow of loveliest hue,
Not simply pale, as sculptured marble past
Beyond its first true whiteness to the tint
That speaks of coming age, nor such as oft
Our Roman matrons boast of through the tricks
And craft of art, but white as I have seen
The snow-crowned Alps, when morning's earliest sun
Has flushed them with the beauty of the rose;
And over brow and shoulder flowed the stream
Of silken hair, a very shower of gold,
While face and form both told of maiden grace,
Fresh as the dawn, and free as mountain breeze,
Still guarded in the purity of home,
Where those her Northern kinsmen kept aloof
From Rome's contagion. And in this her prime,
Half hostage and half friend, she came to us
Beneath Pomponia's care. On Britain's shore
The two had met, Pomponia, worn and sad,
With life's strange chances, weary of the world,
Sick of its shadows, craving for repose;
And Claudia, with the world as yet untried,
Her heart as yet untainted. And their souls
Clave each to each, as mother to a child,
And child to mother; and the matron brought
The maid of Britain, hardly yet sixteen,
To this imperial city. Strange its ways,
And half bewildering to her. In her fear
She shrank into herself, while Roman dames
Looked on her in their scorn; nor could she bear
Her part with them in all the show and pomp,
Nor wear their filmy vestments, nor look on
While Gauls and Britons stained the sand with blood,
Saluting Cæsar as they marched to death,
And wrestled with the panthers. So she grew,
As grows a lily in its veil of green,
Fragrant and pure, while all around it soar
Tall poppies flaunting in their scarlet robes,
Or crimson roses, flushed and overblown,
Meet wreath for drunkard's revelling; and ere long
Fresh dew from heaven on that fair lily fell,
And gave it holier beauty. Still she turned,
Pomponia, weary of the shows of life,
To those who told of peace and joy beyond;
And so it chanced there came across her path,
Our Phœbe and Priscilla, and from them
She heard of that same Teacher of the East,
Our Lord and Master, heard how He had come
To save the wanderers, heard His words of love,
“All ye that labour, weary ones and sad,
Come ye to me, and I will give you rest,”
And hailed them as a message sent to her,
For she was weary, and she craved for rest.
And thus they too half joined our little band,
Forsook the fashion and the pride of life,
And men reproached them for their altered life,
Their gloom and strictness.

So they met once more
Pudens and Claudia, who, in earlier days,
Had met in Britain, and his heart was drawn
To that fair maid, whom he, in youth's full joy,
Had known and loved, whom now he found again,
The same and yet another, keeping still
The freshness of her girlhood, yet arrayed
In woman's graces. And he turned to her,
He whom Rome's fairest courted for their own,
Whom Galatea, sporting in the shade,
Hit with the golden fruit, while Flavia bent
The haughty pride of her patrician lips
In becks and smiles, and Domitilla fair,
In wild unwisdom, went with prayers and gold
To swarth Chaldæan sage and Marsian witch
For spells and love-charms. Yet they all were vain,
The smiles, the spells, the power of ancient name:
He chose the maid of Britain. Whispers ran
Among his old companions, and they laughed
The evil laugh that speaks of evil heart;
They pelted him with epigram and jest;
But even they were somewhat held in check,
In awe of that great purity which beamed
From Claudia's presence. Martial's licensed tongue
Found in her that which silenced scurril jest,
And woke faint pulses of the nobler heart,
The little life the canker had not killed:
And when the scourge of pleasant sins smote sore,
And he lay writhing in the grasp of pain
On fevered couch, he turned with piteous cry
To Pudens, as the one true friend of friends.
All jesting then was over; gibe and scoff,
Thrown back in answer to the kind reproof,
Were heard no more, but moans, and groans, and sighs,—
“Come to me, friend; come, see me ere I die!”
And Pudens did not fail him, cooled the brow
That burnt with fever's torment, and stood by
Till all was over, and his soul passed on
In twilight to the judgment.

Soon the sky
Was dark with storms. The tyrant's fury fell,
Sparing the people, on the chosen flock,
And Paul had fallen by the headsman's stroke,
And young Timotheos went to distant shores,
And came not back, and Phœbe and the rest
Were scattered far and wide, or swept away
In that fierce blaze of wrath. But Pudens lived,
His name and rank protecting him, at peace,
Gave shelter as he could to wandering friends,
And, in the inner circle of his home,
Found rest and blessing. Children came to him,
A daughter like her mother, and three sons,
Whom we baptized in secret, and I taught
Their infant lips to lisp their hymns to Christ,
And kept them from the evils of the time.
But oh! my friends, that I could tell you half
Of Claudia's angel goodness! Meek and pure,
She kept her path amid an evil world,
Diffusing light around her; gems and gold
She would not wear, save that one circlet pure
That marked her as a matron, and the pearls,
Her country's growth, with which she bound her hair;
But bore on clear, bright brow the costlier crown
Of tranquil meekness. Clear and strong of will,
She ruled her household in the might of love;
And we, her slaves, watched every nod and glance,
And did her bidding gently, no reward
Desiring but the beaming of her smile,
And, more than all the scourge's chastisement,
Fearing her sad, pale look of patient grief,
Turned as in pity. Through the weary years
She nursed Pomponia's sad and lonely age,
With chanted psalms of ancient days, and prayers
That spoke out clearly what within her heart
Had brooded in confusion. But, ere long,
Her own turn came. Her northern life went out
Beneath the scorching of our summer south;
And, ere her thirtieth summer came and went,
She faded from our sight. In vain we tried
The purer air where Anio pours his stream
O'er Tibur's rocks, or brought her to the coast
Where white sails glitter on the tideless sea.
She yearned for cooler clime, and fresher breeze;
And, after some few months of fevered life,
Grew weak, and weaker yet. And Pudens nursed
That weakness to the last; for he had learnt,
Beyond all spells of Aphrodite's charm,
Or wingèd Eros of the poet's dreams,
The meaning and the mystery of love,
And, in his Lord's great life of sacrifice,
That He might win a pure and spotless bride,
Saw the true law and archetype of his.
And then there came the end. The gathering mists
Of death were on her eyelids, and her thoughts
Ran back to spring-tide mornings of her youth:
She heard in dreams the ouzel and the lark,
The thrush and mavis of her native fields,
And sang wild songs of early Druid days;
And then her true self saw and spoke again,
And, clinging fast to Pudens, who had held
Her hand in his through all the strife with death,
She whispered softly, “Closer, closer yet;
Closer to thee and Him!” and then one sigh,
And one sweet smile upon the thin, pale lips,
And all was over. We, with prayer and hymn,
Bore her by night, with torches in our hands,
And laid her in the chambers of the dead,
Hard by the Appian.

So her course was run,
Blessing and being blest, serene and clear
As star's bright orbit in the midnight gloom,
A strain of music in a world of storms.
And lo! her death was mightier than her life:
That strain is echoing still with power to calm,
That star still sheds its glory from above;
For Pudens, when the first lone weeks were past
Which crushed him with their weight of emptiness,
Rose from his sorrow stronger than before,
Seeking for nobler life, and loftier tasks,
To do his Master's bidding. Dreary now
The glitter and the pageants of the world,
The legion's duties and the forum's strife.
He took the path that Linus trod before,
(Linus, true friend and brother of his youth,)
And gave himself to do his Master's work;
And beautiful as are their feet who stand
Upon the mountains, and glad news proclaim
To all the listening thousands, so was seen
His presence, so were heard his words of peace.
And me he stirred to join him in that work,
And I, the slave, and he, the master, stood
Before our Elders, and they laid their hands
Upon our heads, and sent us forth to teach,
To watch and guide, encourage or restrain,
As need might call us. Faithfully and well
Did Pudens keep his trust, stirred up our hearts
With hymns in which the speech of Greece became
A trumpet for the battle, spake good words
To souls that mourned, to young and old alike
Came as a brother. Earnest, lofty look
Marked him as one who lived above the earth;
And, though he sought no strife with those in power,
Nor, rushing to the market-place, reviled
The worship of his fathers, yet his voice
Was clear and firm to answer gibe or quest:
“I own myself a Christian.” Many a month
They spared him, out of homage to his name,
When others might have fallen; but, at last,
A panic seized the people. Rumours ran
Of secret meetings, schemes of frantic change,
And dark mysterious worship, (echoes weak
Of lies long since exploded;) and our lord,
The Emperor, in his might, sent forth decrees
Of banishment or death against the sects
That spread new doctrine. Pudens might have fled,
In safety hiding on Sardinian shores,
Or where Vesevus breathes its fiery smoke,
Until the storm was over; but he chose
To stay, and watch, and work, and meet the end
As God should send it. And they tracked him out,
And led him to the Prætor, and from him
There came the sentence. Tortures dread and foul,
Like those we knew in Nero's earlier time,
These they passed over, but the headsman's sword
Must do its work; and so our Pudens fell,
Not as a martyr, 'mid the gazing crowd,
With yells and shouts that stir the blood to face
The foes of God with God's own panoply,
But secretly, in silence, so he fell;
And then, by yon Gemonian steps, they cast
His body to the waters, and the stream
Bore it down yellow Tiber to the sea,
And then at Ostia, as the sunset fell,
It floated to the shore, and found a grave,
Which I alone, and some few others, know;
Where, day by day, our friends break bread at night,
Pray for his peace, and, holding fast his faith,
Remember him with tears.

And now, farewell!
Ye have not yet resisted unto blood,
And better days are coming. Soon enough
The fiery scourge will all be overpast,
This show of vigour soon be lulled to rest,
And ye once more may leave your hiding-place,
And seek your homes. Far greater fear have I
Lest faith should falter, love be waxing cold,
And on your heart the world's contagion creep,
Like sorcerer's numbing potion. If ye feel
That spell upon you, break it at a bound;
Lift up the feeble hands; the weary feet
Send onward on their journey. Count it much
That you have known the lives of those that kept
Their soul's white pureness stainless from the world;
And when men bid you to the feast and song,
And count it strange ye revel not with them,
Think ye upon their blameless lives who lived,
God's true light-bearers in a world of gloom,
And follow in the path that once was trod
By Claudia and by Pudens.