 | Idyls of Norway and other poems |  |
145
CALPURNIA.
147
I.
PRELUDE.
Hot was the noon and heavy. A pitiless, quivering brightnessHung in the motionless air; and o'er the abodes of the Cæsars
Broke the fierce breath of the sun from the fathomless deeps of the heavens.
Tiber, the ancient, had shrunk in his bed, and, with sluggish pulsations,
Languished his tawny blood in his veins as he crept 'neath the arches,—
Crept 'neath the walls of the city of Mars to the happy Campagna.
Gray was the grass on his banks, and the far-spreading crowns of the palm-trees
148
Stirred no murmuring breeze; and, hid in the gloom of the ilex,
Moped the voiceless birds. Beneath the arcades of the temples
Brooded the spirit of silence; around the sculptured altars
Drowsed in the wide and tenantless space the heavy-eyed augurs,
Waiting in vain for the worshippers' tread and the prayers of the faithful,
Offering votive gifts on the shrines of the lofty Immortals.
Lo! without, on the Forum the stately façades and the columns
Lifted their snowy shapes against the deep blue of the ether,
Grave and placid, and pure, like the thought of a god of Olympus
Swiftly congealed to stone in its large, primeval perfection.
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Rose in trembling wavelets the air from the sunsmitten pavements,
And a bright lizard, perchance, that noiselessly slid o'er the marble,
Flashed his golden-brown throat, and a hound slunk by in the shadow,
Sadly, with lolling tongue. Thus desolate, silent, and weary,
Slept the great city at noon, the city of Mars and the Cæsars.
II.
IN THE PALACE OF THE CÆSARS.
High on the Palatine Hill, within the cool courts of his palace,
Stretched on the tawny skin of a beast from the African jungles,
Lay Maxentius Cæsar, the scourge of the angry Immortals.
Huge was his frame and seamed with the scars of manifold battles;
Rough-hewn his face and uncouth. A savage, barbarian cunning
Lurked in his keen black eyes 'neath the bulging wall of his forehead,
Furrowed across with a blood-red streak from the rim of the helmet.
Bearded, burly, and fierce, like the men from Teutonian forest:
Such was Maxentius Cæsar. In Diocletian's absence,
Held he the sceptre of Mars and ruled the realm of the Romans.
Close to the Emperor's couch, where the whispering spray of the fountains
Fell with its cooling breath from the tortuous horns of the Tritons,
Stood, in posture of greeting, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor;
Tall and noble his growth, and his face was clear as Apollo's.
“Wroth are the gods,” quoth Cæsar. “Great Jove from the high-vaulted heavens
Thunders in cloudless space, but sends no rain to refresh us.
Parched is the land, and the fruits of the earth are sapless and withered.
Have I not harkened unto the voice of the priests and the augurs
Spying dark omens and signs amid the firmament's arches—
Bulls with flaming horns that dashed through the glittering star-world,
Black-winged birds that filled with their screams the heavens at midnight?
And in the steaming entrails of sacrificial cattle
Ill-boding signs have appeared. The maids of the virginal Vesta,
Late at their shuddering watch by the sacred fire of the goddess,
Thrice have swooned with dread, and terrible visions affright them.
Wroth are the gods; for they brook not the impious worship of Jesus
Risen (they say) from the dead,—a Galilean impostor,—
Brook not the presence of men who sleepless walk in the darkness,
Plotting disaster and death to the city of Mars and the Cæsars—
Who, in the stillness of night, with horrid rites of the Orient
Stain the fair face of the earth. The gods in their vengeance have wakened,
And, at the games which to-morrow will gather the flower of the Romans
Densely about the arena, the foes of the lofty Immortals
Shall with the reeking dust of the earth which their feet have polluted
Mingle their blood; and Death's keen tooth shall sting through their entrails.”
Stretched on the tawny skin of a beast from the African jungles,
Lay Maxentius Cæsar, the scourge of the angry Immortals.
150
Rough-hewn his face and uncouth. A savage, barbarian cunning
Lurked in his keen black eyes 'neath the bulging wall of his forehead,
Furrowed across with a blood-red streak from the rim of the helmet.
Bearded, burly, and fierce, like the men from Teutonian forest:
Such was Maxentius Cæsar. In Diocletian's absence,
Held he the sceptre of Mars and ruled the realm of the Romans.
Close to the Emperor's couch, where the whispering spray of the fountains
Fell with its cooling breath from the tortuous horns of the Tritons,
Stood, in posture of greeting, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor;
Tall and noble his growth, and his face was clear as Apollo's.
151
Thunders in cloudless space, but sends no rain to refresh us.
Parched is the land, and the fruits of the earth are sapless and withered.
Have I not harkened unto the voice of the priests and the augurs
Spying dark omens and signs amid the firmament's arches—
Bulls with flaming horns that dashed through the glittering star-world,
Black-winged birds that filled with their screams the heavens at midnight?
And in the steaming entrails of sacrificial cattle
Ill-boding signs have appeared. The maids of the virginal Vesta,
Late at their shuddering watch by the sacred fire of the goddess,
Thrice have swooned with dread, and terrible visions affright them.
Wroth are the gods; for they brook not the impious worship of Jesus
152
Brook not the presence of men who sleepless walk in the darkness,
Plotting disaster and death to the city of Mars and the Cæsars—
Who, in the stillness of night, with horrid rites of the Orient
Stain the fair face of the earth. The gods in their vengeance have wakened,
And, at the games which to-morrow will gather the flower of the Romans
Densely about the arena, the foes of the lofty Immortals
Shall with the reeking dust of the earth which their feet have polluted
Mingle their blood; and Death's keen tooth shall sting through their entrails.”
Thus in wrath spoke Cæsar; Ausonius Mycon, the prætor,
Lifted his mournful eye, but tamed his tongue, for he dared not
Free the tumultuous thoughts which wrestled with might in his bosom.
And as he wavering stood he beheld, 'mid the blooming acacias
Which close-clustering grew at the brimming marge of the fountains,
Shyly a maiden approaching—a child of delicate stature.
Summers twelve had she told; like a bud-imprisoned blossom
Struggled her virginal grace through the tender beauty of childhood.
Pure was her brow, and her pallid cheek was wasted with weeping;
And in her eyes, where the gathering tears hung mute and appealing,
Lay something strange and remote, like the glow of a deep inspiration.
Wrapped was her slender form in a snowy garment that rippled
Down to her sandaled feet, and shone with glittering brooches
Artfully wrought into nodding doves that gleamed on her shoulders.
Warily trod she with timorous step on the glittering pavement,
Paused in fear at the shafts of the jasper and porphyry columns,
Then more boldly advanced through the perfumed twilight that lingered
Under the marble arcades where reposed Maxentius Cæsar.
Wondering sore in his mind, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor,
Gazed at the lily-white maid, and saw her tremble and shiver
Like as a charméd bird that feels the eye of the serpent,
Saw how her bosom shook with smothered sobs, as she prostrate
Flung herself at the Emperor's feet. Then her voice she uplifted—
Cried with a wild, sharp cry, as if wrung from a soul in despairing:
“Cæsar Maxentius, hear me! Oh, hear me, Maxentius Cæsar!
Give me death at thy hand! Oh, let me die, I implore thee!
Why has thou spared a life so worthless, so weak and unfaithful,
When thou throw'st to the beasts my father, my mother—forgive me,
Christ! and restore me my strength—my mother, my mother,
To be thrown to the beasts in the sight of the blood-thirsty people!
I was weak. I denied my Lord; but now I am stronger.
Now I have strength to avow Him; for hath He not said to the faithful:
‘He that loseth his life for My sake’—yes, Lord, I will follow—
Walk through the terrible portal of Death to Thy glory eternal—
Walk with unflinching feet, though my flesh be weak and unwilling!
Take me, O Cæsar, now; for now I am brave and intrepid!
Take me ere I grow weak and my heart within me unsteady!”
Lifted his mournful eye, but tamed his tongue, for he dared not
153
And as he wavering stood he beheld, 'mid the blooming acacias
Which close-clustering grew at the brimming marge of the fountains,
Shyly a maiden approaching—a child of delicate stature.
Summers twelve had she told; like a bud-imprisoned blossom
Struggled her virginal grace through the tender beauty of childhood.
Pure was her brow, and her pallid cheek was wasted with weeping;
And in her eyes, where the gathering tears hung mute and appealing,
Lay something strange and remote, like the glow of a deep inspiration.
Wrapped was her slender form in a snowy garment that rippled
Down to her sandaled feet, and shone with glittering brooches
154
Warily trod she with timorous step on the glittering pavement,
Paused in fear at the shafts of the jasper and porphyry columns,
Then more boldly advanced through the perfumed twilight that lingered
Under the marble arcades where reposed Maxentius Cæsar.
Wondering sore in his mind, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor,
Gazed at the lily-white maid, and saw her tremble and shiver
Like as a charméd bird that feels the eye of the serpent,
Saw how her bosom shook with smothered sobs, as she prostrate
Flung herself at the Emperor's feet. Then her voice she uplifted—
Cried with a wild, sharp cry, as if wrung from a soul in despairing:
155
Give me death at thy hand! Oh, let me die, I implore thee!
Why has thou spared a life so worthless, so weak and unfaithful,
When thou throw'st to the beasts my father, my mother—forgive me,
Christ! and restore me my strength—my mother, my mother,
To be thrown to the beasts in the sight of the blood-thirsty people!
I was weak. I denied my Lord; but now I am stronger.
Now I have strength to avow Him; for hath He not said to the faithful:
‘He that loseth his life for My sake’—yes, Lord, I will follow—
Walk through the terrible portal of Death to Thy glory eternal—
Walk with unflinching feet, though my flesh be weak and unwilling!
156
Take me ere I grow weak and my heart within me unsteady!”
Thus she cried and wept, and the voice of her weeping resounded
Wide through the marble halls; while the whispering waters descended
Cool in showers of spray from the Naiad's cup, and the Satyrs,
Poised on tiptoe in heedless delight 'mid the blooming acacias,
Scarcely felt the restraint of the stone which their joy made immortal.
Wide through the marble halls; while the whispering waters descended
Cool in showers of spray from the Naiad's cup, and the Satyrs,
Poised on tiptoe in heedless delight 'mid the blooming acacias,
Scarcely felt the restraint of the stone which their joy made immortal.
Silently listened Cæsar; then knit his brow in displeasure;—
Laughed a menacing laugh which boded ill for the maiden.
“Death thou demandest,” quoth he, “and sav'st us the cost of the hunting;
Foolish bird, that fliest unsought to the claws of the eagle!
Sooth, ere to-morrow's noon thou wilt flutter in vain in his talons.
Take her, Ausonius Mycon, and see that her prayer be denied not.”
Thus he spoke, and the prætor, Ausonius Mycon, made answer:
“Master,” said he, “thy servant I am, and my law is thy bidding.
Yet, if ever I merited praise for aught I have done thee,
Give me this maid as my slave; for choked are the prisons already
With the disciples of Christ that will bleed in the Flavian arena
For the delight of the people. The gods are compassionate, Cæsar,—
Are not athirst for the blood of a pale and shy little maiden,
Who, by affection beguiled and natural love of her kindred,
Trod unthinking their path. My two Egyptian dancers,
Graceful, endowed with a skill that passes all understanding,
These will I give thee if thou wilt deign to accept from thy servant
What is already thine own.” But, with a snort of impatience,
Shouted Maxentius: “Take her, and send thy Egyptian dancers,
Even to-day—dost thou hear?—for languor oppresses me sorely.”
Stooping, the prætor uplifted the swooning form of the maiden
From the hard touch of the stone, and bore her out of the palace,
Through the exterior court, where brawled the dissolute guardsmen,
Playing at dice and tossing the clinking sesterce of silver
On the mosaic floor, and sentries erect in the shadow
Moveless stood 'neath the vaulted arcades, half-absently tracing
Upward the arabesques gay whose bright and delicate tendrils,
Like fleet voices of joy for a moment caught and arrested,
Climbed in fanciful flight. But all unheeding the prætor
Sped through the desolate streets and the resonant void of the Forum,
While the faint rhythm of the maiden's heart that beat 'gainst his bosom
Filled his soul with an unknown peace and with tender compassion.
On the Quirinal Hill, not far from the Gardens of Sallust,
Loudly he knocked at the gate and entered a high-ceiléd dwelling;
Placed the maid on a couch, and thus he gently addressed her:
“Child, I see by thy garb that thou art free-born and gentle,
Sprung of patrician race, perchance, for thy bearing is noble.
Far be the thought from my heart to make thee a slave in my household.
Rather my child shalt thou be, and my daughters will comfort and soothe thee,
Till thy young soul shall rebound from its dark and morbid deflection
Back to its natural poise of healthful enjoyment and gladness.
But, till thy wound be healed, I ask no importunate question
Touching thy birth and thy name, but bide my time till thou comest
Like mine own child to my knee, and reposest confidence in me.”
Laughed a menacing laugh which boded ill for the maiden.
“Death thou demandest,” quoth he, “and sav'st us the cost of the hunting;
157
Sooth, ere to-morrow's noon thou wilt flutter in vain in his talons.
Take her, Ausonius Mycon, and see that her prayer be denied not.”
Thus he spoke, and the prætor, Ausonius Mycon, made answer:
“Master,” said he, “thy servant I am, and my law is thy bidding.
Yet, if ever I merited praise for aught I have done thee,
Give me this maid as my slave; for choked are the prisons already
With the disciples of Christ that will bleed in the Flavian arena
For the delight of the people. The gods are compassionate, Cæsar,—
Are not athirst for the blood of a pale and shy little maiden,
Who, by affection beguiled and natural love of her kindred,
158
Graceful, endowed with a skill that passes all understanding,
These will I give thee if thou wilt deign to accept from thy servant
What is already thine own.” But, with a snort of impatience,
Shouted Maxentius: “Take her, and send thy Egyptian dancers,
Even to-day—dost thou hear?—for languor oppresses me sorely.”
Stooping, the prætor uplifted the swooning form of the maiden
From the hard touch of the stone, and bore her out of the palace,
Through the exterior court, where brawled the dissolute guardsmen,
Playing at dice and tossing the clinking sesterce of silver
On the mosaic floor, and sentries erect in the shadow
159
Upward the arabesques gay whose bright and delicate tendrils,
Like fleet voices of joy for a moment caught and arrested,
Climbed in fanciful flight. But all unheeding the prætor
Sped through the desolate streets and the resonant void of the Forum,
While the faint rhythm of the maiden's heart that beat 'gainst his bosom
Filled his soul with an unknown peace and with tender compassion.
On the Quirinal Hill, not far from the Gardens of Sallust,
Loudly he knocked at the gate and entered a high-ceiléd dwelling;
Placed the maid on a couch, and thus he gently addressed her:
“Child, I see by thy garb that thou art free-born and gentle,
160
Far be the thought from my heart to make thee a slave in my household.
Rather my child shalt thou be, and my daughters will comfort and soothe thee,
Till thy young soul shall rebound from its dark and morbid deflection
Back to its natural poise of healthful enjoyment and gladness.
But, till thy wound be healed, I ask no importunate question
Touching thy birth and thy name, but bide my time till thou comest
Like mine own child to my knee, and reposest confidence in me.”
III.
IN THE FLAVIAN ARENA.
Pale through the azure expanse of the sky the moon was ascending;
Like intangible snow its breath of silvery vapor
Softly fell through the fields of the air o'er the slumbering city.
Then, with tremulous gleam, the stars burst forth, and Orion
Shone with a frosty sheen, and a vague and luminous shimmer
Rained from the Milky Way. But pure, and ghostly, and solemn
Rose the stately façde of the temple of Jupiter Stator;
Hushed and empty beneath, as if touched with a chilly remoteness,
Lay the white square of the Forum, where loomed the Phocian column
High in the moon-bathed stillness. The sculptured arch of Severus
Glimmered palely amidst the temples of deified Cæsars;
While, 'neath the brow of the Palatine Hill, the vast Coliseum
Flung its mantle of gloom to hide the deeds of the darkness,
Wrought on this terrible day for the joy of a barbarous people.
Sheltered deep in the shade of those huge and cavernous portals
Stood, close pressed to the stone, a little quivering maiden.
Fearless she stood and with burning eyes through the iron-barred gate-way
Gazed at the sated beasts that yawning drowsed in the shadow,—
Drowsed or slunk with velveted tread o'er the star-lit arena;
Snuffing, perchance, as they went the mangled form of a martyr,
Sightless, that stared with insensible orbs to the moon-flooded heavens.
Trembling she stood, and hugged the rigid bars of the iron
Close to her breast; but her sense seemed dead, and feeling, she felt not.
Silence brooded about her; until at the mouth of the portal
Sounded the clank of a lance upon the pavement of lava.
Then she turned with a start, though she long had expected the signal,
Saw 'gainst the brightness without three men advancing to meet her—
One a youth in the garb of the far-famed imperial legion,
Rugged the others and clad in the humble attire of the freedmen.
“Glaucus, I thank thee,” so spoke in a shuddering whisper the maiden;
“Christ, who seeth in secret, this kindly deed will requite thee.
Now unbar me the gate and bid these brethren await me
Here, in the gloom of this arch, until I have rescued the bodies
Safe from the fangs of the beasts, that piously we may commit them
Unto the consecrate earth. My soul is constant and fearless,
E'en though weak be the flesh. Perchance may the Lord hold me worthy
Here to receive for the sake of His name the crown of the martyr;
Then return to our brethren, and bid them kneel at the altar
Breathing a prayer for the soul of their sorrowful sister, Calpurnia.”
“Child, thou temptest the Lord,” the soldier Glaucus made answer.
“‘Let the dead bury their dead,’ for thus the Master hath spoken;
Wheresoever they rest, His hand, O sister, will reach them.”
“Glaucus,” she said, “I am lonely, and yearn and weep for my mother.
Lo, my poor life is a smoking flax and a reed that is bruiséd.
Pray the good Jesus to quench the feeble spark of my being—
He hath no work upon earth for one that was weak and denied Him.”
Heaving a sigh, the soldier undid the bolts and the barriers,
And with unfaltering feet Calpurnia passed through the gate-way,
Murmured the blessed name which protects from the powers of evil,
Feeling a new-born strength that gushed through her veins and her fibres;
While with loud-beating heart the soldier gazed from the portal:
“Ah, Christ Jesus defend her! Death's jaws are yawning before her!
Seest thou not the sleek beast that yonder lurks by the pillar,
Crouching now for the leap?—now leaping? My vision forsakes me!
Heavenly Lord, where art thou that thus—but my sense is delirious—
Brothers, support me! Great God! Unharmed she stands, and a halo
Beams from her sorrowful face! Now stoops she and tenderly gazes
Into the sunken eyes of a saint. Oh, hie thee, sweet sister!
Dangers untold encompass thy path! Behold how she raises
Full to the moon the prostrate form, and kisses the pallid
Lips of the dead. O brothers, make haste—why stand we inactive?
Quick, draw the bolts from the gate! Oh, why do ye linger?
Hush! How the air doth quake! The roar of the Libyan lion
Rolls with thunderous echoes around the empty arena.
Darkness gathers about me! The moon in the mist-flooded distance
Loses her light and fades. The stars grow dim and unsteady.
Hark! from afar a faint shriek—a groan! Ye angels, forsake her
Not in her hour of need! I tremble! What see ye, my brethren?
Aid mine unfaithful eyes! Do ye hear a choked supplication
Rise through the stillness of night? And footsteps methinks that draw nearer—
Now retreating again? What is that? On the brink of perdition
Totters my foot! For behold, do ye see in the seat of the Cæsars,
Yonder, above the black arch, the shape of a togaclad Roman?
Lost! Just God, I am lost! Do ye see how he stares unaverted,
Fierce, at the void within, like a beast that is sated with murder?
He resembles, methinks, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor!
Lord, thou hast visited swiftly my sin and my weakness upon me!
Yet I shall tremble no more! I will tread where my Savior has trodden!”
Like intangible snow its breath of silvery vapor
161
Then, with tremulous gleam, the stars burst forth, and Orion
Shone with a frosty sheen, and a vague and luminous shimmer
Rained from the Milky Way. But pure, and ghostly, and solemn
Rose the stately façde of the temple of Jupiter Stator;
Hushed and empty beneath, as if touched with a chilly remoteness,
Lay the white square of the Forum, where loomed the Phocian column
High in the moon-bathed stillness. The sculptured arch of Severus
Glimmered palely amidst the temples of deified Cæsars;
While, 'neath the brow of the Palatine Hill, the vast Coliseum
Flung its mantle of gloom to hide the deeds of the darkness,
162
Sheltered deep in the shade of those huge and cavernous portals
Stood, close pressed to the stone, a little quivering maiden.
Fearless she stood and with burning eyes through the iron-barred gate-way
Gazed at the sated beasts that yawning drowsed in the shadow,—
Drowsed or slunk with velveted tread o'er the star-lit arena;
Snuffing, perchance, as they went the mangled form of a martyr,
Sightless, that stared with insensible orbs to the moon-flooded heavens.
Trembling she stood, and hugged the rigid bars of the iron
Close to her breast; but her sense seemed dead, and feeling, she felt not.
Silence brooded about her; until at the mouth of the portal
163
Then she turned with a start, though she long had expected the signal,
Saw 'gainst the brightness without three men advancing to meet her—
One a youth in the garb of the far-famed imperial legion,
Rugged the others and clad in the humble attire of the freedmen.
“Glaucus, I thank thee,” so spoke in a shuddering whisper the maiden;
“Christ, who seeth in secret, this kindly deed will requite thee.
Now unbar me the gate and bid these brethren await me
Here, in the gloom of this arch, until I have rescued the bodies
Safe from the fangs of the beasts, that piously we may commit them
Unto the consecrate earth. My soul is constant and fearless,
164
Here to receive for the sake of His name the crown of the martyr;
Then return to our brethren, and bid them kneel at the altar
Breathing a prayer for the soul of their sorrowful sister, Calpurnia.”
“Child, thou temptest the Lord,” the soldier Glaucus made answer.
“‘Let the dead bury their dead,’ for thus the Master hath spoken;
Wheresoever they rest, His hand, O sister, will reach them.”
“Glaucus,” she said, “I am lonely, and yearn and weep for my mother.
Lo, my poor life is a smoking flax and a reed that is bruiséd.
Pray the good Jesus to quench the feeble spark of my being—
He hath no work upon earth for one that was weak and denied Him.”
165
And with unfaltering feet Calpurnia passed through the gate-way,
Murmured the blessed name which protects from the powers of evil,
Feeling a new-born strength that gushed through her veins and her fibres;
While with loud-beating heart the soldier gazed from the portal:
“Ah, Christ Jesus defend her! Death's jaws are yawning before her!
Seest thou not the sleek beast that yonder lurks by the pillar,
Crouching now for the leap?—now leaping? My vision forsakes me!
Heavenly Lord, where art thou that thus—but my sense is delirious—
Brothers, support me! Great God! Unharmed she stands, and a halo
Beams from her sorrowful face! Now stoops she and tenderly gazes
166
Dangers untold encompass thy path! Behold how she raises
Full to the moon the prostrate form, and kisses the pallid
Lips of the dead. O brothers, make haste—why stand we inactive?
Quick, draw the bolts from the gate! Oh, why do ye linger?
Hush! How the air doth quake! The roar of the Libyan lion
Rolls with thunderous echoes around the empty arena.
Darkness gathers about me! The moon in the mist-flooded distance
Loses her light and fades. The stars grow dim and unsteady.
Hark! from afar a faint shriek—a groan! Ye angels, forsake her
Not in her hour of need! I tremble! What see ye, my brethren?
167
Rise through the stillness of night? And footsteps methinks that draw nearer—
Now retreating again? What is that? On the brink of perdition
Totters my foot! For behold, do ye see in the seat of the Cæsars,
Yonder, above the black arch, the shape of a togaclad Roman?
Lost! Just God, I am lost! Do ye see how he stares unaverted,
Fierce, at the void within, like a beast that is sated with murder?
He resembles, methinks, Ausonius Mycon, the prætor!
Lord, thou hast visited swiftly my sin and my weakness upon me!
Yet I shall tremble no more! I will tread where my Savior has trodden!”
Thus spake Glaucus, but ere his sad voice had expired in the twilight,
Saw he Calpurnia stand at the portal and beckoning to him.
Pale she stood and erect, and her frame seemed frail and translucent,
As if the light of the radiant soul were shimmering through it;
And at her feet, with withered lips and rigidly staring,
Lay her beloved dead; and Glaucus, forgetting his terror,
Straightway unbarred the gate, that, grating, swung on its hinges,—
Listed the lifeless clay of the saints, and tenderly placed them
Side by side on a bier, and hid their blood-sprinkled garments,
Hid their gaping wounds, 'neath a shroud of precious linen.
Seizing the bier the freedmen emerged from the gloom of the portal;
Swiftly they moved through the night, and Calpurnia followed behind them,
Down the Appian Way and on through the Porta Latina.
Tearless and dumb she hurried away o'er the smooth-trodden pavement,
Feeling scarcely the weight of her limbs, nor the touch of the lava—
Feeling only a world of woe that throbbed in her bosom.
“Ah, little maid, thy grief makes thee blind, and thy vigilant senses
List to the tumult within and thy heart's tempestuous beating;
Dulled are thine ears to the muffled tread of sandaled footsteps—
Footsteps whose shadowy sound awakens no treacherous echo
From the dim gates of the tombs, where sleep the mighty departed.
Nor do thy fevered eyes descry in the gathering twilight
Something that steals through the mist, now tarries a while at the way-side,
Then, with a peering gaze and noiselessly, hasteneth onward,
Pausing when thou dost pause, and when thou advancest, advancing.”
168
Pale she stood and erect, and her frame seemed frail and translucent,
As if the light of the radiant soul were shimmering through it;
And at her feet, with withered lips and rigidly staring,
Lay her beloved dead; and Glaucus, forgetting his terror,
Straightway unbarred the gate, that, grating, swung on its hinges,—
Listed the lifeless clay of the saints, and tenderly placed them
Side by side on a bier, and hid their blood-sprinkled garments,
Hid their gaping wounds, 'neath a shroud of precious linen.
Seizing the bier the freedmen emerged from the gloom of the portal;
Swiftly they moved through the night, and Calpurnia followed behind them,
169
Tearless and dumb she hurried away o'er the smooth-trodden pavement,
Feeling scarcely the weight of her limbs, nor the touch of the lava—
Feeling only a world of woe that throbbed in her bosom.
“Ah, little maid, thy grief makes thee blind, and thy vigilant senses
List to the tumult within and thy heart's tempestuous beating;
Dulled are thine ears to the muffled tread of sandaled footsteps—
Footsteps whose shadowy sound awakens no treacherous echo
From the dim gates of the tombs, where sleep the mighty departed.
Nor do thy fevered eyes descry in the gathering twilight
Something that steals through the mist, now tarries a while at the way-side,
170
Pausing when thou dost pause, and when thou advancest, advancing.”
IV.
IN THE CATACOMBS OF ST. CALIXTUS.
Hushed from the depths of the earth, with a sweet, ethereal cadence,
Came the soft strains of a song—a hymn of praise and of gladness:
“Blesséd,” they sang, “are the dead who die in the Lord;” and a youthful
Voice, with the virginal dew of faith and childhood upon it,
Rose through the sod and hovered aloft like a joy-wingéd seraph:
“Blesséd and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection.”
Here, 'neath the boughs of a cypress copse, in the sheltering shadow
(Dense and opaque, like a hoar-frost of darkness congealed on the tiny
Spears of the vernal grass), Calpurnia paused, and the freedmen;
Then, with a wary hand, she knocked on a stone that was hidden
Half in a jungle of roses that grew 'mid the roots of the cypress.
“Christ is risen,” she said; and the answer came to the watchword:
“Yea, He is risen, indeed;” and lo! the stone was uplifted
Quickly by arms from beneath; and straightway clearer and tenderer,
Like a sweet face that is quickly revealed 'neath the veil that has hid it,
Burst the glad chant from the womb of the earth and soared to the heavens:
“Thou wilt show me the path of life; behold in Thy presence,
Lord, there is fulness of joy.” A moment's glare of the torches,
Flaming red in the gloom, but ghostly and white in the moonlight;
Then a dull thud of the stone, as the martyred dead and the living
Vanished beneath it. Now ceased the chant, and in reverent silence
Bore they the saints to their rest through the long, subterranean chambers,
Haunted by shadowy watchers, and reached the cave where the brethren
Worshipped the Lord in prayer and song, while the white-haired bishop
Spoke the words of life to strengthen the weak and the weary,
Spoke to refresh the souls that drooping fell by the way-side.
When Calpurnia saw his mild, compassionate visage,
Forth she sprang, embracing his knees; and as the smooth billow
Dumbly swells till it breaks on the strand in melodious ripples,
Thus her imprisoned grief, that had mutely swelled in her bosom,
Burst in a shower of tears at the goal of her perilous wandering.
“Father,” she cried, “the Lord hath turned His countenance from me!
Him I denied in my weakness, and now, in His wrath, He rejects me.
Cæsar I prayed for death, but he made me a slave. Oh, my father,
Even the Libyan lion that lurks in the Flavian arena
Harmed me not; so vile I am, and the Lord will not take me;
Lo, I went in this night to save the clay that was precious
Unto my heart from the impious hands of the base and ungodly.
Here I have brought it to thee; thou wilt bury my father and mother
Here in the hallowed soil where sleep generations of martyrs.”
“Daughter,” the patriarch answered, and murmured a soft benediction,
Placing his hands on her throbbing brow and soothing her gently,
“Sooth, thou hast sinned in denying the Lord; but the Savior is gracious;
He has forgiven thy sin, for hard was thy self-imposed penance.
Think not, child, that He has thrust thee away from His bosom;
If He withheld the martyr's crown in the bloody arena,
He has desired thee to live and, living, to further His kingdom.”
“Oh, but my father,” Calpurnia sobbed, “I am weak and unworthy!
What is the life of a maiden slave, that the Lord in His glory
E'er should bethink Him of her, and the flickering flame of her being
Shield with His mighty hands against the breath of destruction?
Father, oh pray that I die, for I am alone and am weary.”
“Child,” the bishop replied, “two sparrows are sold for a farthing;
Yet falls not one to the ground without the will of Our Father.
Wondrous, indeed, are the ways of the Lord, and even thy weakness
He has preserved to work His will, though obscurely and blindly.
Death hast thou sought, and thou weepest that martyrdom is denied thee;
Life has its martyrs, my daughter, as brave, as strong, and as faithful,
E'en as the martyrs of death. And thine is the work of confession,
Not by thy blood, but by deeds of heroic meekness and patience.
Deeds of forbearance and kindness 'mid unending toil and injustice—
Deeds that calmly shall shine in the gloom which thy path shall encompass,
Like the small flame of a lamp that unsteadily glimmers and flickers
Lone in the night, and showeth the gloom, though it cannot disperse it.
Christ has withheld the fangs of the beasts from thy delicate body,
Shielding thee, child, from the martyr's death, because He will grant thee
That which, my daughter, is harder to bear—the life of a martyr.”
Thus the patriarch spoke, and knelt in prayer at the altar
Close at Calpurnia's side, and all the brethren assembled
Bowed their heads in silence, and prayed for the souls of the martyrs
Summoned to stand this night before the face of the Savior,
Hearing the joyful words from His lips, “Ye blest of my Father,
Enter ye into the kingdom;” while in the dim light of the tapers
Gleamed on the wall indistinctly, an outline mosaic of Jesus,
Drawn as the Shepherd who bears the lamb that was lost on His shoulders.
Deep was the stillness, save for the crackle, perchance, of the torches,
Save for the smothered sobs of a maiden bereaved, or a widow,
Striving in vain to strangle her natural grief, and to follow
Upward her loved one in thought to his blesséd rest from his labors
Safe in the kingdom of God. Then suddenly from the watchers
Came a loud shriek of alarm, and, ere the brethren assembled
Woke from the rapture of prayer, beheld they standing among them—
Toga-clad, tall, and erect—Ausonius Mycon, the prætor.
“Stay, disciples of Christ!” he cried, and his sword he uplifted.
“Fear me no more, for alas! the strength of my arm—it is broken.
Here is my sword,” and he flung the blade at the feet of the bishop.
“Wreak your vengeance upon me, for swordless stand I among you;
Red are my hands with the innocent blood of your fathers and daughters.”
Half re-assured, yet fearful, the brethren paused in the door-ways,
Gazing over their shoulders with glances of doubt and suspicion,
While at the altar immovable stood the reverent bishop,
Grave and serene and pale at his feet lay the maiden Calpurnia.
“Priest,” the prætor resumed, “I know not the God whom thou servest;
Yet have I seen the strength He has given this pale little maiden;
Wondering sore have I heard the words which through thee He hath spoken.
Lo! I have waged against Him a vain, ineffectual warfare,
And by the deeds of this night I am utterly broken and conquered.
Late in the watches nocturnal I rose, and the light mists of slumber
Rubbed from mine eyes, and tracked this child through devious path-ways
Unto the Flavian arena. I hoped, perchance, to discover
Where in the womb of the night your hidden worship eluded
Ever my vigilant search. I had not resolved to betray you,
But, by my knowledge armed, to keep you in bitter subjection.
Ah, but this shy little maid has vanquished her valiant pursuer!
Now he is fain to fall at her feet, and beg her to lead him
Unto that fountain of life whence spring such trust and devotion,
Courage so high and serene in the face of death and of danger,
Valor in frailty clad and strength thus wedded to weakness.
Therefore, the God whom Calpurnia serves, O priest, I will worship;
I and my household will bend our knees, bringing gifts to His altars;
Thou wilt teach us the wing'd ways that lead to His favor.”
Silently burned in haloes of mist the delicate tapers,
Fell their pale sheen on faces upturned in prayerful rapture,
Fell on the reverent priest as he on the brow of the maiden
Rested his hands and blessed her, and spake in a tremulous whisper:
“Daughter, behold! 'tis the voice of the Lord hath given thee answer.
Now thou knowest the worth of the life which He has protected,
Hold it henceforth as His gift, that is left for a time in thy keeping.
Stake it not rashly in self-sought peril, but cherish it dearly!
Though in thy sight it seem worthless and mean, to Him it is precious.
Daughter, be faithful and brave and true to His merciful summons,
Wondrous results then may spring from the deeds of a weak little maiden.”
Came the soft strains of a song—a hymn of praise and of gladness:
“Blesséd,” they sang, “are the dead who die in the Lord;” and a youthful
Voice, with the virginal dew of faith and childhood upon it,
Rose through the sod and hovered aloft like a joy-wingéd seraph:
“Blesséd and holy is he that hath part in the first resurrection.”
Here, 'neath the boughs of a cypress copse, in the sheltering shadow
171
Spears of the vernal grass), Calpurnia paused, and the freedmen;
Then, with a wary hand, she knocked on a stone that was hidden
Half in a jungle of roses that grew 'mid the roots of the cypress.
“Christ is risen,” she said; and the answer came to the watchword:
“Yea, He is risen, indeed;” and lo! the stone was uplifted
Quickly by arms from beneath; and straightway clearer and tenderer,
Like a sweet face that is quickly revealed 'neath the veil that has hid it,
Burst the glad chant from the womb of the earth and soared to the heavens:
“Thou wilt show me the path of life; behold in Thy presence,
Lord, there is fulness of joy.” A moment's glare of the torches,
172
Then a dull thud of the stone, as the martyred dead and the living
Vanished beneath it. Now ceased the chant, and in reverent silence
Bore they the saints to their rest through the long, subterranean chambers,
Haunted by shadowy watchers, and reached the cave where the brethren
Worshipped the Lord in prayer and song, while the white-haired bishop
Spoke the words of life to strengthen the weak and the weary,
Spoke to refresh the souls that drooping fell by the way-side.
When Calpurnia saw his mild, compassionate visage,
Forth she sprang, embracing his knees; and as the smooth billow
Dumbly swells till it breaks on the strand in melodious ripples,
173
Burst in a shower of tears at the goal of her perilous wandering.
“Father,” she cried, “the Lord hath turned His countenance from me!
Him I denied in my weakness, and now, in His wrath, He rejects me.
Cæsar I prayed for death, but he made me a slave. Oh, my father,
Even the Libyan lion that lurks in the Flavian arena
Harmed me not; so vile I am, and the Lord will not take me;
Lo, I went in this night to save the clay that was precious
Unto my heart from the impious hands of the base and ungodly.
Here I have brought it to thee; thou wilt bury my father and mother
Here in the hallowed soil where sleep generations of martyrs.”
174
Placing his hands on her throbbing brow and soothing her gently,
“Sooth, thou hast sinned in denying the Lord; but the Savior is gracious;
He has forgiven thy sin, for hard was thy self-imposed penance.
Think not, child, that He has thrust thee away from His bosom;
If He withheld the martyr's crown in the bloody arena,
He has desired thee to live and, living, to further His kingdom.”
“Oh, but my father,” Calpurnia sobbed, “I am weak and unworthy!
What is the life of a maiden slave, that the Lord in His glory
E'er should bethink Him of her, and the flickering flame of her being
Shield with His mighty hands against the breath of destruction?
175
“Child,” the bishop replied, “two sparrows are sold for a farthing;
Yet falls not one to the ground without the will of Our Father.
Wondrous, indeed, are the ways of the Lord, and even thy weakness
He has preserved to work His will, though obscurely and blindly.
Death hast thou sought, and thou weepest that martyrdom is denied thee;
Life has its martyrs, my daughter, as brave, as strong, and as faithful,
E'en as the martyrs of death. And thine is the work of confession,
Not by thy blood, but by deeds of heroic meekness and patience.
Deeds of forbearance and kindness 'mid unending toil and injustice—
Deeds that calmly shall shine in the gloom which thy path shall encompass,
176
Lone in the night, and showeth the gloom, though it cannot disperse it.
Christ has withheld the fangs of the beasts from thy delicate body,
Shielding thee, child, from the martyr's death, because He will grant thee
That which, my daughter, is harder to bear—the life of a martyr.”
Thus the patriarch spoke, and knelt in prayer at the altar
Close at Calpurnia's side, and all the brethren assembled
Bowed their heads in silence, and prayed for the souls of the martyrs
Summoned to stand this night before the face of the Savior,
Hearing the joyful words from His lips, “Ye blest of my Father,
Enter ye into the kingdom;” while in the dim light of the tapers
177
Drawn as the Shepherd who bears the lamb that was lost on His shoulders.
Deep was the stillness, save for the crackle, perchance, of the torches,
Save for the smothered sobs of a maiden bereaved, or a widow,
Striving in vain to strangle her natural grief, and to follow
Upward her loved one in thought to his blesséd rest from his labors
Safe in the kingdom of God. Then suddenly from the watchers
Came a loud shriek of alarm, and, ere the brethren assembled
Woke from the rapture of prayer, beheld they standing among them—
Toga-clad, tall, and erect—Ausonius Mycon, the prætor.
“Stay, disciples of Christ!” he cried, and his sword he uplifted.
178
Here is my sword,” and he flung the blade at the feet of the bishop.
“Wreak your vengeance upon me, for swordless stand I among you;
Red are my hands with the innocent blood of your fathers and daughters.”
Half re-assured, yet fearful, the brethren paused in the door-ways,
Gazing over their shoulders with glances of doubt and suspicion,
While at the altar immovable stood the reverent bishop,
Grave and serene and pale at his feet lay the maiden Calpurnia.
“Priest,” the prætor resumed, “I know not the God whom thou servest;
Yet have I seen the strength He has given this pale little maiden;
Wondering sore have I heard the words which through thee He hath spoken.
179
And by the deeds of this night I am utterly broken and conquered.
Late in the watches nocturnal I rose, and the light mists of slumber
Rubbed from mine eyes, and tracked this child through devious path-ways
Unto the Flavian arena. I hoped, perchance, to discover
Where in the womb of the night your hidden worship eluded
Ever my vigilant search. I had not resolved to betray you,
But, by my knowledge armed, to keep you in bitter subjection.
Ah, but this shy little maid has vanquished her valiant pursuer!
Now he is fain to fall at her feet, and beg her to lead him
Unto that fountain of life whence spring such trust and devotion,
180
Valor in frailty clad and strength thus wedded to weakness.
Therefore, the God whom Calpurnia serves, O priest, I will worship;
I and my household will bend our knees, bringing gifts to His altars;
Thou wilt teach us the wing'd ways that lead to His favor.”
Silently burned in haloes of mist the delicate tapers,
Fell their pale sheen on faces upturned in prayerful rapture,
Fell on the reverent priest as he on the brow of the maiden
Rested his hands and blessed her, and spake in a tremulous whisper:
“Daughter, behold! 'tis the voice of the Lord hath given thee answer.
Now thou knowest the worth of the life which He has protected,
181
Stake it not rashly in self-sought peril, but cherish it dearly!
Though in thy sight it seem worthless and mean, to Him it is precious.
Daughter, be faithful and brave and true to His merciful summons,
Wondrous results then may spring from the deeds of a weak little maiden.”
Far was the night advanced, and the hour of morn was approaching,
Soon from the daylight world overhead came fitful and muffled
Sounds, as if heard through the mists of a dream with remote indistinctness;
Now the dull creak of a vintner's wain drawn by heavy-limbed oxen,
Now the sharp clank of a horse's hoof on the pavement of lava.
Straightway the bishop moved, preceded by ministering brethren,
Bearing torches and tapers, along the tenebrious path-ways,
Paused at an open tomb in the masoned wall of a cavern,
Placed the martyrs with prayer and chant in the coffins of marble,
Bearing the sign of the fish and the words: “Requiescat in pace.”
Then, by the torches led through the long, labyrinthine recesses,
Hastened the children of Christ to the upper abodes of the daylight.
Soon from the daylight world overhead came fitful and muffled
Sounds, as if heard through the mists of a dream with remote indistinctness;
Now the dull creak of a vintner's wain drawn by heavy-limbed oxen,
Now the sharp clank of a horse's hoof on the pavement of lava.
Straightway the bishop moved, preceded by ministering brethren,
182
Paused at an open tomb in the masoned wall of a cavern,
Placed the martyrs with prayer and chant in the coffins of marble,
Bearing the sign of the fish and the words: “Requiescat in pace.”
Then, by the torches led through the long, labyrinthine recesses,
Hastened the children of Christ to the upper abodes of the daylight.
One by one they emerged from the blossoming jungle of roses,
Shading their dazzled eyes and cautiously peering around them;
Quickly they spread o'er the fields, or toward the Porta Latina
Urged their steps and sought their accustomed haunts in the city.
Last of all, clad in civic attire, the bishop ascended,
And at his side with solemn brow went Ausonius Mycon,
Holding close to his breast the little maiden Calpurnia,
Who, from the terrible strain of the night and the wild agitation,
Lay as if wrapt in a swoon, so deep and calm was her slumber.
Angels with peace in their wings had gently breathed on her eyelids,
Blown the foot-prints of care from the sweet, unconscious features,
Till they relaxed again to their soft and infantine roundness,
Touched by the strange remoteness of sleep that rested upon them.
Gently the bishop clasped her listless hand, as he whispered,
Solemnly: “Prætor, behold, of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Close to the edge of the cypress copse, where the flame-chaliced poppies
Clustering grew, they watched the dawn as it dimly awakened,
Pale with tinges of rose that strayed o'er the crests of the mountains,
Ere with its fiery blush it fringed the hovering cloudlets,
Darting radiant shafts of dewy light and of color
Up 'mid the fleecy embankments of mist and of shivering vapors,—
Opening deeps in the sky whence the night was slowly receding,
Chilly vistas where lingered reluctant, cerulean shadows,
Dark with a tint as of steel; then elfin showers of sunlight
Quivered upward in roseate hues and spread to the zenith,
Till the gray west responsively flushed with a faint crimson pallor.
Shading their dazzled eyes and cautiously peering around them;
Quickly they spread o'er the fields, or toward the Porta Latina
Urged their steps and sought their accustomed haunts in the city.
Last of all, clad in civic attire, the bishop ascended,
183
Holding close to his breast the little maiden Calpurnia,
Who, from the terrible strain of the night and the wild agitation,
Lay as if wrapt in a swoon, so deep and calm was her slumber.
Angels with peace in their wings had gently breathed on her eyelids,
Blown the foot-prints of care from the sweet, unconscious features,
Till they relaxed again to their soft and infantine roundness,
Touched by the strange remoteness of sleep that rested upon them.
Gently the bishop clasped her listless hand, as he whispered,
Solemnly: “Prætor, behold, of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
Close to the edge of the cypress copse, where the flame-chaliced poppies
184
Pale with tinges of rose that strayed o'er the crests of the mountains,
Ere with its fiery blush it fringed the hovering cloudlets,
Darting radiant shafts of dewy light and of color
Up 'mid the fleecy embankments of mist and of shivering vapors,—
Opening deeps in the sky whence the night was slowly receding,
Chilly vistas where lingered reluctant, cerulean shadows,
Dark with a tint as of steel; then elfin showers of sunlight
Quivered upward in roseate hues and spread to the zenith,
Till the gray west responsively flushed with a faint crimson pallor.
Long the patriarch stood and gazed at the vanguard of morning.
Touching the prætor, he said: “The kingdom of Christ is advancing
Silently, brightly, and calmly, as marches the conquering daylight.
And to the hour of my death this glad conviction I cherish:
Surely the Lord will scatter the gloom of the night, and triumphant
Hurl the keen shafts of His truth into the shadows of error,
Lift the light of His visage upon the dwellers in darkness.
Mine the eyes that shall see this realm lie prostrate before Him.”
185
Silently, brightly, and calmly, as marches the conquering daylight.
And to the hour of my death this glad conviction I cherish:
Surely the Lord will scatter the gloom of the night, and triumphant
Hurl the keen shafts of His truth into the shadows of error,
Lift the light of His visage upon the dwellers in darkness.
Mine the eyes that shall see this realm lie prostrate before Him.”
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