University of Virginia Library

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.”

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.

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.

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.”