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The Emperor and the Pope.
I. TRAJAN.
Through haughty Rome's imperial street
The mighty Emperor rode,
And frankincense and spices sweet
In silver censers glowed;
In car of state erect he stood,
And round him, rushing like a flood,
The people poured with shout and song,
And every eye of all that throng
Gazed on him with delight;
For he had triumphed, far and wide,
Had sated Rome's o'er-grasping pride,
And, laying captive nations low,
Now dragged the pale and trembling foe,
Bent down in sore affright.
And still before him opened far
The pathways for his conquering star,
More crowns of world-wide fame to win,
'Mid shouts of warriors, battle's din.
One triumph scarcely o'er, he spurned
The laurel-wreaths so hardly earned,
And still his fevered spirit burned
New realms, new worlds to gain.
The mighty Emperor rode,
And frankincense and spices sweet
In silver censers glowed;
In car of state erect he stood,
And round him, rushing like a flood,
The people poured with shout and song,
And every eye of all that throng
Gazed on him with delight;
For he had triumphed, far and wide,
Had sated Rome's o'er-grasping pride,
And, laying captive nations low,
Now dragged the pale and trembling foe,
Bent down in sore affright.
And still before him opened far
The pathways for his conquering star,
55
'Mid shouts of warriors, battle's din.
One triumph scarcely o'er, he spurned
The laurel-wreaths so hardly earned,
And still his fevered spirit burned
New realms, new worlds to gain.
And now his legions on he led,
Legions that ne'er from foe had fled,
The glory of his reign,
To reap new harvests in the field
Where all faced death, but none would yield;
When lo! from out the exulting crowd,
Her voice half-drowned by plaudits loud,
A woman rushed, bent low with years,
Grey-haired, and weeping blinding tears;
With eager cry and outstretched hand,
As one who might a king command,
She caught the Emperor's eye, and stayed
The progress of that proud parade.
“Ah, Lord!” she cried; “on thee I call,
On bended knees before thee fall,
Implore, beseech thee; let not might,
All ruthless, triumph over right.
I had a son, my only boy,
My heart's delight, my pride and joy,
Fair-haired, bright-eyed, a sunbeam clear
That made it summer all the year.
In that pure boyhood, free from stain,
His father grew to life again;
And he, O Sire, in bloom of youth,
Flushed with high courage, strong in truth,
Now lies all stiff and cold in death,
And never more shall living breath
Warm limbs and heart again.
And lo! the murderer standeth there,
His proud lip curling in the air,
As if he scorned my wild despair
For him his hand hath slain.
See, still he smiles that evil smile,
Half-lust, half-hate, thrice vilely vile,
As knowing well the dark disgrace
That hangs o'er all of Abraham's race,
As knowing well the Christian's name
Makes him who bears it marked for shame,
And counting still a Christian's prayer
An idle rending of the air.
But thou, O Prince, the true, the just,
To whom the blood, from out the dust,
For vengeance cries in murmurs loud,
Like mutterings from the thunder-cloud,
Thou wilt not scorn the widow's cry,
Nor let her voice be heard on high,
Accusing thee of wrong;
Not yet her plaint ascends with theirs,
Who cry beneath God's altar-stairs,
‘How long, O Lord, how long?’
There still is time to do the right,
Time to put forth thy kingly might,
That man of pride and blood to smite.”
Legions that ne'er from foe had fled,
The glory of his reign,
To reap new harvests in the field
Where all faced death, but none would yield;
When lo! from out the exulting crowd,
Her voice half-drowned by plaudits loud,
A woman rushed, bent low with years,
Grey-haired, and weeping blinding tears;
With eager cry and outstretched hand,
As one who might a king command,
She caught the Emperor's eye, and stayed
The progress of that proud parade.
“Ah, Lord!” she cried; “on thee I call,
On bended knees before thee fall,
Implore, beseech thee; let not might,
All ruthless, triumph over right.
I had a son, my only boy,
My heart's delight, my pride and joy,
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That made it summer all the year.
In that pure boyhood, free from stain,
His father grew to life again;
And he, O Sire, in bloom of youth,
Flushed with high courage, strong in truth,
Now lies all stiff and cold in death,
And never more shall living breath
Warm limbs and heart again.
And lo! the murderer standeth there,
His proud lip curling in the air,
As if he scorned my wild despair
For him his hand hath slain.
See, still he smiles that evil smile,
Half-lust, half-hate, thrice vilely vile,
As knowing well the dark disgrace
That hangs o'er all of Abraham's race,
As knowing well the Christian's name
Makes him who bears it marked for shame,
And counting still a Christian's prayer
An idle rending of the air.
But thou, O Prince, the true, the just,
To whom the blood, from out the dust,
For vengeance cries in murmurs loud,
Like mutterings from the thunder-cloud,
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Nor let her voice be heard on high,
Accusing thee of wrong;
Not yet her plaint ascends with theirs,
Who cry beneath God's altar-stairs,
‘How long, O Lord, how long?’
There still is time to do the right,
Time to put forth thy kingly might,
That man of pride and blood to smite.”
Then turned his head that Emperor just,
As faithful to his kingly trust,
As one sore grieved, yet strong of will
Each task of duty to fulfil;
And to that widow sad and lorn,
By care and grief and anguish worn,
With knitted brow and stedfast face,
Thus spake his words of princely grace:
“Know, weeping mother, know, thy prayer
By day and night my thoughts shall share;
My eye shall search the secret guilt,
And track the blood thy foe hath spilt;
No depth of shade, no length of time
Shall hide the felon, stained with crime.
Long since, men know, I spake full clear,
And stayed the blast which many a year
Had filled the Christians' hearts with fear.
I would not welcome vain report;
In daylight clear, in open court,
Let those who will their charges prove,
And so let justice onward move;
And shame it were that I should shrink,
Through fear what rich or proud may think,
From words of truth and deeds of power,
The outcome of the judgment hour.
All this shall be; but now the day
Leads on to battle far away.
The foes are fierce on Ister's stream;
The helms of thousand warriors gleam;
And we must war with spear and shield
By leaguered fort, on tented field;
Must bear the scorching heat or frost,
In desert wild, on rock-bound coast,
Until, at length, the battle won,
Each task fulfilled, each duty done,
We turn our steps once more for home,
And rest in peace in lordly Rome.
Yes: then shall every deed of shame
In daylight clear bear fullest blame,
No wrong escape the sentence true,
All evil pay the forfeit due.
Till then be patient; every hour
Will dull the edge of suffering's power;
The months pass onward, quick they flee;
Then bring thy prayer once more to me.”
As faithful to his kingly trust,
As one sore grieved, yet strong of will
Each task of duty to fulfil;
And to that widow sad and lorn,
By care and grief and anguish worn,
With knitted brow and stedfast face,
Thus spake his words of princely grace:
“Know, weeping mother, know, thy prayer
By day and night my thoughts shall share;
My eye shall search the secret guilt,
And track the blood thy foe hath spilt;
No depth of shade, no length of time
Shall hide the felon, stained with crime.
Long since, men know, I spake full clear,
And stayed the blast which many a year
58
I would not welcome vain report;
In daylight clear, in open court,
Let those who will their charges prove,
And so let justice onward move;
And shame it were that I should shrink,
Through fear what rich or proud may think,
From words of truth and deeds of power,
The outcome of the judgment hour.
All this shall be; but now the day
Leads on to battle far away.
The foes are fierce on Ister's stream;
The helms of thousand warriors gleam;
And we must war with spear and shield
By leaguered fort, on tented field;
Must bear the scorching heat or frost,
In desert wild, on rock-bound coast,
Until, at length, the battle won,
Each task fulfilled, each duty done,
We turn our steps once more for home,
And rest in peace in lordly Rome.
Yes: then shall every deed of shame
In daylight clear bear fullest blame,
No wrong escape the sentence true,
All evil pay the forfeit due.
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Will dull the edge of suffering's power;
The months pass onward, quick they flee;
Then bring thy prayer once more to me.”
“Ah, Prince!” the widow made her moan,
“Too true, the hours speed on and on;
To-day flits by while yet we speak;
To-morrow's dawn in vain we seek.
Do right at once. Who dare foretell
The issue of thy warfare fell?
Who knows but I may still abide
While thou on Thracia's plains hast died?
Or thou returning, conqueror proud,
May'st find me mouldering in my shroud?
Delay not, shrink not; do the right,
Or else e'en thou, in all thy might
May'st stand, all shivering with affright,
Before the throne of endless light.”
“Too true, the hours speed on and on;
To-day flits by while yet we speak;
To-morrow's dawn in vain we seek.
Do right at once. Who dare foretell
The issue of thy warfare fell?
Who knows but I may still abide
While thou on Thracia's plains hast died?
Or thou returning, conqueror proud,
May'st find me mouldering in my shroud?
Delay not, shrink not; do the right,
Or else e'en thou, in all thy might
May'st stand, all shivering with affright,
Before the throne of endless light.”
She spake, and then great Trajan's heart
Was moved to choose the better part;
He stayed his march; a night and day
Halted that army's proud array;
He tracked the secret guilt of blood,
Though high in state the murderer stood,
And rested not till doom was done,
As rose the next day's blood-red sun;
And thus, in face of earth and heaven,
His pledge in act and word was given,
That great or small, or bond or free,
Before his throne should equal be,
Heathens and Christians all confess
His power to punish or to bless,
The might of truth and righteousness.
Was moved to choose the better part;
He stayed his march; a night and day
Halted that army's proud array;
He tracked the secret guilt of blood,
Though high in state the murderer stood,
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As rose the next day's blood-red sun;
And thus, in face of earth and heaven,
His pledge in act and word was given,
That great or small, or bond or free,
Before his throne should equal be,
Heathens and Christians all confess
His power to punish or to bless,
The might of truth and righteousness.
II. GREGORY.
The days were evil; skies were dim,
When slowly walked with prayer and hymn,
Through stately street and market wide,
Where emperors once had ridden in pride,
Far other band than legions strong,
Raising far other battle-song.
In sackcloth clad, with dust besprent,
Men, women, children, onward went;
Each band, by white-robed elder led,
Marched on with reverent, measured tread;
And still, at every sacred shrine,
In presence of the Might divine,
With head uncovered, downcast eye,
They sang their seven-fold litany:
When slowly walked with prayer and hymn,
Through stately street and market wide,
Where emperors once had ridden in pride,
Far other band than legions strong,
Raising far other battle-song.
In sackcloth clad, with dust besprent,
Men, women, children, onward went;
Each band, by white-robed elder led,
Marched on with reverent, measured tread;
And still, at every sacred shrine,
In presence of the Might divine,
With head uncovered, downcast eye,
They sang their seven-fold litany:
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“Hear us, O God of heaven and earth,
Thou Lord of sorrow and of mirth,
Thou worker of the second birth,
Hear us, O Lord, and save:
From plague and famine, fire and sword,
From Pagans fierce and foes abhorred,
From death and hell, O gracious Lord,
From darkness and the grave:
Have mercy, Lord, on man and beast,
Mercy, from greatest to the least;
Be all from bonds of sin released,
Set free the captive slave:
O Lord, have mercy!” so they sang,
And through the air those accents rang,
Like sad sweet song of midnight breeze
Whispering soft music to the trees,
“O miserere, Domine.”
Fathers and children, youth and maid,
Their eager supplication made;
And e'en from bridegroom and from bride
The same sad music rose and died,
“O miserere, Domine.”
And last of all, no emperor now,
With orient diadem on his brow,
No triumph car bedecked with gold,
No purple chlamys' drooping fold,
But one, arrayed in garment white,
His face with gleam unearthly bright,
As one to whom the heavens all night
Their glory had revealed;
A smile through all the sorrow shone,
That told of peace, and victory won,
A fight well fought, a race well run,
And God his strength and shield.
Thou Lord of sorrow and of mirth,
Thou worker of the second birth,
Hear us, O Lord, and save:
From plague and famine, fire and sword,
From Pagans fierce and foes abhorred,
From death and hell, O gracious Lord,
From darkness and the grave:
Have mercy, Lord, on man and beast,
Mercy, from greatest to the least;
Be all from bonds of sin released,
Set free the captive slave:
O Lord, have mercy!” so they sang,
And through the air those accents rang,
Like sad sweet song of midnight breeze
Whispering soft music to the trees,
“O miserere, Domine.”
Fathers and children, youth and maid,
Their eager supplication made;
And e'en from bridegroom and from bride
The same sad music rose and died,
“O miserere, Domine.”
And last of all, no emperor now,
With orient diadem on his brow,
No triumph car bedecked with gold,
No purple chlamys' drooping fold,
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His face with gleam unearthly bright,
As one to whom the heavens all night
Their glory had revealed;
A smile through all the sorrow shone,
That told of peace, and victory won,
A fight well fought, a race well run,
And God his strength and shield.
So marched Gregorius, ruler sage,
Great glory of Rome's later age;
And next him came, with golden hair,
That floated wildly to the air,
With clear blue eyes and cheeks that showed
How fresh and full the young life glowed,
A troop of boys, whose unshod feet
Kept measured time to voices sweet.
Angli were they, from far off shore,
Where loud the northern surges roar,
Rescued from wrath, and sin, and shame,
Worthy to bear an angel's name.
These, crouching erst in brute despair,
Like wolf's young whelps in mountain lair,
Fettered and bound, and set for sale,
Each with his own sad untold tale,
The good Gregorius saw:
Some thought on home in distant isles,
A father's love, a mother's smiles;
Some feared the scourge, the bond-slave's name,
And some their doom of foulest shame,
And throbs of anguish rent their frame,
With power to touch and awe.
Great glory of Rome's later age;
And next him came, with golden hair,
That floated wildly to the air,
With clear blue eyes and cheeks that showed
How fresh and full the young life glowed,
A troop of boys, whose unshod feet
Kept measured time to voices sweet.
Angli were they, from far off shore,
Where loud the northern surges roar,
Rescued from wrath, and sin, and shame,
Worthy to bear an angel's name.
These, crouching erst in brute despair,
Like wolf's young whelps in mountain lair,
Fettered and bound, and set for sale,
Each with his own sad untold tale,
The good Gregorius saw:
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A father's love, a mother's smiles;
Some feared the scourge, the bond-slave's name,
And some their doom of foulest shame,
And throbs of anguish rent their frame,
With power to touch and awe.
He saw and pitied; gems and gold,
From out the Church's treasures old,
In fullest tale of weight he told,
And gave their price, and set them free,
Heirs of Christ's blessed liberty.
And now they followed, slow and calm,
Each bearing branch of drooping palm,
Each lifting high a taper's light,
And clad in vestments pure and white;
And they, with voices soft and slow,
As streams 'mid whispering reeds that flow,
Still sang in mournful melody
That sad, unchanging litany,
“O miserere, Domine.”
From out the Church's treasures old,
In fullest tale of weight he told,
And gave their price, and set them free,
Heirs of Christ's blessed liberty.
And now they followed, slow and calm,
Each bearing branch of drooping palm,
Each lifting high a taper's light,
And clad in vestments pure and white;
And they, with voices soft and slow,
As streams 'mid whispering reeds that flow,
Still sang in mournful melody
That sad, unchanging litany,
“O miserere, Domine.”
So onward still they moved; at last
By Trajan's forum old they passed,
And there the memories of the place,
The tale of that imperial grace,
Flashed on Gregorius' mind, and led,
Ere yet the sunset glow had fled,
To strange new thoughts about the dead.
“Ah me!” he sighed, nor stayed from tears;
“Is he, whose name all Rome reveres,
The just, the true, the warrior brave,
Firm to his trust and strong to save,—
Is he where souls to darkness flit,
Gehenna's flames, the unfathomed pit?
Thy Name, O Lord, he had not known;
His knee ne'er bent before Thy throne.
He lived his life, through change and chance,
In darkness and in ignorance,
And ne'er, O God, Thy dread decree
His wandering steps led on to Thee.
And so he dwells, throughout the years,
Where neither sun nor star appears,
And all around is still the same,
One dreary waste of quenchless flame.
And must his doom, O Lord, be this,
That changeless future of the abyss?
Is there no hope for him whose will
Was bent all duty to fulfil,
Whose eye, discerning, saw aright
The false how foul, the true how bright?
He, Lord, had pity, so they tell,
On that poor child of Israel;
He heard the widow's anguished prayer,
And left her not to her despair.
And wilt Thou leave him, Lord, to bear
That doom eternal, full of fear?
Are prayers all powerless to atone
And bring the wanderers to the Throne?
Ah, Lord! whose pitying love ne'er spurned
The vilest, when to Thee they turned,
Whose glance, with gentle, pardoning eyes,
Where love was blended with surprise,
Looked on Rome's captain, Zidon's child,
And then, in accents low and mild,
Owned that their faith was nobler found
Than aught that sprang on Israel's ground,
And said'st that from the East and West
A countless host should share Thy rest,—
Wilt Thou not blot that just one's name
From out Thy book of doom and shame,
And write it in the record white
Of those who stand as sons of light?
My prayer, at least, shall rise for him,
By night and day, in chant and hymn;
For him I ask, on bended knee,
O miserere, Domine.”
By Trajan's forum old they passed,
And there the memories of the place,
The tale of that imperial grace,
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Ere yet the sunset glow had fled,
To strange new thoughts about the dead.
“Ah me!” he sighed, nor stayed from tears;
“Is he, whose name all Rome reveres,
The just, the true, the warrior brave,
Firm to his trust and strong to save,—
Is he where souls to darkness flit,
Gehenna's flames, the unfathomed pit?
Thy Name, O Lord, he had not known;
His knee ne'er bent before Thy throne.
He lived his life, through change and chance,
In darkness and in ignorance,
And ne'er, O God, Thy dread decree
His wandering steps led on to Thee.
And so he dwells, throughout the years,
Where neither sun nor star appears,
And all around is still the same,
One dreary waste of quenchless flame.
And must his doom, O Lord, be this,
That changeless future of the abyss?
Is there no hope for him whose will
Was bent all duty to fulfil,
Whose eye, discerning, saw aright
The false how foul, the true how bright?
65
On that poor child of Israel;
He heard the widow's anguished prayer,
And left her not to her despair.
And wilt Thou leave him, Lord, to bear
That doom eternal, full of fear?
Are prayers all powerless to atone
And bring the wanderers to the Throne?
Ah, Lord! whose pitying love ne'er spurned
The vilest, when to Thee they turned,
Whose glance, with gentle, pardoning eyes,
Where love was blended with surprise,
Looked on Rome's captain, Zidon's child,
And then, in accents low and mild,
Owned that their faith was nobler found
Than aught that sprang on Israel's ground,
And said'st that from the East and West
A countless host should share Thy rest,—
Wilt Thou not blot that just one's name
From out Thy book of doom and shame,
And write it in the record white
Of those who stand as sons of light?
My prayer, at least, shall rise for him,
By night and day, in chant and hymn;
For him I ask, on bended knee,
O miserere, Domine.”
66
So spake the grey-haired saint, and lo!
As o'er his sleep the shadows flow,
There came, in visions of the night,
The form of One divinely bright
(The nail-prints still in hands and feet),
And spake in music low and sweet:
“Fear not, thou wise and true of heart;
Fear not from narrowing thoughts to part:
And did'st thou feel the pain of love?
Could one soul's doom thy pity move?
And shall not mine flow far and wide,
As ocean spreads his boundless tide?
Is my heart cold when thine is warm?
Not so! cast off thy false alarm:
The man thou pray'st for dwells with me,
Where true light shines, and shadows flee.
The sins that sprang from life's ill chance,
Deeds of those times of ignorance,
These God hath pardoned. Just and right,
He owns all souls that loved the light,
And leads them, step by step, to know
The source from whence all good things flow.
Though yet awhile, in twilight rest,
They wait, as souls but partly blest,—
Though grief for all the evil past
The opening joy of Heaven o'ercast,—
Though still the crucial fire must pain,
Till dross be purged, and cleansed each stain,—
Yet doubt not, trust my Father's will
As just and good and loving still.
For those who sought the light, and strove
To keep the eternal law of Love;
For those who knew Me not, yet tried
To live for them for whom I died;
For all who upward, onward press,
In reverent fear and lowliness;
For all who give to child or saint
A cup of water as they faint,—
For these be sure that all is well,
I hold the keys of Death and Hell.”
As o'er his sleep the shadows flow,
There came, in visions of the night,
The form of One divinely bright
(The nail-prints still in hands and feet),
And spake in music low and sweet:
“Fear not, thou wise and true of heart;
Fear not from narrowing thoughts to part:
And did'st thou feel the pain of love?
Could one soul's doom thy pity move?
And shall not mine flow far and wide,
As ocean spreads his boundless tide?
Is my heart cold when thine is warm?
Not so! cast off thy false alarm:
The man thou pray'st for dwells with me,
Where true light shines, and shadows flee.
The sins that sprang from life's ill chance,
Deeds of those times of ignorance,
These God hath pardoned. Just and right,
He owns all souls that loved the light,
And leads them, step by step, to know
The source from whence all good things flow.
Though yet awhile, in twilight rest,
They wait, as souls but partly blest,—
Though grief for all the evil past
The opening joy of Heaven o'ercast,—
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Till dross be purged, and cleansed each stain,—
Yet doubt not, trust my Father's will
As just and good and loving still.
For those who sought the light, and strove
To keep the eternal law of Love;
For those who knew Me not, yet tried
To live for them for whom I died;
For all who upward, onward press,
In reverent fear and lowliness;
For all who give to child or saint
A cup of water as they faint,—
For these be sure that all is well,
I hold the keys of Death and Hell.”
1865.
NOTE.
The popularity of the story thus told, as meeting the cravings for the wider hope which were repressed but not extinguished by the mediæval theology which had its starting-point in the teaching of Augustine, is seen (I) by its prominence in the life of St. Gregory, as given in the Golden Legend (fol. xxxvii.), where the answer to the Pope's prayer is given in a form that deserves special notice.
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“Thenne answerd a voys fro God, sayng: I have now herd thy prayer, and have spared Tragan fro the payne perpetuelly. By thys thus, as somme saye, the payne perpetuell due to Tragan as a mescreaint (‘unbeliever’) was somedele taken awaye, but for all that was he not quyte from the pryson of helle: for the sowle may well be in helle, and fele there no payne, by the mercy of God.”
(2) By the equal prominence given to it in the
“Vision of Piers Ploughman” (6860-6890), the great
storehouse of the freer thoughts that were struggling
in the minds of Englishmen in the fourteenth century,
with the noticeable addition that the Pagan Emperor
was saved
“Nought through preiere of a Pope,
But for his pure truth.”
But for his pure truth.”
(3) A yet nobler representative of mediæval thought
is found in the great Florentine poet, who for the
most part accepts the condemnation of the heathen,
because unbaptized, with an unpitying coldness. I
quote the story as told by him in the Purgatorio (x.
73-93) from an unpublished translation.
“There was wrought out the glory great and high
Of that great prince of Rome whose excellence
Gregorius moved to his great victory
(To Trajan, Emperor, I this praise dispense),
And a poor widow stood beside his rein,
Bowed down with many a tear and grief intense;
And round about him 'twas all thronged with train
Of mounted knights, and eagles all of gold,
In the wind fluttering, glittered clear and plain.
Among them all that wretched woman told
Her tale, so seemed it, ‘I for vengeance call
For my son's death that turns my heart's blood cold.’
And he replied, ‘Wait thou till it befall
That I return;’ and she, ‘Nay, good my lord,’
Answered as one with grief impatient all,
‘If thou return not’ . . . ‘Who comes next,’ his word
So ran, ‘will do it for thee.’ She, ‘The good
Of others will not help thee, when 'tis heard
That thou thine own neglectest.’ ‘Let thy mood,’
Said he, ‘be glad: at once the right I do;
So justice wills; me pity hath subdued.’”
Of that great prince of Rome whose excellence
Gregorius moved to his great victory
(To Trajan, Emperor, I this praise dispense),
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Bowed down with many a tear and grief intense;
And round about him 'twas all thronged with train
Of mounted knights, and eagles all of gold,
In the wind fluttering, glittered clear and plain.
Among them all that wretched woman told
Her tale, so seemed it, ‘I for vengeance call
For my son's death that turns my heart's blood cold.’
And he replied, ‘Wait thou till it befall
That I return;’ and she, ‘Nay, good my lord,’
Answered as one with grief impatient all,
‘If thou return not’ . . . ‘Who comes next,’ his word
So ran, ‘will do it for thee.’ She, ‘The good
Of others will not help thee, when 'tis heard
That thou thine own neglectest.’ ‘Let thy mood,’
Said he, ‘be glad: at once the right I do;
So justice wills; me pity hath subdued.’”
The tale is carried to its close when Dante finds the soul of Trajan in Paradise, and seeks to reconcile the salvation of the Emperor with the traditional dogma of the schoolmen by an ingenious variation from the popular version of the story. Trajan, as
70
“The glorious soul of whom I tell the praise,
Returning to his flesh for briefest hour,
Believed in Him who could direct his ways,
And so, believing, glowed with fiery power
Of love unfeigned, that, when he died again,
He was thought worthy of this blissful bower.”
Returning to his flesh for briefest hour,
Believed in Him who could direct his ways,
And so, believing, glowed with fiery power
Of love unfeigned, that, when he died again,
He was thought worthy of this blissful bower.”
Parad. xx. 112-116.
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