 | The last night of Pompeii |  |
36
THE MIDNIGHT PRAYER.
From the wild cavern's still profound,
From cliffs that bend o'er viewless flame,
Our spirits soar beyond the bound
Of being to THY hallowed name.
In gloom and peril, God! thou art
Our hope amid the lion's lair,
And from the desolated heart,
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The lustres of our lives are few,
On darkened earth, our bliss still less,
Yet daybeam fragrance, evelight dew
Hear our heart-hymns in lone distress:
By no green banks, as prayed our sires,
Our thoughts win heaven to Time's despair,
But we are heard by seraph choirs—
Hear thou, O Christ! our midnight prayer!
No magian charms or mystic dreams,
Or Delian voices, uttering doubt,
By fountains dim and shadowy streams,
The fear, the awe of doom breathe out;
From cliffs that bend o'er viewless flame,
Our spirits soar beyond the bound
Of being to THY hallowed name.
In gloom and peril, God! thou art
Our hope amid the lion's lair,
And from the desolated heart,
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The lustres of our lives are few,
On darkened earth, our bliss still less,
Yet daybeam fragrance, evelight dew
Hear our heart-hymns in lone distress:
By no green banks, as prayed our sires,
Our thoughts win heaven to Time's despair,
But we are heard by seraph choirs—
Hear thou, O Christ! our midnight prayer!
No magian charms or mystic dreams,
Or Delian voices, uttering doubt,
By fountains dim and shadowy streams,
The fear, the awe of doom breathe out;
37
By shrines, red bolts have sanctified,
While dragons haunted meteor air,
We worship not as shadows glide—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The breathing earth, the gleaming heaven,
The song of sea, mount, vale, and stream,
While dimness waves o'er holy even,
Blend our glad souls with beauty's beam;
But darkness, danger, torrents raise
Our hope to Thee, Death-victor! where
In virgin light fly tearless days—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The bard bereaved from Orcus' gloom,
Through Hades, led his love to light,
And thine adorers from thy tomb
Drink glory in their being's night;
More blest to need, as thou didst, Lord!
Than be the Phrygian monarch's heir,
Wanting the rapture of thy word—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
Judea's incense-hills are dim
And silent, where the song went up;
Hushed holy harp and temple hymn—
The slayer drinks the spoiler's cup!
While dragons haunted meteor air,
We worship not as shadows glide—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The breathing earth, the gleaming heaven,
The song of sea, mount, vale, and stream,
While dimness waves o'er holy even,
Blend our glad souls with beauty's beam;
But darkness, danger, torrents raise
Our hope to Thee, Death-victor! where
In virgin light fly tearless days—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
The bard bereaved from Orcus' gloom,
Through Hades, led his love to light,
And thine adorers from thy tomb
Drink glory in their being's night;
More blest to need, as thou didst, Lord!
Than be the Phrygian monarch's heir,
Wanting the rapture of thy word—
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
Judea's incense-hills are dim
And silent, where the song went up;
Hushed holy harp and temple hymn—
The slayer drinks the spoiler's cup!
38
Earth o'er the sophist's vision sighs,
O'er deeds, king, priest, and people dare,
And wilt thou not from pitying skies,
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
Loosed from dark homage unto Fear,
Imaged in lar and teraphim,
And Delphian voice and Ebal seer,
Thy bright revealments round us swim,
Pouring upon the path we tread,
Though perill'd, lone, and rough and bare,
Light that inspires the martyred dead!
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
In sleep and vigil, guard and guide,
In secret quest of earthly food,
From outward foes and inward pride,
And the fiend's wiles in solitude!
O'er idol rites Thy radiance pour,
Till, like the myriad worlds of air,
The Universe, as one, adore!
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
“What terrible and ghastly blaze flares through
The cavern, filling its abyss with flame?”
Said Pansa, startling from the grotto's gloom,
As the last gentle breathings of the song
O'er deeds, king, priest, and people dare,
And wilt thou not from pitying skies,
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
Loosed from dark homage unto Fear,
Imaged in lar and teraphim,
And Delphian voice and Ebal seer,
Thy bright revealments round us swim,
Pouring upon the path we tread,
Though perill'd, lone, and rough and bare,
Light that inspires the martyred dead!
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
In sleep and vigil, guard and guide,
In secret quest of earthly food,
From outward foes and inward pride,
And the fiend's wiles in solitude!
O'er idol rites Thy radiance pour,
Till, like the myriad worlds of air,
The Universe, as one, adore!
Redeemer! hear our midnight prayer!
“What terrible and ghastly blaze flares through
The cavern, filling its abyss with flame?”
Said Pansa, startling from the grotto's gloom,
As the last gentle breathings of the song
39
Whispered along the arches, and with step
Like hunted antelope he sprung to the edge
Of his dark home of banishment. “Behold!
The surges of the tempest fluctuate
In fierce tumultuous masses 'neath yon orb
Of livid fire that from the north careers
O'er the astonished and convulsed firmament!
Nor terror nor surprise is in thy look,
For well thou know'st that awful herald, seen
Through uncreated shadows of events
By Him who mourned o'er ruin while the pomp
Of thy Jerusalem before Him glowed.
The comet! meteor of despair to man!
Like a condemned, demolished world of flame,
With a vast atmosphere of torrent fire,
It traverses immensity with speed
Confounding thought, hurled on by viewless power
Omnipotent and unimagined, robed
In dreadful beauty—heaven's volcano—home,
Perchance, of those gigantic spirits cast
From holiness to hopelessness for pride.
Lo! how it sweeps o'er the sky's ocean! wreaths
Of purple light along its borders mount
What seem innumerable colonnades
Like hunted antelope he sprung to the edge
Of his dark home of banishment. “Behold!
The surges of the tempest fluctuate
In fierce tumultuous masses 'neath yon orb
Of livid fire that from the north careers
O'er the astonished and convulsed firmament!
Nor terror nor surprise is in thy look,
For well thou know'st that awful herald, seen
Through uncreated shadows of events
By Him who mourned o'er ruin while the pomp
Of thy Jerusalem before Him glowed.
The comet! meteor of despair to man!
Like a condemned, demolished world of flame,
With a vast atmosphere of torrent fire,
It traverses immensity with speed
Confounding thought, hurled on by viewless power
Omnipotent and unimagined, robed
In dreadful beauty—heaven's volcano—home,
Perchance, of those gigantic spirits cast
From holiness to hopelessness for pride.
Lo! how it sweeps o'er the sky's ocean! wreaths
Of purple light along its borders mount
What seem innumerable colonnades
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Wrought by the seraphim, most meet to bear
A temple huge as Atlas; and the hues
Deeper and lovelier than prismatic lights,
Curl o'er the quivering arch as if to roof
The vast mysterious fabric of the sea
Of clouds that throng eternity, to which
Egypt's most mighty pyramid were not
More than a tinted shell to Caucasus.
Are those, that swirl like wrecks amid the surf,
Vast mountains wrenched from their abysses, thrown
From one fire billow's bosom and engulphed
To be again hurled on another's crest?
Lo! through the sky, air-rocks, hissing and red,
From the volcanic worlds of heaven descend!
What terrors of infinity they speak!
What revelations of undying power!
What be yon dark and spectral images
That through the bickering fiery waves move slow
Yet haughtily? oh, what a furnace glare
Rolled o'er the shadows then, and left their forms
Radiant with ruin! and above, methinks,
Broad wings of diamond brilliance wave and flash.
Gift me thy wisdom, Love! what said thy sires
Of such revealments of divinity?”
A temple huge as Atlas; and the hues
Deeper and lovelier than prismatic lights,
Curl o'er the quivering arch as if to roof
The vast mysterious fabric of the sea
Of clouds that throng eternity, to which
Egypt's most mighty pyramid were not
More than a tinted shell to Caucasus.
Are those, that swirl like wrecks amid the surf,
Vast mountains wrenched from their abysses, thrown
From one fire billow's bosom and engulphed
To be again hurled on another's crest?
Lo! through the sky, air-rocks, hissing and red,
From the volcanic worlds of heaven descend!
What terrors of infinity they speak!
What revelations of undying power!
What be yon dark and spectral images
That through the bickering fiery waves move slow
Yet haughtily? oh, what a furnace glare
Rolled o'er the shadows then, and left their forms
Radiant with ruin! and above, methinks,
Broad wings of diamond brilliance wave and flash.
Gift me thy wisdom, Love! what said thy sires
Of such revealments of divinity?”
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“Seldom they came and brandished o'er the world
Their flickering and serpent tongues of flame:
Seldom—for generations, centuries passed,
And men saw not the burning heavens o'erwrit
In gory characters of forewarned fate.
Yet deemed our sages, least of dust, that all
The meteors warring with the myriad worlds,
That circle through the abyss of air, had been,
Ere man, time, death, or sin was, stars of bloom,
Casting their beauty and their fragrance on
The zephyr, hymning on their flight through space
The Maker, and awaiting life to fill
Their groves and valleys with the prayer and song.
Yon shattered mass of boiling minerals
Thus in its whirlwind madness driven on
O'er shocked and startled ether, star-skilled eyes
Of the Captivity's prophetic eld,—
(When from the Temple in his triumph all
Jehovah's holy shrines to wanton Jove
Were borne by the proud Flavian victor) saw
Beneath the horizon, ere, in arcs and wreaths
And pillars canopied by thunder folds,
The spiral torrents of volcanic fire
Precipitated through the sphere of earth.
Much in dread visions when between the wings
Their flickering and serpent tongues of flame:
Seldom—for generations, centuries passed,
And men saw not the burning heavens o'erwrit
In gory characters of forewarned fate.
Yet deemed our sages, least of dust, that all
The meteors warring with the myriad worlds,
That circle through the abyss of air, had been,
Ere man, time, death, or sin was, stars of bloom,
Casting their beauty and their fragrance on
The zephyr, hymning on their flight through space
The Maker, and awaiting life to fill
Their groves and valleys with the prayer and song.
Yon shattered mass of boiling minerals
Thus in its whirlwind madness driven on
O'er shocked and startled ether, star-skilled eyes
Of the Captivity's prophetic eld,—
(When from the Temple in his triumph all
Jehovah's holy shrines to wanton Jove
Were borne by the proud Flavian victor) saw
Beneath the horizon, ere, in arcs and wreaths
And pillars canopied by thunder folds,
The spiral torrents of volcanic fire
Precipitated through the sphere of earth.
Much in dread visions when between the wings
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Of cherubim the Glory rested—much
In banishment and desert solitude—
And more in ruin to the soul of seers
Was given to know; more than all human thought
By all its systems can impart to man.
Yet with least erring eye the Apostle saw,
What time he felt the martyr's hovering crown.
The cohorts of the conqueror, when we trod—
(A banished nation, from our birth-soil rent,
Helpless and homeless, hurled upon the spear),—
The path of bondage, paused beneath the hill
Of sycamores, when the meridian sun
Flung his fierce arrowy splendors; and around
The cool o'ershadowed fountains, scowling on
The scorched and agonizing captives, lay
The imperial legions, casting bitter scorn
And ribald merriment on each who passed
Among their stern battalions to assuage
His deadly thirst:—scarce deigned plebeian hate
This solitary solace;—and they held
Each pilgrim by the beard to bid him bow
In worship to the dread Labarum, [7] ere,
In terms of mockery, they questioned him
Of the sacked temple's holy spoils—what gold
The chalices, cups, lavers, shrines would bring
In banishment and desert solitude—
And more in ruin to the soul of seers
Was given to know; more than all human thought
By all its systems can impart to man.
Yet with least erring eye the Apostle saw,
What time he felt the martyr's hovering crown.
The cohorts of the conqueror, when we trod—
(A banished nation, from our birth-soil rent,
Helpless and homeless, hurled upon the spear),—
The path of bondage, paused beneath the hill
Of sycamores, when the meridian sun
Flung his fierce arrowy splendors; and around
The cool o'ershadowed fountains, scowling on
The scorched and agonizing captives, lay
The imperial legions, casting bitter scorn
And ribald merriment on each who passed
Among their stern battalions to assuage
His deadly thirst:—scarce deigned plebeian hate
This solitary solace;—and they held
Each pilgrim by the beard to bid him bow
In worship to the dread Labarum, [7] ere,
In terms of mockery, they questioned him
Of the sacked temple's holy spoils—what gold
The chalices, cups, lavers, shrines would bring
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To the vast coffers of the Palatine.
With lips unmoistened, weary, sick in soul,
I turned aside into a dreary rift
Of rock o'erbowered with briar and aconite,
To pray and perish, for I had on earth
No friend! my father, on that morn, had laid
His weary head upon my breaking heart
And died. They bound him to a blighted tree
Upon a desert crag, and, to my shrieks
Shouting, “The traitor may forget the path
The Avenger treads! let him look on to Rome!”
The savage spoilers dragged me from his corse.
Thus to the earth I cast me, wailing low,
When a hand lifted me, and I beheld
A form, a face, so towering, worn and full
Of blended intellect and sanctity,
Of majesty and mildness, that, methought,
'Twas the Love-Angel! and his look o'erspread
My soul with joy inscrutable, he held
The very spirit so; and then his voice
Passed through the mind's depths like a cherub hymn.
“Daughter!” he said, “one doom is sealed in blood!
The Holy City, stained by guilt, defiled
By treason, sacrilege and rapine, sleeps
In dust—and who but God shall bid her wake?
With lips unmoistened, weary, sick in soul,
I turned aside into a dreary rift
Of rock o'erbowered with briar and aconite,
To pray and perish, for I had on earth
No friend! my father, on that morn, had laid
His weary head upon my breaking heart
And died. They bound him to a blighted tree
Upon a desert crag, and, to my shrieks
Shouting, “The traitor may forget the path
The Avenger treads! let him look on to Rome!”
The savage spoilers dragged me from his corse.
Thus to the earth I cast me, wailing low,
When a hand lifted me, and I beheld
A form, a face, so towering, worn and full
Of blended intellect and sanctity,
Of majesty and mildness, that, methought,
'Twas the Love-Angel! and his look o'erspread
My soul with joy inscrutable, he held
The very spirit so; and then his voice
Passed through the mind's depths like a cherub hymn.
“Daughter!” he said, “one doom is sealed in blood!
The Holy City, stained by guilt, defiled
By treason, sacrilege and rapine, sleeps
In dust—and who but God shall bid her wake?
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Yet judgment tarries not, because the arm
Of Rome's proud Desolator worked the will
Of heaven, fulfilling his own ruthless lust.
Thou shalt behold the destiny of them
Who from the furnace of ambition cast
Their brands of ruin o'er the world—for me—
The numbered hours rush on. My daughter! hear!
Thou art the child's child of one great in all
That magnifies the mind and fills the heart
With earth's sublimest influences—all
That clothes our flesh with spotless robes, and claims
Man's loftiest veneration, and heaven's love.
Gamaliel, thy wise ancestor”— My soul
Glowed at the name, and, gazing on that face
Which never blanched with fear though tyrants frowned,
Nor in success exulted, proud of gifts,
Quickly I said, “Who should have talked with him,
Master in Israel, and yet survive
When all, save this wrecked spirit, dream not now?”
“'Tis Saul of Tarsus!” said he, with his eyes
Downcast in pale contrition: “he who first
Bore faggot, brand and crucifix, and watched
O'er the red garments of the martyred saint;
And, when the Temple's vail was rent, and heaven
Of Rome's proud Desolator worked the will
Of heaven, fulfilling his own ruthless lust.
Thou shalt behold the destiny of them
Who from the furnace of ambition cast
Their brands of ruin o'er the world—for me—
The numbered hours rush on. My daughter! hear!
Thou art the child's child of one great in all
That magnifies the mind and fills the heart
With earth's sublimest influences—all
That clothes our flesh with spotless robes, and claims
Man's loftiest veneration, and heaven's love.
Gamaliel, thy wise ancestor”— My soul
Glowed at the name, and, gazing on that face
Which never blanched with fear though tyrants frowned,
Nor in success exulted, proud of gifts,
Quickly I said, “Who should have talked with him,
Master in Israel, and yet survive
When all, save this wrecked spirit, dream not now?”
“'Tis Saul of Tarsus!” said he, with his eyes
Downcast in pale contrition: “he who first
Bore faggot, brand and crucifix, and watched
O'er the red garments of the martyred saint;
And, when the Temple's vail was rent, and heaven
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Shuddered as the pale King of Shadows waved
His sceptre o'er the Son of God,—was held
Aloft, amidst the people, to behold
Him by our sires blasphemed and slain.—If toil,
Baffled temptation, patient suffering,
Perils by land and wave, and every ill
Mortality hath borne—added to zeal
And many years of vigil thought, may hope
For pardon of my crime, I have not lacked.
But, daughter! as I rested on my path,
Girdled by foes exulting, I beheld
Thee clinging to thy parted sire, and sought
In secret to unfold, now in thy grief,
The sole Redemption our lost fathers spurned.””
She paused as on its wandering orbit now
Rushed madlier the lost star, and, gazing, cried;
“—But mark red Ruin's summoner! beneath
The quivering zenith and the zodiac dimmed
By his storm glories, how the herald scorns
The dominations of the dust, and dares
The loftiest hierarchies of the heaven!
Ghastly with lava light, the molten clouds
In cloven masses swirl before his path,
And with the crash and uproar of the war
Of all the antagonizing elements,
The demon comet cleaves the shuddering air!”
His sceptre o'er the Son of God,—was held
Aloft, amidst the people, to behold
Him by our sires blasphemed and slain.—If toil,
Baffled temptation, patient suffering,
Perils by land and wave, and every ill
Mortality hath borne—added to zeal
And many years of vigil thought, may hope
For pardon of my crime, I have not lacked.
But, daughter! as I rested on my path,
Girdled by foes exulting, I beheld
Thee clinging to thy parted sire, and sought
In secret to unfold, now in thy grief,
The sole Redemption our lost fathers spurned.””
She paused as on its wandering orbit now
Rushed madlier the lost star, and, gazing, cried;
“—But mark red Ruin's summoner! beneath
The quivering zenith and the zodiac dimmed
By his storm glories, how the herald scorns
The dominations of the dust, and dares
The loftiest hierarchies of the heaven!
Ghastly with lava light, the molten clouds
In cloven masses swirl before his path,
And with the crash and uproar of the war
Of all the antagonizing elements,
The demon comet cleaves the shuddering air!”
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“And now the fiend-king of the meteor flings
His glance on the voluptuous wantonness
Of Baiae and Pausylipo, upon
The fairest bosom of earth's beauty laid
To stain, defile and desecrate! beyond,
The waters of Parthenope, along
The curved and blossomed shores, from the dark brow
Of the Misenum to Surrentum rocks
And Capreae's isle of carnage, curl and moan,
Darkened with gory hues; and on the expanse
So beautiful in crystal claritude
On yester morn, the trailing glare hangs now
With tempest gloom contending, yet unmixed.
The promontories and proud Appenines
Seem to uplift their precipices o'er
The wild air and affrighted sea in dread;
And the deep forests, quaking yet beneath
The Alpine torrent blast, through all their clouds
Of leaves, drink the dark crimson streams that pour
In lurid cataracts of flame from heaven:
And every breathing thing—man, beast, tree, flower—
Pants in the siroc that from Lybian sands
Hastens to mingle with the withering breath
Of yon gigantic world of Death!—my frame
Is numbed by torpor, yet the terror holds
His glance on the voluptuous wantonness
Of Baiae and Pausylipo, upon
The fairest bosom of earth's beauty laid
To stain, defile and desecrate! beyond,
The waters of Parthenope, along
The curved and blossomed shores, from the dark brow
Of the Misenum to Surrentum rocks
And Capreae's isle of carnage, curl and moan,
Darkened with gory hues; and on the expanse
So beautiful in crystal claritude
On yester morn, the trailing glare hangs now
With tempest gloom contending, yet unmixed.
The promontories and proud Appenines
Seem to uplift their precipices o'er
The wild air and affrighted sea in dread;
And the deep forests, quaking yet beneath
The Alpine torrent blast, through all their clouds
Of leaves, drink the dark crimson streams that pour
In lurid cataracts of flame from heaven:
And every breathing thing—man, beast, tree, flower—
Pants in the siroc that from Lybian sands
Hastens to mingle with the withering breath
Of yon gigantic world of Death!—my frame
Is numbed by torpor, yet the terror holds
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My spirit captive to the majesty
Of the unearthly Desolator!—Love!
Thou with the great Apostle didst commune—
O God! I saw him die!—the prophet said?”
“ “Fulfilled, by Christian faith, the Law, whose voice
Was judgment to our fathers, by the blood
Of the One Victim unto all becomes
The very soul of Love!” Thus he began,
And with an angel eloquence, that thrilled
My humbled heart, interpreted the law,
That spake in thunders from the Desert Mount,—
He, the Awakener of nations, whose high gifts,
E'en in the grandest spheres of fame, had won
The palm and laurel crown, but that in vain
Cajoling tempters spread their blandishments
And the seducings of apt sophistries
Tangled their meshes round him. Affluence,
Dominion o'er the treasures and the thoughts
Of traitor worshippers, the feigned awe breathed
By vassal sycophants through tainted courts,
Thronged temples, porticoes, and schools of seets,
He cast aside as winds do dust to dust.
He felt his intellect's supremacy,
And shrunk from moulded clay that lipped his name
Of the unearthly Desolator!—Love!
Thou with the great Apostle didst commune—
O God! I saw him die!—the prophet said?”
“ “Fulfilled, by Christian faith, the Law, whose voice
Was judgment to our fathers, by the blood
Of the One Victim unto all becomes
The very soul of Love!” Thus he began,
And with an angel eloquence, that thrilled
My humbled heart, interpreted the law,
That spake in thunders from the Desert Mount,—
He, the Awakener of nations, whose high gifts,
E'en in the grandest spheres of fame, had won
The palm and laurel crown, but that in vain
Cajoling tempters spread their blandishments
And the seducings of apt sophistries
Tangled their meshes round him. Affluence,
Dominion o'er the treasures and the thoughts
Of traitor worshippers, the feigned awe breathed
By vassal sycophants through tainted courts,
Thronged temples, porticoes, and schools of seets,
He cast aside as winds do dust to dust.
He felt his intellect's supremacy,
And shrunk from moulded clay that lipped his name
48
In interested ecstacies—he knew
Himself and sought not other knowledge here.
In place of men's dissembled treacheries,
He, clothed with immortality's own light,
Pictured the Passion, spread the Eucharist,
Bade peril and the equinox obey,
Soothed the quick pangs of lonely malady,
Warded the fold of faith assailed, and stood
In every danger on the vanward tower
To watch, guard, counsel, lead, bear scorn, and die!
Brief was our converse, for the Flavian trump,
In triumph echoes, startled the great host.
But, from that hour, through agony and shame,
I have not trembled to confess the Word,
Whose smile is, e'en in the worst evil, heaven.
“Farewell! my captive child!” he said, “when power
Purples the rills with Christian sacrifice,
And wanton crime mocks thy unpitied moans,
Forget not Calvary and Gethsemane!
Forget not that my eye beholds e'en now,
Down the dark lapses of Time unconceived,
A terrible atonement of the doom
Knelled o'er the domes of Salem; wildly o'er
Infinitude the vision rushes—earth
With shrieks of wrath and quick convulsions hails
Himself and sought not other knowledge here.
In place of men's dissembled treacheries,
He, clothed with immortality's own light,
Pictured the Passion, spread the Eucharist,
Bade peril and the equinox obey,
Soothed the quick pangs of lonely malady,
Warded the fold of faith assailed, and stood
In every danger on the vanward tower
To watch, guard, counsel, lead, bear scorn, and die!
Brief was our converse, for the Flavian trump,
In triumph echoes, startled the great host.
But, from that hour, through agony and shame,
I have not trembled to confess the Word,
Whose smile is, e'en in the worst evil, heaven.
“Farewell! my captive child!” he said, “when power
Purples the rills with Christian sacrifice,
And wanton crime mocks thy unpitied moans,
Forget not Calvary and Gethsemane!
Forget not that my eye beholds e'en now,
Down the dark lapses of Time unconceived,
A terrible atonement of the doom
Knelled o'er the domes of Salem; wildly o'er
Infinitude the vision rushes—earth
With shrieks of wrath and quick convulsions hails
49
The herald of despair—it whirls and leaps,
Like living madness now, and tosses o'er
Unterminating and unsounded air
Perpetual deluges of flame, to warn
The scoffer and the rioter, who mark
No beam beyond their revel glare! Farewell!
Desolate daughter of a slaughtered sire!
Forget not! and the Paraclete console
Thy lingering sorrows! mine are almost done!”
The fountain of my heart o'erflowed; I looked,
Yet never more beheld the godlike brow
Of Christendom's apostle; through the shades
Of the descending cavern slowly waved
His mantle, the white turban seemed to hang
A moment in the gloom; his sandalled feet
Sent back a few low sounds—and he had passed
Unto his mission and his martyrdom!
But tell me, love! beneath this ghastly light,
The story of his doom [8]—how passed his soul
From torture into triumph when the flesh
Clung round the spirit in its agony?”
“In calm magnificence—in meekness fit
To awe earth's congregated dynasties,
From gloom to glory, through its martyrdom,
Like living madness now, and tosses o'er
Unterminating and unsounded air
Perpetual deluges of flame, to warn
The scoffer and the rioter, who mark
No beam beyond their revel glare! Farewell!
Desolate daughter of a slaughtered sire!
Forget not! and the Paraclete console
Thy lingering sorrows! mine are almost done!”
The fountain of my heart o'erflowed; I looked,
Yet never more beheld the godlike brow
Of Christendom's apostle; through the shades
Of the descending cavern slowly waved
His mantle, the white turban seemed to hang
A moment in the gloom; his sandalled feet
Sent back a few low sounds—and he had passed
Unto his mission and his martyrdom!
But tell me, love! beneath this ghastly light,
The story of his doom [8]—how passed his soul
From torture into triumph when the flesh
Clung round the spirit in its agony?”
“In calm magnificence—in meekness fit
To awe earth's congregated dynasties,
From gloom to glory, through its martyrdom,
50
It passed—triumphing mid the jeers of men!”
Said Pansa, casting on the o'erhung crags
And piles of rifted scoriæ half green'd o'er,
(Beauty embracing ruin), mid the intense hush
Of o'erworn nature, glances of quick thought,
As silently he caught faint smothered sounds
Like breaths held back, and then, at intervals,
Gasping in sobs, like night sighs of the surf.
With startled ear, strained eye and quivering brow,
Listened the Christian; but the dells lay still
In their green blessedness, the hills looked down
From their cold solitudes; above, the flame
Of the banned star flared far and dim—beneath,
Lay Pompeii, folded in the sleep that flings
Oblivion o'er the exhaustion of desire;
And, breathing terror from his burdened heart,
He thus portrayed the passion of the Saint.
“No psalteries or cymbals poured their waves
Of music round his death-hour; no grand hymn
Gushed from the tabret, and no gentle voice
Of sorrow from the harp, to wail his doom.
Alone amid his slayers and the foes
Of Him they crucified, Paul calmly stood,
Nor daring pagan hate nor dreading it,
His white hair streaming on the autumnal wind;
His countenance, treached o'er by thought and care
Said Pansa, casting on the o'erhung crags
And piles of rifted scoriæ half green'd o'er,
(Beauty embracing ruin), mid the intense hush
Of o'erworn nature, glances of quick thought,
As silently he caught faint smothered sounds
Like breaths held back, and then, at intervals,
Gasping in sobs, like night sighs of the surf.
With startled ear, strained eye and quivering brow,
Listened the Christian; but the dells lay still
In their green blessedness, the hills looked down
From their cold solitudes; above, the flame
Of the banned star flared far and dim—beneath,
Lay Pompeii, folded in the sleep that flings
Oblivion o'er the exhaustion of desire;
And, breathing terror from his burdened heart,
He thus portrayed the passion of the Saint.
“No psalteries or cymbals poured their waves
Of music round his death-hour; no grand hymn
Gushed from the tabret, and no gentle voice
Of sorrow from the harp, to wail his doom.
Alone amid his slayers and the foes
Of Him they crucified, Paul calmly stood,
Nor daring pagan hate nor dreading it,
His white hair streaming on the autumnal wind;
His countenance, treached o'er by thought and care
51
And toil and suffering, gathered, as he looked
Upon the Prætor on his throne of power,
The grandeur of his youth, the matchless light
Of a triumphant intellect that grasped
An immortality of bliss, and feared
No mortal agony when joy was death.
`Thou art a Christian?' Paul held up the Cross.
`Thou art a Hebrew?' `Ay, I was, and worse.'
`Thou art a Traitor?' `Not to God or man!'
Cried the Apostle, and his monarch form
Rose from the ruins of his years, and stood,
Like the unpeered statue of Olympian Jove,
Before the quailing Paynim. `Edicts, hurled
By Agrippina's son, had Rome a soul,
E'en from blasphemed humanity would call
For vengeance on the utterer. Where's the guilt
Of thought? the crime of faith, whose very soul
Is low-voiced worship and still charities?
The loftiest mind most loves humility!
The imperial ban ('twas uttered by the banned)
Leaves deeds untouched but criminates the thought;
Hales famished, homeless and (for this vain world)
Hopeless believers of an humble faith,
To judgment, not to trial, and allows
The apostacy, it arraigns as crime
Upon the Prætor on his throne of power,
The grandeur of his youth, the matchless light
Of a triumphant intellect that grasped
An immortality of bliss, and feared
No mortal agony when joy was death.
`Thou art a Christian?' Paul held up the Cross.
`Thou art a Hebrew?' `Ay, I was, and worse.'
`Thou art a Traitor?' `Not to God or man!'
Cried the Apostle, and his monarch form
Rose from the ruins of his years, and stood,
Like the unpeered statue of Olympian Jove,
Before the quailing Paynim. `Edicts, hurled
By Agrippina's son, had Rome a soul,
E'en from blasphemed humanity would call
For vengeance on the utterer. Where's the guilt
Of thought? the crime of faith, whose very soul
Is low-voiced worship and still charities?
The loftiest mind most loves humility!
The imperial ban ('twas uttered by the banned)
Leaves deeds untouched but criminates the thought;
Hales famished, homeless and (for this vain world)
Hopeless believers of an humble faith,
To judgment, not to trial, and allows
The apostacy, it arraigns as crime
52
Death or denial! is the only law
Of Rome, whose wings are o'er the world, to men
So poor, they have no pillow, and so few,
They have no power; and yet the Palatine
Fears they—they may subert its giant might!
Is truth so terrible to the `immortal gods,'
That they in triumph tremble at a voice?
Dreads the fierce Thunderer the cicada's song?
Or your gay god of Revels, lest the charm
Of his wreathed thyrsus may depart when woods
And caverns are the palaces, and rills
And berries all the banquet of his foes?
Yet none of all thy fabled deities,
Save hirsute fauns and lonely oreads,
Behold our rites, or need shrink to behold.
How should conspiracy consort with want
And weakness so extreme, they lack the power
To lift the dying head or bear the corse
Beyond the grotto where they weep and pray?
And who of all Rome's judges can arraign
The Christian for a deed that could design
Possession of a hamlet? or a hut?
We seek no empire save untrammelled thought;
We court no patron save The Crucified;
We win no crown save that of martyrdom.'
Of Rome, whose wings are o'er the world, to men
So poor, they have no pillow, and so few,
They have no power; and yet the Palatine
Fears they—they may subert its giant might!
Is truth so terrible to the `immortal gods,'
That they in triumph tremble at a voice?
Dreads the fierce Thunderer the cicada's song?
Or your gay god of Revels, lest the charm
Of his wreathed thyrsus may depart when woods
And caverns are the palaces, and rills
And berries all the banquet of his foes?
Yet none of all thy fabled deities,
Save hirsute fauns and lonely oreads,
Behold our rites, or need shrink to behold.
How should conspiracy consort with want
And weakness so extreme, they lack the power
To lift the dying head or bear the corse
Beyond the grotto where they weep and pray?
And who of all Rome's judges can arraign
The Christian for a deed that could design
Possession of a hamlet? or a hut?
We seek no empire save untrammelled thought;
We court no patron save The Crucified;
We win no crown save that of martyrdom.'
53
`Smite, silence the blasphemer!' shrieked the judge,
Robing his fear in wrath; `too long we waste
The Empire's time—chain the conspirator!
And, lictors! guard his cross from slaves, and all
The baser multitudes that throng to hear
The maniac treasons of the Nazarenes.
Hoar breeder of sedition, thou must die!'
`Nature said that when I was born, and God,
Ere that, a thousand ages, when sin rose
From Hades; not in vain have all the power,
Splendor and guilt of Rome before me passed
In danger yet in solitude, and now
I fold unto my bosom that deep death
I never sought nor feared, and thank the ruth
Of that derision which ordains the Cross.
The master of your vast—of every realm,
Sea, earth and sky hold, taught me by His groan
That the last breath was agony, but He
Hath sent the Paraclete to o'ershadow all
Who perish by his passion, and I go,
Purple idolater! having wandered long
Through many years of weariness, to rest,
Where, couldst thou ever share my bliss, this hour,
With less of anguish, would pass o'er my soul!'
Robing his fear in wrath; `too long we waste
The Empire's time—chain the conspirator!
And, lictors! guard his cross from slaves, and all
The baser multitudes that throng to hear
The maniac treasons of the Nazarenes.
Hoar breeder of sedition, thou must die!'
`Nature said that when I was born, and God,
Ere that, a thousand ages, when sin rose
From Hades; not in vain have all the power,
Splendor and guilt of Rome before me passed
In danger yet in solitude, and now
I fold unto my bosom that deep death
I never sought nor feared, and thank the ruth
Of that derision which ordains the Cross.
The master of your vast—of every realm,
Sea, earth and sky hold, taught me by His groan
That the last breath was agony, but He
Hath sent the Paraclete to o'ershadow all
Who perish by his passion, and I go,
Purple idolater! having wandered long
Through many years of weariness, to rest,
Where, couldst thou ever share my bliss, this hour,
With less of anguish, would pass o'er my soul!'
54
Then led they him unto [9] the Accursed Field
Beyond the Patriot's Precipice, mid bands
Of mailed Prætorians, bearing in the blaze
Of noon Cæsar's Labarum (ne'er unfurled
But in the triumph's tempest;) in the van
The aruspices in purple trabeæ walked, [10]
Their oakleaf chaplets waving: then in throngs,
The Luperci, the maddened priests of Mars,
In crimson togas and broad burnished plates
Of brass that mirrored carnage, followed quick.
And the wild flamens of Cybele, stained
By the red vintage, and the countless crowd
Of magi, augurs, senators and slaves,
Paphians and vestals, through the marble streets,
From dusky lanes and sculptured palaces,
Temple and forum and Cimmerian den,
Outpoured in pageantry or squalid want,
Like Scylla's whirlpool floods, to feast on death.
'Twas ever thus in Rome; she nursed her horde
Of bandits, from the first, on blood, and war,
Wedding with carnage, wrote her very creed
In groans, and wrought her gods from myriad crimes.
So on they led the martyr stooping low
Beneath the felon cross, his glorious brow,
Oft wet with dungeon dew, soiled by the dust
Beyond the Patriot's Precipice, mid bands
Of mailed Prætorians, bearing in the blaze
Of noon Cæsar's Labarum (ne'er unfurled
But in the triumph's tempest;) in the van
The aruspices in purple trabeæ walked, [10]
Their oakleaf chaplets waving: then in throngs,
The Luperci, the maddened priests of Mars,
In crimson togas and broad burnished plates
Of brass that mirrored carnage, followed quick.
And the wild flamens of Cybele, stained
By the red vintage, and the countless crowd
Of magi, augurs, senators and slaves,
Paphians and vestals, through the marble streets,
From dusky lanes and sculptured palaces,
Temple and forum and Cimmerian den,
Outpoured in pageantry or squalid want,
Like Scylla's whirlpool floods, to feast on death.
'Twas ever thus in Rome; she nursed her horde
Of bandits, from the first, on blood, and war,
Wedding with carnage, wrote her very creed
In groans, and wrought her gods from myriad crimes.
So on they led the martyr stooping low
Beneath the felon cross, his glorious brow,
Oft wet with dungeon dew, soiled by the dust
55
Of the armed cohort, yet his undimmed eye
Flashing its birthlight radiance unto heaven,
Drinking revealments of God's paradise.
Oath, menace, jeer and ribald mockeries,
The vulgar's worship of all greatness, passed
Like the sirocco o'er Campanian flowers
Or snowpiles of the Appenines, gathering bloom
And zephyr coolness, o'er his sainted soul.
His lofty nature did, a moment, seem
Burning in scorn upon his lips, and once,
Clasping the heavy cross as't were a wand,
He lifted his proud form and matchless head,
And o'er the helmed lictors looked upon
The mockers—and they shrunk beneath his glance
Like grass beneath the samiel; yet no more,
Hushing the spirit of his grandeur, he
Deigned to deem earth his home, or earthly things
Fit wakeners of his thought. And so he came
Unto the Accursed Field, and one, all shunned,
Loathing, drave down the massy cross. whereon,
With lingering patience, he had stretched and nailed,
Through palm and sole, the Martyr, every blow
Tearing the impaled nerves, and through heart and brain
Sending a sick convulsion; but the pangs
Passed quickly o'er his features, though the limbs
Flashing its birthlight radiance unto heaven,
Drinking revealments of God's paradise.
Oath, menace, jeer and ribald mockeries,
The vulgar's worship of all greatness, passed
Like the sirocco o'er Campanian flowers
Or snowpiles of the Appenines, gathering bloom
And zephyr coolness, o'er his sainted soul.
His lofty nature did, a moment, seem
Burning in scorn upon his lips, and once,
Clasping the heavy cross as't were a wand,
He lifted his proud form and matchless head,
And o'er the helmed lictors looked upon
The mockers—and they shrunk beneath his glance
Like grass beneath the samiel; yet no more,
Hushing the spirit of his grandeur, he
Deigned to deem earth his home, or earthly things
Fit wakeners of his thought. And so he came
Unto the Accursed Field, and one, all shunned,
Loathing, drave down the massy cross. whereon,
With lingering patience, he had stretched and nailed,
Through palm and sole, the Martyr, every blow
Tearing the impaled nerves, and through heart and brain
Sending a sick convulsion; but the pangs
Passed quickly o'er his features, though the limbs
56
Quivered, and, as he looked to heaven, a light,
Brighter than universes of bright suns,
Fell round the Martyr in his agony!
`A Prodigy! Jove flashes wrath! the gods
Forbid the death!' shouted the multitude,
Like foliage fluctuating, as the spells
Of all-believing Fear fell on their hearts.
`All Rome shall perish if the Christian dies!'
`Hence, vassals! fools! home to your huts! away!'
Rose the proud Prefect's quick, stern, ruthless voice,
Whose echo was an oracle. `Ye slaves!
The beast should batten on the slain, I know,
And ye can taunt and torture helplessness,
And dread the very shade of danger's ghost;
But, by the Spectre River! Rome's best spears
Shall search your dastard dust, if ye but speak
Ere each adores his hearth-god! hence! away!'
The Gracchi from the Aventine dragged forth [11]
For senators to slaughter well displayed
The liberties of Rome; and they, who held
The Briton chief barbarian, shrunk away,
When a patrician bade, without a voice!
But bondage and brute violence are one.
Then, as the steps of the vast throng retired
Brighter than universes of bright suns,
Fell round the Martyr in his agony!
`A Prodigy! Jove flashes wrath! the gods
Forbid the death!' shouted the multitude,
Like foliage fluctuating, as the spells
Of all-believing Fear fell on their hearts.
`All Rome shall perish if the Christian dies!'
`Hence, vassals! fools! home to your huts! away!'
Rose the proud Prefect's quick, stern, ruthless voice,
Whose echo was an oracle. `Ye slaves!
The beast should batten on the slain, I know,
And ye can taunt and torture helplessness,
And dread the very shade of danger's ghost;
But, by the Spectre River! Rome's best spears
Shall search your dastard dust, if ye but speak
Ere each adores his hearth-god! hence! away!'
The Gracchi from the Aventine dragged forth [11]
For senators to slaughter well displayed
The liberties of Rome; and they, who held
The Briton chief barbarian, shrunk away,
When a patrician bade, without a voice!
But bondage and brute violence are one.
Then, as the steps of the vast throng retired
57
Like dying waves, the priests and guards outspread
Their banquet on the plain beneath the tents—
(The kalends of the seventh month had come)
They bore to shield the sun, while there they watched
The fever, famine, thirst and pangs of death.
Pheasants, Falernian, mirth, song, jest and oath
Inspired the revel 'neath the cross, and all
Care and command, save that which bade them see
The Martyr die, fled from their spirits now.
Wanton with wine, the priest revealed to scorn
His wiles and sophistries and oracles,
Blessing the phantom gods that shadows held
Dominion o'er the conscious fears of men.
Warriors portrayed, in tales of other climes,
Numidia, Arcady or Syrian realms,
The splendor of the spoil, the gems and gold,
The perfumes, luxuries and regal robes,
Fair slaves and diamonds, wafted from the shores
Of the Orient, in homage to the diadem
That circled nations. Many a demon deed
And dark career of crime then first to light
Leapt from the dizzy brain of guilt, and moved
Applause and rival histories of acts
O'erpast; how dusky kings in palaces,
Amid their pomp, gleaming magnificence,
Their banquet on the plain beneath the tents—
(The kalends of the seventh month had come)
They bore to shield the sun, while there they watched
The fever, famine, thirst and pangs of death.
Pheasants, Falernian, mirth, song, jest and oath
Inspired the revel 'neath the cross, and all
Care and command, save that which bade them see
The Martyr die, fled from their spirits now.
Wanton with wine, the priest revealed to scorn
His wiles and sophistries and oracles,
Blessing the phantom gods that shadows held
Dominion o'er the conscious fears of men.
Warriors portrayed, in tales of other climes,
Numidia, Arcady or Syrian realms,
The splendor of the spoil, the gems and gold,
The perfumes, luxuries and regal robes,
Fair slaves and diamonds, wafted from the shores
Of the Orient, in homage to the diadem
That circled nations. Many a demon deed
And dark career of crime then first to light
Leapt from the dizzy brain of guilt, and moved
Applause and rival histories of acts
O'erpast; how dusky kings in palaces,
Amid their pomp, gleaming magnificence,
58
Did perish in the flame, and none could save
The victim, though they bore his coffers forth
How queens and virgin princes in their bowers,
On broidered couches slumbering, while their robes,
Like zodiacs, glittered in the purple light,
Felt not the serpent that trailed o'er their sleep,
But died in their pavilions, voicelessly!
Then senators and knights, with mutual mirth,
Discoursed of laws enacted or suppressed
As suited Cæsar, and quenched liberties,
Naming them treason; and asserted rights,
They branded as seditions; and revealed
To the unshuddering guards the mysteries
Of Rome's proud Forum, where the agonies
Of desolated kingdoms, and the shrieks
Of nations in their bondage, and the tears
Of eloquent affection to the lords
Of power were music and unholy mirth.
Then round the martyr mingled voices rose
Louder, and laughter to impiety
Replied, and men, the gods, truth, chastity,
Love, honor, courage and fidelity,
All were but mockeries to the rioters.
“Hercle! is this the Lupercal? ye howl
Like Conscript Fathers when the spoil is lost!
The victim, though they bore his coffers forth
How queens and virgin princes in their bowers,
On broidered couches slumbering, while their robes,
Like zodiacs, glittered in the purple light,
Felt not the serpent that trailed o'er their sleep,
But died in their pavilions, voicelessly!
Then senators and knights, with mutual mirth,
Discoursed of laws enacted or suppressed
As suited Cæsar, and quenched liberties,
Naming them treason; and asserted rights,
They branded as seditions; and revealed
To the unshuddering guards the mysteries
Of Rome's proud Forum, where the agonies
Of desolated kingdoms, and the shrieks
Of nations in their bondage, and the tears
Of eloquent affection to the lords
Of power were music and unholy mirth.
Then round the martyr mingled voices rose
Louder, and laughter to impiety
Replied, and men, the gods, truth, chastity,
Love, honor, courage and fidelity,
All were but mockeries to the rioters.
“Hercle! is this the Lupercal? ye howl
Like Conscript Fathers when the spoil is lost!
59
Peace!” said the Prefect—“see ye not the lips
Of yon hoar traitor trembling with quick thought?
Listen! he speaks his last,—his heart 's too old
To linger in the torture of the tree!”
“The isles shall wait, Jehovah! for thy law, [12]
And knowledge to and fro shall spread, till earth
Utter Thy praise like voices of the sea!”
Thus spake the victim, in delirium,
Wrought by deep anguish, wandering yet among
The dear homes of his mission. “Dangers wave
Their wings around us, brethren! and the waste,
Boundless and shadowless, must still be trod!
Yet not by dim lights of a doubting faith
Are ye led on through wrong and woe and want,
For the Anointed hath not left us here
Without a Comforter, and hath He not
Laid up, in many mansions, crowns of joy,
Where mortal doth put on immortality?
Grieve not the Spirit! yet a little while,
And ye shall reap the harvest and rejoice;
And though, ere then, this flesh must see decay,
Yet I shall mingle with your prayer and hymn,
By morn and eve—and breathe the Savior's smile
O'er the glad isles of Gentiles so beloved!”
Of yon hoar traitor trembling with quick thought?
Listen! he speaks his last,—his heart 's too old
To linger in the torture of the tree!”
“The isles shall wait, Jehovah! for thy law, [12]
And knowledge to and fro shall spread, till earth
Utter Thy praise like voices of the sea!”
Thus spake the victim, in delirium,
Wrought by deep anguish, wandering yet among
The dear homes of his mission. “Dangers wave
Their wings around us, brethren! and the waste,
Boundless and shadowless, must still be trod!
Yet not by dim lights of a doubting faith
Are ye led on through wrong and woe and want,
For the Anointed hath not left us here
Without a Comforter, and hath He not
Laid up, in many mansions, crowns of joy,
Where mortal doth put on immortality?
Grieve not the Spirit! yet a little while,
And ye shall reap the harvest and rejoice;
And though, ere then, this flesh must see decay,
Yet I shall mingle with your prayer and hymn,
By morn and eve—and breathe the Savior's smile
O'er the glad isles of Gentiles so beloved!”
60
Then spasms of vivid pain passed o'er his face,
His eyes rolled back upon the brain, and left
The pale streaked orbs writhing in gloom—the lids
Now folded to their lashes, coiling now
In nature's deep convulsion, till the veins,
O'erfraught and purple, on his cloven brow,
Seemed bursting o'er the altar of his soul.
His livid lips, parted by torture, breathed
Deep undistinguished murmurs, then compressed
Like sculptured curves and lines of thought; the limbs,
Meantime, grew cold, and the dark gathering blood
Forsook its own familiar temple, when
The shadows of the sepulchre stole on.
“Dis leaves his realm to welcome him,” said one.
“Peace! thou discourteous knight! jeers skill not now;
Thy mirth is motlied with mortality,
And thou thyself mayst pray for Lethe ere
The graceless Stygian grasps thine obolus.
Put on thy knighthood! peace! he speaks again!”
And the proud Prefect flung his casque to earth.
In moans, like autumn gusts, the martyr spake,
Hovering o'er shattered memories like the sun
O'er broken billows of the shoreless sea!
“Let me behold thy domes, Damascus! meet
His eyes rolled back upon the brain, and left
The pale streaked orbs writhing in gloom—the lids
Now folded to their lashes, coiling now
In nature's deep convulsion, till the veins,
O'erfraught and purple, on his cloven brow,
Seemed bursting o'er the altar of his soul.
His livid lips, parted by torture, breathed
Deep undistinguished murmurs, then compressed
Like sculptured curves and lines of thought; the limbs,
Meantime, grew cold, and the dark gathering blood
Forsook its own familiar temple, when
The shadows of the sepulchre stole on.
“Dis leaves his realm to welcome him,” said one.
“Peace! thou discourteous knight! jeers skill not now;
Thy mirth is motlied with mortality,
And thou thyself mayst pray for Lethe ere
The graceless Stygian grasps thine obolus.
Put on thy knighthood! peace! he speaks again!”
And the proud Prefect flung his casque to earth.
In moans, like autumn gusts, the martyr spake,
Hovering o'er shattered memories like the sun
O'er broken billows of the shoreless sea!
“Let me behold thy domes, Damascus! meet
61
It is the arrows of Life's penitence
Should pierce the persecutor.—Oh, farewell!
My brother! blessed in Pisidia be
Thy walk and watching!—To the Unknown God!
Are ye the worshipped wisdom of all Greece,
When ye disdain your thrice ten thousand gods,
Adoring Doubt or Demon, knowing not
The Deity revealed?—Ye can attest,
I have not coveted the gold of earth,
The gorgeous raiment or vain pomp of men,
But ministered, in all, unto myself!
Ay, driven to and fro in Adria
Upon Euroclydon, no hope is left
But in the Wielder of the wave and wind.
Despair not! though sun, moon and stars are hid,
Jehovah watches from eternity!
Contend not, brethren! untaught man may win
Redemption from the deep crimes of his age,
And be a law unto himself; e'en Rome
Hath in her years of darkest guilt had such.
Oh, sorrow not like them who have no hope!
The seed shall not decay though I am dust!
—Why do ye scourge me, soldiers? know ye not
I am a Roman? I appeal to Cæsar!
—Bring me a winter robe when thou dost come
Should pierce the persecutor.—Oh, farewell!
My brother! blessed in Pisidia be
Thy walk and watching!—To the Unknown God!
Are ye the worshipped wisdom of all Greece,
When ye disdain your thrice ten thousand gods,
Adoring Doubt or Demon, knowing not
The Deity revealed?—Ye can attest,
I have not coveted the gold of earth,
The gorgeous raiment or vain pomp of men,
But ministered, in all, unto myself!
Ay, driven to and fro in Adria
Upon Euroclydon, no hope is left
But in the Wielder of the wave and wind.
Despair not! though sun, moon and stars are hid,
Jehovah watches from eternity!
Contend not, brethren! untaught man may win
Redemption from the deep crimes of his age,
And be a law unto himself; e'en Rome
Hath in her years of darkest guilt had such.
Oh, sorrow not like them who have no hope!
The seed shall not decay though I am dust!
—Why do ye scourge me, soldiers? know ye not
I am a Roman? I appeal to Cæsar!
—Bring me a winter robe when thou dost come
62
Again—the night is cold among the hills,
And I am very weary! so, farewell!”
Then the bare nerves and sinews sent their pangs
For the last time upon his fainting heart,
And, as beyond the trembling battlements
Of agonizing flesh, the spirit strove
To flee, beholding heaven, the bitter strife
O'erawed the infidel, and round the cross
Stood silent pagan revellers! Once more
The apostle's peerless mind gleamed out—his eyes,
Living in the dark light of boyhood, flung
Their dying splendors o'er the Imperial Hills,
The mountains and the waters—while his pulse
Intensely throbbed and paused—and the heart's chill
And fever rushed to life's deep fount and spread
A shuddering faintness and sick gasping sense
Of falling through infinitude, o'er all
The vital functions of his frame. “My God!”
'Twas but a hollow echo from the tomb,
Yet it said “Jesus! let me—see—Thy face!”
And Saul of Tarsus stood before his God!”
“As thou shalt stand before Gaetulia's king,
The Barcan lion!” cried the ruthless voice
Of Diomede's outwatching messenger,
And I am very weary! so, farewell!”
Then the bare nerves and sinews sent their pangs
For the last time upon his fainting heart,
And, as beyond the trembling battlements
Of agonizing flesh, the spirit strove
To flee, beholding heaven, the bitter strife
O'erawed the infidel, and round the cross
Stood silent pagan revellers! Once more
The apostle's peerless mind gleamed out—his eyes,
Living in the dark light of boyhood, flung
Their dying splendors o'er the Imperial Hills,
The mountains and the waters—while his pulse
Intensely throbbed and paused—and the heart's chill
And fever rushed to life's deep fount and spread
A shuddering faintness and sick gasping sense
Of falling through infinitude, o'er all
The vital functions of his frame. “My God!”
'Twas but a hollow echo from the tomb,
Yet it said “Jesus! let me—see—Thy face!”
And Saul of Tarsus stood before his God!”
“As thou shalt stand before Gaetulia's king,
The Barcan lion!” cried the ruthless voice
Of Diomede's outwatching messenger,
63
The undeterred achiever of his will—
Grasping the Christian while his fellows rushed
Upon his pale but dreadless Hebrew bride.
“Well!” said the minion, “traitors serve, sometimes,
The empire's weal, and martyrdom, methinks,
Hath a rare syren music, for ye stood
Grandly before us in the comet light,
Wrapt in your exalted Nazarene,
Till we could climb the cliffs and do the hest
Of the proconsul, unfulfilled too long!
Come, Rabbi! thou art skilled in subterfuge,
And hast not scorned the sword in better times—
The games shall test thy genius—on with me!
The Gladiator's banquet waits, and thou
Shalt quaff the massic or the tears of Christ. [13]
Veles! thou hast thy charge! the Prætor's coin
Rewards not slack obedience, though his wrath
Ne'er palters with a thought of treachery!
The lady—Venus! but she hath a brow
Like the coy Delian queen!—must be disposed,
With all respect,—lead on! the daystar wanes!”
“Thraso! we were not foes when, side by side,
We scaled Antonia's tower, and saw the walls
Of Zion crushed—Why now? thou art disguised,”
Grasping the Christian while his fellows rushed
Upon his pale but dreadless Hebrew bride.
“Well!” said the minion, “traitors serve, sometimes,
The empire's weal, and martyrdom, methinks,
Hath a rare syren music, for ye stood
Grandly before us in the comet light,
Wrapt in your exalted Nazarene,
Till we could climb the cliffs and do the hest
Of the proconsul, unfulfilled too long!
Come, Rabbi! thou art skilled in subterfuge,
And hast not scorned the sword in better times—
The games shall test thy genius—on with me!
The Gladiator's banquet waits, and thou
Shalt quaff the massic or the tears of Christ. [13]
Veles! thou hast thy charge! the Prætor's coin
Rewards not slack obedience, though his wrath
Ne'er palters with a thought of treachery!
The lady—Venus! but she hath a brow
Like the coy Delian queen!—must be disposed,
With all respect,—lead on! the daystar wanes!”
“Thraso! we were not foes when, side by side,
We scaled Antonia's tower, and saw the walls
Of Zion crushed—Why now? thou art disguised,”
64
Said Pansa, with the heart's best eloquence,
As down the steep crags turned the lictor band,
Bearing his bride. “Why from my heart, by guile
Betrayed, by violence asunder rent,
Tearst thou my Mariamne, mocking thus?”
“And dost thou ask, apostate? hast thou not
Contemned the gods, scorning thy father's faith?
Forsaken the eagle banners, deeming rocks
Better than camps? and sowed sedition, thick
As sand-clouds, through the legions? thou hast wed
A captive, too, whom, though with all thy gold
Thou bought'st, poor fool! yet hast not held, as bids
The law, in bondage! dost thou ask again?
Mine office deigns no farther word, but more
Thou soon shalt learn in bitterness! lead on!”
“Bear me with her, where'er ye drag, whate'er
Ye or your lords in lawlessness inflict!
No more my voice shall crave or ye deny!”
“The Prætor's edict suits no purposes
Apostates may desire; your destinies
Have separate mansions, renegade!” Along
Ravine and precipice and lava bed,
As down the steep crags turned the lictor band,
Bearing his bride. “Why from my heart, by guile
Betrayed, by violence asunder rent,
Tearst thou my Mariamne, mocking thus?”
“And dost thou ask, apostate? hast thou not
Contemned the gods, scorning thy father's faith?
Forsaken the eagle banners, deeming rocks
Better than camps? and sowed sedition, thick
As sand-clouds, through the legions? thou hast wed
A captive, too, whom, though with all thy gold
Thou bought'st, poor fool! yet hast not held, as bids
The law, in bondage! dost thou ask again?
Mine office deigns no farther word, but more
Thou soon shalt learn in bitterness! lead on!”
“Bear me with her, where'er ye drag, whate'er
Ye or your lords in lawlessness inflict!
No more my voice shall crave or ye deny!”
“The Prætor's edict suits no purposes
Apostates may desire; your destinies
Have separate mansions, renegade!” Along
Ravine and precipice and lava bed,
65
Vineyard, pomegranate grove and vale of bloom,
The Pagan haled his victims, till the gate
Of Pompeii flew wide, and Pansa saw,
In speechless agony, a moment ere
The Mamertine abysses [14] were his home,
Pale shuddering Mariamne through the gloom
Of statues, pillars, temples and hushed streets,
Where fountains only witnessed deeds of death,
Borne like a shadow to a nameless doom.
The Pagan haled his victims, till the gate
Of Pompeii flew wide, and Pansa saw,
In speechless agony, a moment ere
The Mamertine abysses [14] were his home,
Pale shuddering Mariamne through the gloom
Of statues, pillars, temples and hushed streets,
Where fountains only witnessed deeds of death,
Borne like a shadow to a nameless doom.
END OF CANTO I.
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[8]
Note 8, p. 49.—The story of his doom.
Both the time and mode of St. Paul's martyrdom are problematical.
The opinion is generally received that he died during the persecution
of Nero, about ten years before the period of my story;
but as chronologists differ and biographers cannot agree, I have
assumed the right to narrate his death, in the person of Pansa, as
in the text.
[9]
Note 9, p. 54.—The Accursed field.
The Campus Sceleratus, where vestal virgins were buried
alive when they followed the example of Rhœa Sylvia. The
Tarpeian Rock was not far removed from such appropriate
neighborhood.
[10]
Note 10, p. 54.—The aruspices in purple trabeæ walked.
The prognosticators of Rome were allowed extraordinary
honors; and their trabeæ or robes of office nearly resembled
those of the Emperors. Every superstition exalts its expositors;
and the Roman priests well knew the power which fear and ignorance
conferred upon them, and abhorred in the same degree that
they dreaded the illumination of Christianity. The fasces, the
trabeæ, pretextæ, and curule chair were introduced by Tarquin
Priscus from conquered Tuscany.
[11]
Note 11, p. 56.—The Gracchi from the Aventine dragged forth.
For attempting by the enactment of the Agrarian Law, to
restrain the exorbitant power of the patricians, Tiberius Gracchus
was assassinated in the Capitol by Scipio Nasica; Caius Gracchus
and Fulvius Flaceus were killed by Opimius, the consul;
Saturnmus the tribune was murdered by a mob of Conscript
Fathers; and Livius Drusus, on the same account, was slain in
his own house. All in Rome, who could not trace their descent
from the highwayman Romulus or some one of his least merciful
banditti, were esteemed no better than vassals. The Romans
never understood either justice, mercy, or freedom; their dominion
was acquired by the sword without remorse, and it perished
by the sword without regret.
[12]
Note 12, p. 59.—The isles shall wait, Jehovah! for thy law.
I have made the dying ejaculations of St. Paul to consist
mostly of portions of his own powerful writings. Nothing more
beautiful or splendid can be found in any compositions—more vivid
with the heart's best emotions and the mind's most lofty conceptions—than
303
who devoted himself to the propagation of that religion he
had once assailed, with an energy and enthusiasm and utter
oblivion of self, which should find more imitators among the curates
of men's souls.
[13]
Note 13, p. 63.—Shalt quaff the massic or the tears of Christ.
The wine of Mount Vesuvius is profanely called Lacrymæ
Christi.
[14]
Note 14, p. 65.—The Mamertine abysses.
Dungeons even more horrible than those of Venitian and
Austrian tyranny, dug immediately beneath the elevated seat of
the Prætor, in the hall of judgment; and so called from the
Roman consul Mamertinus, who planned their construction, and
who should have been, like Phalaris and the inventor of the
guillotine, the first to test the merit of his philanthropic ingenuity.
| The last night of Pompeii | |