 | The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell |  |
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IN THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
THE CENTURION
A dark cell of the Circus Maximus. The Centurion and his child.
“Father! father; hold me closer. Are they lions that I hear?
Once beside the Syrian desert where we camped I heard them near
While our servants made us music; and there 's music now. 'T was night,
And 't is very dark here, father. There we had the stars for light.
Father, father! that was laughter, and the noise of many hands.
Why is it they make so merry? Shall we laugh soon? On the sands
How you smiled to see my terror! ‘What,’ you said, ‘A Roman maid
Tremble in the Legion's camp! A Roman maiden and afraid!’
Once beside the Syrian desert where we camped I heard them near
While our servants made us music; and there 's music now. 'T was night,
And 't is very dark here, father. There we had the stars for light.
Father, father! that was laughter, and the noise of many hands.
Why is it they make so merry? Shall we laugh soon? On the sands
How you smiled to see my terror! ‘What,’ you said, ‘A Roman maid
Tremble in the Legion's camp! A Roman maiden and afraid!’
“Hush! Who called? Who called me? Mother! Surely that was mother's voice.”
But the gray centurion, trembling, murmured, “Little one, rejoice!”
Yet a single moan of sorrow broke the guard his manhood set,
While the sweetness of her forehead with a storm of tears was wet.
And he answered, as she questioned, “That was but the rain God sends
To the flowers he loves,”—then lower,—“Death and I are friends.”
But the gray centurion, trembling, murmured, “Little one, rejoice!”
Yet a single moan of sorrow broke the guard his manhood set,
While the sweetness of her forehead with a storm of tears was wet.
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To the flowers he loves,”—then lower,—“Death and I are friends.”
“Father, father, now 't is quiet. Was it mother? I am cold.
Who, I wonder, feeds my carp? who, I wonder, at the fold
Combs my lambs? who prunes my roses? Think you they will keep us long
From the sunshine? Hark, the lions! Ah! they must be fierce and strong!”
Who, I wonder, feeds my carp? who, I wonder, at the fold
Combs my lambs? who prunes my roses? Think you they will keep us long
From the sunshine? Hark, the lions! Ah! they must be fierce and strong!”
“Peace, my daughter. Soon together we shall walk through gardens fair,
Where the lilies psalms are singing, and the roses whisper prayer.”
“Who will bring us to the garden?” “Christ! Thou wilt not hear him call;
Suddenly wide doors shall open; on thy eyes the sun shall fall;
Thou shalt see God's lions, waiting, and, above, a living wall.
Yea, ten thousand faces waiting, come to help our holiday,
Music, flowers, and the Cæsar.—Rest upon my shoulder, lay
One small hand in mine,—and peace. A moment I would think and pray.
Where the lilies psalms are singing, and the roses whisper prayer.”
“Who will bring us to the garden?” “Christ! Thou wilt not hear him call;
Suddenly wide doors shall open; on thy eyes the sun shall fall;
Thou shalt see God's lions, waiting, and, above, a living wall.
Yea, ten thousand faces waiting, come to help our holiday,
Music, flowers, and the Cæsar.—Rest upon my shoulder, lay
One small hand in mine,—and peace. A moment I would think and pray.
“I am sore with shame and scourging, I, a Roman! I, a knight!
Yea, if nobly born, the nobler for the birth of higher light.
Was it pain, and was it shame? The lictor's rods fell on a man;
On the God-man fell those scourges, and the bitter drops that ran
Flowed from eyes that wept for millions, came of pain none else can know,
An eternity of anguish, counted as the blood drops flow.
Mine is but an atom's torment; mine shall bring eternal gain;
His, the murder pangs of ages, paid with usury of pain.
Yea, if nobly born, the nobler for the birth of higher light.
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On the God-man fell those scourges, and the bitter drops that ran
Flowed from eyes that wept for millions, came of pain none else can know,
An eternity of anguish, counted as the blood drops flow.
Mine is but an atom's torment; mine shall bring eternal gain;
His, the murder pangs of ages, paid with usury of pain.
“Art thou weary of the darkness? Art thou cold, my little maid?
Hast thou sorrow of my sorrow? Kiss my cheek. Be not dismayed.
Lo, the nearness of one moment setteth age to lonely thought,
Would his will but make us one ere yet his perfect will be wrought.
That may not be. Once, once only Love must drop the hand of love.”
“Father, father! Hark, the lions!” “Peace, my little one, my dove;
Soon thy darkened cage will open, soon the voice of Christ will say,
‘Come and be among my lilies, where the golden fountains play,
And an angel legion watches, and forever it is day.’
So, my hand upon thy shoulder. Thou, so little! I, so tall!
Now, one kiss—earth's last! My darling.”—Back the iron gate-bolts fall.
Lo, the gray arena 's quiet, and the faces waiting all,
Waiting, and the lions waiting, while the gray centurion smiled,
As, beneath the white velarium, fell God's sunlight on the child:
For a gentle voice above them murmured, “Forth, and have no fear,”
And the little maiden answered, “Lo, Christ Jesu, I am here!”
Hast thou sorrow of my sorrow? Kiss my cheek. Be not dismayed.
Lo, the nearness of one moment setteth age to lonely thought,
Would his will but make us one ere yet his perfect will be wrought.
That may not be. Once, once only Love must drop the hand of love.”
“Father, father! Hark, the lions!” “Peace, my little one, my dove;
Soon thy darkened cage will open, soon the voice of Christ will say,
‘Come and be among my lilies, where the golden fountains play,
And an angel legion watches, and forever it is day.’
So, my hand upon thy shoulder. Thou, so little! I, so tall!
Now, one kiss—earth's last! My darling.”—Back the iron gate-bolts fall.
Lo, the gray arena 's quiet, and the faces waiting all,
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As, beneath the white velarium, fell God's sunlight on the child:
For a gentle voice above them murmured, “Forth, and have no fear,”
And the little maiden answered, “Lo, Christ Jesu, I am here!”
1890.
| The complete poems of S. Weir Mitchell | |