University of Virginia Library

How beautiful is morning on the hills
Of Asia, stretching far, and faint descried!
While, nearer, all the sunny Sporades,
That break the blue Ægean, shine in light,
On this autumnal dawn!

How musical
The fresh airs, and the ocean's solemn sound
Come to the mountain grot!

Let us go forth,
Said then the unknown and mysterious man.

First on that mossy stone, beneath the arch,
Kneel we, and offer up our orisons
To Him who bade the sun go forth:

O God,
Thou didst create this living world! Thy voice,
When darkness sat upon the lonely deep,
Spoke—Be there light, and there was light! Thy hand
Spread out the heavens, and fashioned from the dust
Man, the high habitant of earth, now fallen,
And to return to dust again: but thanks
Be unto thee, O Christ! who, when the trump
Shall sound, and all this mortal pomp is passed,
Shalt call the dead up, incorruptible!
And glory be to Thee, O Spirit pure!
Who hast infused into our hearts of flesh
The love of God, through faith in Jesus Christ!
Oh! in the hour of death, and in the day
Of judgment, Lord, to us be merciful!

So prayed they, suppliant, when morning shone
Upon the seas; so they together prayed,
Giving God thanks that one more day of light
Was granted to the feeble and the old,
Ere long to rest in peace. Upon their heads,
As slow they rose, a halo seemed to rest,
Touching the forehead of the aged man:
The features of the younger, as he stood,
Were mild, but awful; thoughtful, yet not sad;
Whilst, from the caverned rock, into the sun,
The lonely and the last Apostle came.
As both together stood and gazed a while
Upon the deep blue sea, the younger said:

Listen, old man: I was at Antioch,
When mild Evodias filled St Peter's chair;
And fair that place, as well beseems the spot
Where first the Christian name was heard.

The Vale
Of Tempe, sung through Greece, is not so fair
As that green valley, where Orontes winds,
Beneath the grove of Daphne, to the sea;
Scarce Eden fairer, where the first-formed man
Stood up majestic, in the world's new day.
I heard Evodias, and from youth I loved
To wander 'mid the scenes of old renown,
Hallowed by prophets, and by holy men,
Who long from earth had passed. How beautiful
Upon those hills and mountains were the feet
Of them who brought glad tidings of the light,
Now risen on the darkened world!

I sat
Upon a stone of fallen Jerusalem,
Sat down and wept, when I remembered thee,
O Sion! and thy Temple, and thy sons
Scattered in the wide world—scattered or dead!

Like him, the mighty prophet, who of yore
Watched the dark gathering of the clouds and rain,
I stood upon Mount Carmel, and beheld
The great sea westward. Hark! Euroclydon
Is up; the tempest rushes from the east;
Fire and the whirlwind follow; but, O God!
Thou art not in the whirlwind nor the fire.
And, after, came a still small voice, which said,
Go, visit John, sad and in solitude.
We sailed from Joppa, in a Tyrian ship,
To Rhodes: a skiff was waiting near the shore,
On which the shadowy moonlight seemed to rest;
Then a pale mariner, who never spoke,
Conveyed me hither, swift as silently—
Swift, though the passing keel no murmur made,
As the dim sail no shadow cast. I looked,
When I had reached the shore, and it was gone!

I saw thy mountain-cave: I stood and gazed
A while on thy gray hairs as thou didst sleep,
And the same voice which came, after the wind,
Said audibly, Reveal to him the things
That shall hereafter be, as I unfold.

I watched when the great vision came to thee,
Hearing the voice and answer: it was sent
To animate thy hope! Art thou refreshed,
As now these airs of morn blow soothingly,
And breathe a sad repose? John placed his hand,
Pale and emaciate, on his breast, and said:
Thy words might raise from earth the heaviest heart.
Then both in silence gazed on the blue sea,
And heard it murmuring. John his full look
Towards his face who spoke now turned intent,
To mark his features. Dignity serene
Was on that face; and as the freshening airs
Stirred the dark locks that clustered round his brow,
A faint rose mantled on his cheek; his cloak,
Gathered upon his breast, descending touched
His sandals; whilst, with more majestic mien,
Pointing to Asia's hills, he spoke again:

Old man, lift up thine eyes—turn to the east:
How fair, with tower and turret, by the stream
Of clear Cayister, shines that Ephesus,
The “angel” of whose “golden candlestick”
Here droops in banishment!

Hail, Smyrna, hail!
Beneath thy towers, and piers, and bastions,
Far-seen through intermingled cypresses,
Ships from all nations, with their ensigns, float
Silent; but, lo! a purer light from heaven
Is on thy walls, while from the citadel
Streams the triumphant banner of the Cross.
And beautiful thy sisters of the faith,
First, in the east, when the wide world was dark,
Laodicea, Philadelphia,
And Pergamos, and Thyatira, shine,
While Sardis, at the foot of Tmolus high,
Seems from the wildering plains below, to gleam
Like a still star that guides the sailor's way
O'er Adria! But, alas! here Antichrist
Shall rise with power, permitted from on high!
Mourn, Ephesus, thy glory and thy light
Extinguished! Sardis, Thyatira, mourn:
Yet the blessed kingdom of the Lamb again
Shall be restored, and all the earth bow down
To the “unarmed Conqueror of the world.”
Turn to the south, there are the pines of Crete,
And, hark! the frantic Coribantes shout
To Cybele, the mother of the gods,
Drawn, by gaunt lions, in her car: they move
In stern subjection, and with foot-fall slow,
And shaggy necks hung down, though their red eyes
Flash fire beneath; silent and slow they pace.
'Mid cymbals, shouts, and songs, and clashing swords,
Pipes, and the dissonance of brazen drums,
She bears aloft her calm brow, turreted.

Oh, pomp of proud and dire idolatry!
Crete, other sounds thy sister-island heard,
Far other sounds, when, on his seat of power,
Amid the altars of the Queen of Love,
The Christian faith there touched a heathen's heart.

Paul was in Cyprus: the Proconsul prayed
To hear of faith from the Apostle's lips,
But Elymas withstood him, Elymas
The sorcerer. He beckoned up his legions dire
Of fierce and frowning shadows. Paul, unmoved,
Smote him, amid his gaunt and grisly troop,—
Smote him with instant blindness, and he stood
Dark in the midday sun.

Yea! and the Cross shall further yet be borne,
To realms of pagan darkness and deep night!
The cymbals to the gods of fire and blood
Shall clash no more; the idol-shapes are fled;
Grim Moloch's furnace sinks in smoke, to sounds
Strange and unutterable; but that shriek!
It came from Tauris, from the altars red
Of Scythian Diana terrible!
She, too, has left that altar and its blood,
As when her image young Orestes bore
(So fable masters of the pagan harp)—
Bore in his ship o'er the black waves to Greece.

Greece! who can think of thee, thou land of song,
Of science, and of glory, and not feel
How in this world illustrious thou hast been,
If triumphs such as thine may be pronounced
Illustrious, worthy thine own Plato's fame!
Here the proud Stoic spoke of constancy,
Of magnanimity, which raised the soul
Above all mortal change; of Jove's high will;
Of fate;—and here the master, from the schools
Of human wisdom, to his votaries,
Spoke of the life of man but as the flower
Blooming to fade and die; alas! to die,
And never bloom again! Vain argument!

'Twas on that hill, named of the fabled lord
Of battle and of blood, amid the shrines
And altars of the Grecian deities,
Before the temple of the Parthenon,
That shone, on this illustrious hill, aloft,
And as supreme o'er all the lesser fanes,
Fronting the proud proficients in the code
Of such vain wisdom, vain philosophy,
Fearless amid this scene of earthly pomp,
Eloquent, ardent, and inspired by Heaven,
The loved Apostle stood. With look upraised,
And hands uplifted, he spoke fervently;
Spoke of that God, whose altar he had marked,
“The unknown God,” who dwelleth not on earth,
In temples made with hands, but in the heavens,
'Mid inaccessible and glorious light.
In Him we live and move; He giveth life,
And breath, and all things. Him alone behoves
To worship and adore with prayer and praise.

That God is now revealed, who, by his Son,
Shall judge the world in righteousness, when earth
And heaven shall pass away; when the last trump
Shall sound above the graves of all who sleep;
When all who sleep, and all who are alive,
Shall be caught up together in the clouds,
To stand before the judgment-seat of Him
Whom God appointed Judge; who shall descend
From heaven, with a shout, and with the voice
Of the Archangel, and the trump of God,
While sun, and moon, and stars, are blotted out,
And perish as a scroll!

As Paul thus spoke—
Spoke of the resurrection of the dead—
'Mid the proud fanes of pagan deities,
At Athens, the stern Stoic mocked; the flowers
Seemed withering on the brow of that fair youth,
Whom Epicurus taught that life was brief,
Brief as those flowers which in the garden bloom
Of that philosopher of earthly bliss.
And what the moral? Let us eat and drink,
For we to-morrow die. Oh! heartless creed!

Far other lessons Christ's Apostle taught,
Of faith, of hope, of judgment, in a world
To come, of light and life beyond the grave.
So Athens, Corinth, Macedonia, heard
The tidings of salvation. Hark! the sound
Is gone forth to all lands: the glorious light
Extends—the light of faith, and hope, and joy—
The light from Heaven; whilst he, so falsely called
The God of Day, shorn of his golden hair,
And rays of morn, shall leave his Delphian shrine,
Discomfited, and hide his head in night.

The dayspring of Heaven's purer light hath reached
Imperial Rome: the tyrant on his throne
Starts; at his voice the famished lion springs
And crashes the pale martyr at his feet;
While the vast amphitheatre is hushed,
And not a sound heard through the multitude,
But that dire crash, and the breath inly drawn,
The moment it is heard, from the still throng
Shuddering; the blood streams from the lion's beard,
Whilst that vast, breathless amphitheatre
Bursts into instant thunders to the skies.
But not the lion, with blood-matted mane,
Nor the fierce fires about the martyr's stake,
With rolling smoke, that the winds warp away
In surges, when the miserable man
Blackened and half-consumed appears; not these,
Nor famine, nor the sword, nor death, nor hell,
Shall move the Christian's heart or hope, or fray
Him, steadfast and victorious, though he die.

Farther and farther yet the light is spread
And thou hast lived to see this gospel-dawn
Kindling from Asia, like a beacon-flame
Through darkness—oh! more cheering than the morn,
With all its lovely hues, on sea or shore,
As now it shines around us!

John replied:
Teacher of wisdom, or from heaven or earth,
We know that Paul, our brother in the faith,
Proclaimed the tidings of “Him crucified”
From Rome to Spain; but Paul is in his grave:
Soon must I follow him, and be at rest:
Who then shall bear these tiding of great joy,
To all the people of all lands?

So these two held communion on the shore
Of melancholy Patmos, when a sound
As of a griding chain was heard, and, lo!
A criminal is kneeling at the feet
Of the old man: God has been kind to me,
He cried, and hid his forehead with his hands.
Oh! listen to my tale, and pray for me.
'Twas when the Roman sentinel, who paced
The platform of the dungeon where we slept,
Had called the midnight watch, and overhead
Bright Aldebaran held his course in heaven,
Westering o'er yonder Cape, I waked, and mused
On my eventful life.

Then to my heart
Came words which I had heard from thee: I wept
Even as an infant, and I smote my breast.
The brave companion of my fortunes died—
Died yesterday, stern and impenitent
As he lived, pitiless; and, left alone,
I cried for mercy, mercy of that God
Whom thou didst call thy Father; and I prayed
To Christ, and cried, Me—me—oh! pardon me!
I dare not lift my eyes. Thou, father, hear.
I am a free-born citizen of Rome,
My name, Pedanius, the Decurion.
When Titus led his legions to the East,
Against the city of Jerusalem,
To raze it from the earth; at the last day,
When the third wall shook to the battering-rams,
Amid the shrieks of horror and despair,
Flung from the tottering battlements, a babe
Fell at my horse's feet. Famished and black,
With livid lips and ghastly, on the ground
It lay; when, frantic from the crowd within,
A wretched and bereaved woman rushed,
And held my bridle, fearless of the swords
That flashed above her head. I heard her cries—
Protect me!—he is dead!—my child, my child!
Brave soldier, for the love of God! I looked
A moment, there was famine in her face,
Wasted, yet beautiful. Pitying, I spoke:
Follow; and through the clouds of smoke we passed
To the green olive trees, and then she sank
Upon the ground, and, pale and still as death,
Lay long—the winds just stirring her dark hair:
I brought her water from the spring that wells,
Soft murmuring, from the brook of Siloa:
She drank, and feebly opened her dark eyes,
Which seemed more large, for all her flesh was shrunk;
Then she looked up, and faintly spoke again;
My mother—and my husband—and my child—
Are—and she sobbed aloud. By Him, I cried,
Who rules among the gods, I will protect
Thy life with mine! Her tears fell fast and warm
Upon the bloody hand which held the sword;
The other checked my fierce and foaming horse.
Hark! hark! a turret falls! Hark! hark! again—
They shout, ten thousand voices rend the skies,
The Temple, the proud Temple to the ground!
The Temple, the proud temple to the dust!
Her infant she had taken from the ground,
To lay it in her bosom, while the tears
Fell on its folded hands; but when she saw
Still its wan livid lips, and the same glare
Of its dead eyes, she turned away her face,
Half looking down, half raised to heaven, and shed
Her tears no more: one hand as thus she sat,
With fingers spread, held fast her infant's arm,
O'er its right shoulder, while its arid lips
She drew, in vain, towards her open breast,
Still fearing to look down: her other hand,
Instinctively, she laid on its cold feet,
As if to cherish them: the gouts of blood
Fell heavy from its matted hair, and stained
Her bosom; but she had composed its hands,
Which now, though cold and dead, each other clasped,
Beneath her neck, as living. So she sat,
Nor sighed, nor moved her face, nor shed a tear.
I gently took the infant from her arms,
And buried it beside the sacred brook,
And then, with muttered prayer, she turned and wept—
Wept, as bereaved of all she loved on earth!
Fly! and I placed her on the horse with me—
Leaving behind the sounds and sights of death—
The shrieks of massacre, the crash of towers
Falling, the heavy sound of battering-rams:
We passed the victims, blackening in the sun,
And some, yet breathing, on the crucifix.
On, through the valley of Jehoshaphat,
I spurred my horse; we passed the sepulchre
Of Lazarus, restored from the dark grave,
So those who own the faith of Christ affirm,
With eye-balls ghastly glaring in the light,
At the loud voice of Him who cried, Come forth!
We held our eastern way from Bethany,
Till now we reached the “Plain of Blood.” I paused
A moment, ere we entered that sad plain.
Ah! there are tents upon the southern edge
Of the horizon! Fly! it is the camp
Of Arabs: see! with long and couched spears,
A troop is flying o'er the sands! We hear
Their cries—this way they rush—this way—
Fly! fly! and instant, as an arrow speeds,
(My pale companion breathless, and scarce held)
We bounded o'er the desert, till the track
Was lost. The voices died away: she sank
Faint in my arms, and with her head declined
Upon my breastplate. We will rest a while;
For she was now so feeble, it behoved
Thus oft to rest, if haply she might feel
Some cool reviving airs breathe on her face,
Gently; a few dry dates were all our food.
We gazed in silence on the sun, that, red,
Was sinking now beyond the lonely sands,
And hurriedly again renewed our flight.
The track is lost! Fear not—those are the bones,
Not of a murdered traveller. Look out!
Is that a cloud? or seest thou not the smoke
Of some lone cottage on the hills? List! list!
Is it the tinkle of some rivulet,
Wandering in solitude? On, on, my steed!
We reached the hills, and, looking back, beheld
The western cope of heaven, as night came down,
All fiery red. It was the light, far off,
Of the proud Temple flaming! Through the night
We held our toiling way, when, at gray dawn,
We saw, beneath us, palms, and city walls,
And Jordan, slowly flowing to the south.
Yes! these are palms and walls of Jericho;
But all was silent and forsaken. War
Had blown his trump; and Pity, at the blast,
Had knelt in tears, and hid her face to hear
That deep, dire groan; but it is heard no more,
For Silence, Solitude, and Ruin sit,
Mocking each other, at the city gates.
Here were no murmurs of tumultuous life.
We joined a mourning train, that held their way,
Women, and children, and white-headed men,
Forlorn, by Jordan's banks, to Galilee,
Seeking the city of Tiberias.
With many tears, my poor companion told
Her tale: a daughter of Jerusalem
Implored their pity; and the daggers, raised
To pierce a Roman soldier to the heart,
Were in the act arrested, for her sake—
Trifosa, of the tribe of Benjamin,
Who owed her life and safety to his sword.
We reached the city: here she had a friend,
Widowed like her, who wept to hear her tale.
Here, wedded, and by Israel's laws made one,
I lived—a fisher toiling with his net
To gain our daily bread; but soon my heart
Beat for a wider scene—for enterprise,
The soul of a young soldier; and with thoughts
Stirring and restless, after twelve long months,
We came, by Tabor, to the western sea.
I had a robber's cavern at the foot
Of Carmel, and oft skirred the neighbouring plains
On my fleet battle-horse, with spurs of blood.
Here I was joined by soldiers, desperate
And outcast as myself; we were a band
Of secret and of fearful brotherhood
That tenanted these caverns. But my wife,
When we were absent, and the cave was still,
Wept, for the love of those who were no more;
Trembled, and wept for me. When I returned,
Weary, at night, she sat and sang to me;
And sometimes, when she was alone whole days,
She wandered o'er the mountains, gathering flowers,
Hyacinths, lilies, and anemones;
And when my hands were bloody, gave me them,
With trembling hand, and sadness in her look.
Why should I think, or sigh, or feel remorse!
Was I not leader of the bravest band
That ever shook their flashing scymitars
Against the morning sun! But, oh! that look!
How has it thrilled, even to my inmost heart:
One child, the pledge of warm affection, died,
And now she roved in morning dew no more;
And oft, when I returned with gore-stained brow,
I saw a strange, sad wandering in her eyes.
Alas! her gentle mind was gone! She sang—
She gazed upon my face—she smiled—she died—
And her last words were, O Jerusalem,
Jerusalem! I buried her in peace,
Without a name, among the mountain flowers.
And now my heart was hardened as a rock
Against the world. I heard no soothing voice;
I never looked upon a human face
With tenderness again; a darker shade
Of passions gathered on my lonely heart,
Till love, and charity, and pity died.
I may not say what I have seen and done:
Here I have lived a fettered slave seven years;
Here thy mild voice has called back to my heart
Sad recollections. Father,—and he knelt
And kissed his withered hand, and cried again,
Oh! father, pray for me!

The stranger stood
Unmoved, but tears were on the old man's cheek,