The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Saint Dorothea on the death of her parents is reared a Christian by her nurse, near Cæsarea. Fabricius, its Præfect, desires to marry her; but she has vowed to belong wholly to Christ. The Præfect throws her into prison as a despiser of the Gods. He sends to her two sisters, beautiful but of evil life, who in their youth had abandoned the Faith, and promises them much gold if they can induce her to apostatize. They are themselves won back by Dorothea, and die martyrs. She is then sentenced to death. On her way to the place of execution, a certain youth derides her, promising to become a Christian if on entering heaven she sends him flowers and fruits, the ground being then covered with snow. She sends them. The youth keeps his word, and dies for Christ.

In Cappadocia, close to Cæsarea
A babe was born beneath a star benign,
A star whose light was laughter, Dorothea,
The last, best offspring of an ancient line:
That name her parents gave her, for they said,
‘She is God's gift: God's pathways she shall tread.’

As spreads some water-lily on a river,
Whitening the dark wave in some shady nook,
So grew that babe in beauty, winning ever
A grace more winsome and more beaming look:
The Pagans as they passed her stood and gazed:
The Christians blessed her and her Maker praised.

At three years old a spirit of peace and gladness
She moved: whoever passed her all that day
Forgat all fretful spleen or wayward sadness:
Shy creatures shunned not her: the birds, men say,
Would perch, as in green woods she took her stand,
One on her shoulder, one upon her hand.

Her parents gloried in her more and more:
Prosperous for years, their cup was brimmed at last—
Frail lot of man! A sudden storm of war
Broke on the land. Domestic traitors massed
With alien hordes to ruin changed that wrong:
Dire was the conflict; but it dured not long.

Brave hearts and true! While hope remained they fought;
When treason triumphed they nor wept nor sighed:
They said, ‘The worst is come; and worst is nought:’—
They faced the desert: fever-struck they died:
Where Plantains shadow Melas' watery bed
Her nurse concealed their orphan's shining head.

That nurse had saved a casket jewel-laden:
It kept the twain from hunger. Day by day
She bound with pearls the dark hair of the maiden,
Then bade her join that region's babes at play.
Ere long the pearls were sold: all debts were paid:
That old nurse treasured still the crimson braid.

She told her nursling of her parents' greatness
Mindful that childhood's memories soon depart;

Their strength, their state, in danger their sedateness,
In peace their help to all and generous heart:
‘Be sure that thousands weep, this day, their fall!
The knaves who wrought it, doubtless most of all.’

She told her of their palace in the mountains,
Their stag-hunts, and their bugles on the wind,
Their gardens flushed with flowers and dinned with fountains,
Their galleries long with page and menial lined:
Pages and menials to the girl were nought;
Each name of garden flower, and fruit she sought.

But other themes, and loftier far than these,
That nurse discoursed on. ‘Kneel, my child, and pray!
What music, think'st thou, were those lullabies
Thy mother sang above thy cot? Each day
While sinks the sun the self-same songs are sung
In yon low church those Plantains old among.’

Thenceforth to that low church in woodlands hidden
The child went oft through skirting willows grey
On Melas' bank. Fearless, though guest unbidden,
She knelt; prayed well, though taught by none to pray:
The prayer came to her as to birds their song:
Soon learned she more from Nuns who dwelt those trees among.

Things wondrous most to Dorothea seemed
Easiest of Faith. That God should be All-Wise,
All-Good, All-Great, such Truth upon her beamed
With rapture always; never with surprise;

The pettiness of life, man's hate, his pride—
These things surprised her: noting these she sighed.

Whate'er held in it nought of fair and true
Like wind passed by her. Lovely things and fair
Once noted never bade the girl adieu;
Far down into her heart they made repair,
And there, awaiting wings, in trance of bliss
Kept sleeping watch like silk-sheathed chrysalis.

At times some act in woodland beast or bird
Thus sealed within her bosom, sudden waking,
Would flash a gleam upon the Preacher's word
As when the dawn through cleft of cloud-land breaking
Illumes a distant stream. Half thought, half sense,
Some new Truth then fired her intelligence.

Shapes outward thus to heavenly meanings mated,
The world became to her, now maiden grown,
A world transformed, and transubstantiated:
A Mountain of Transfiguration shone
Around her, wide as earth; and far and near
Still heard she, ‘It is good to tarry here.’

None knew how wise she was; for still with her
Each Truth, when mastered, changed from Thought to Love
By alchemy divine. An atmosphere
Of loving Faith thus wrapped her from above:
All helpful tasks her hands enjoyed as much
As though a lute responded to their touch.

Those holy Nuns in their Scriptorium small
Treasured some sacred scrolls: of these was one

Most prized, most honoured, most beloved of all,
The Tidings Good and Letters of Saint John:
Upon that scroll by day the maiden fed:
And when the moonbeams lit her pallet bed.

Trial came soon. Within the neighbouring city
Fabricius dwelt, its Præfect. Impious love
He felt for her; a love that knew not pity:
His vows she deemed but jest: later he strove
To win her for his wife, yet strove in vain:
One time she answered—'twas not in disdain—

‘I am a Prince's Bride. In heaven—unseen—
He dwells: I join Him but through gates of death:
Yet happier am I than earth's proudest queen,
Since exiles too may serve that Prince, each breath
Each thought, each act of spirit, or heart, or hand
Be bride's obedience to her Lord's command.’

Frowning the Præfect spoke: ‘A dreamer! fie!
A Nympholept subdued by magic spell!
That Bridegroom-Prince you boast beyond the sky
Exists not: there our great Olympians dwell.’
She smiled: ‘Each morning from His gardens He
Three apples sends to me, and roses three.’

Some say she spake as children speak who glory
To toss in sunshine words but used in jest:
Some say she taught mysteries in allegory,
Banquets of Souls and triumphs of the Blest:
Some think she told a simple truth, nor knew
'Twas wondrous more than that blue heavens are blue.

Not far, as gaily thus that bright one spake,
There stood a youth, Theophilus by name,
Who lived but tales to tell and jests to make:
Some swore he earned his dinner by the same:
Yet others thought him sad, and that he went
To feast to drown dark thoughts in merriment.

‘Lady,’ he said, ‘I grant that flower and fruit
Beseem such beauty: yet, if guess were mine,
I deem that, sweetened more by lyre or lute
Such gifts are likelier laid upon such shrine
By some pale youth that haunts yon Plantain grove
Than winged from heaven by cloud-compelling Jove.’

The smile had vanished from her young, fair face:
There reigned, instead, great sadness—nought beside—
No touch of anger. Mute she stood a space;
Then, looking at him sweetly, thus replied;
‘You scoff: when died your mother long ago
You wept: more noble are you than you know.’

That year the Decian Persecution raged
Against God's Church. To attest at Rome his zeal
Fiercelier than all beside Fabricius waged
That war: ere long, wounded self-love to heal,
He sent, in vengeance for rejected vows,
To dungeon vaults whom late he sought for spouse.

Next day two sisters, beauteous but ill-famed,
Who, years before, had left the Christian fold,
Christea and Calista they were named,
He sped to her. ‘Rich jewels and much gold
Shall be your meed; but first yon proud one draw
To serve our Gods, and spurn her Christian Law.’

They went: she welcomed them: with speeches fair
They praised the vanities of earthly life,
Its pleasures and its pomps; and bade her spare
Her youth, unfit to meet the ensanguined knife,
The rack, the flame. She sat in silence long;
Then rose like one inspired advanced and flung

Round them her arms. At last with many a tear
Showering the chaplets on each festive head
She spake: ‘Ah me, sisters unknown, yet dear!
Are ye not orphans? Are your parents dead?
Remains no friend to help you? None to say,
“Repent the past! Rejoice some future day!”

‘O by the memory of your spotless youth,
You said 'twas Christian; by those happy years
When strong ye walked in simpleness and truth
Perhaps the wonder of your gamesome peers,
By all the tears shed o'er some first, small sin—
'Tis not too late—your better life begin!

‘Perhaps they brought you up in ways too soft
And, sorely tried, you feared for Christ to die:
And yet for you He died! He lives! Full oft,
Chiefly in saddest hours, He standeth nigh:
He woos you to that peace whereof bereft
Ye pine. Ye left Him: you He never left.’

Heart-pierced those sinners stood in mute amaze,
For they heart-sore full many a wasted year
Had walked in flattered sin's forlornest ways
Yet never loving voice had reached their ear:
A love from interest free, unsmirched by sense,
Was strange. They knew not what it was nor whence.

Again she spake: remembrance of a time
In which the spirit watched, the body slept,
Came back to them; when, tender yet sublime
A breeze from heaven through all their being swept:
Again it blew, for Love that conquers death
Had wakened Hope. By both awakened, Faith

New-born from dark emerged like sun from ocean
In climes where Day treads close on skirts of Night:
Torn was each heart with wildly mixed emotion:
That sun was red and threatening, yet 'twas bright:
The Saint a cross drew slowly from her breast:
They kissed it; with her wept; and were at rest.

In two weeks more misgiving had departed:
Old truths, now learned anew, they learned to feel:
Then came what comes alone to those deep-hearted,
That high and glad ‘revenge’ of loving zeal:
They sought their judge: that Faith by them denied
In girlhood they confessed, and martyrs died.

Next day the Præfect sentenced to the sword
That maid who to their royal Shepherd, Christ,
Those wanderers from His sheepfold had restored;
What Christians name ‘restored’ he named ‘enticed.’
Silent she heard: serene to death she passed:
Throngs girt her round, some weeping, all aghast.

Then many a time neighbour to neighbour spake,
‘Is not this maid the same whom, two weeks since,
Our Præfect bound with chains her will to break
And wrest her, recreant, from her heavenly Prince?

I stood close by when thus Fabricius said,
“A cell the darkest; and your blackest bread.”

‘Yet not like face of faster is her face,
But like some bride radiant with gladsome life;
And o'er the ways snow-cumbered she doth pace
Like youths to fields of honourable strife
Where victory waits their country! Mark that eye!
What sees it regioned in yon cheerless sky?’

Half-way between the prison and place of doom
The Præfect's palace frowned. Beside its door
Theophilus stood. No touch of pity or gloom
That rueful day his mobile countenance bore.
‘Lady, 'twas June when last we met—Remember!
'Tis now your frosty feast in late December.

‘That June I said your flowers and fruits were sent
Not by a heavenly but a human lover,
Not one that thunders in the firmament
But one who pipes in yonder Plantain cover:
He'll send you none this day: for leagues the snow
Cumbers the earth: for months no bud will blow.

‘Doubtless a God even now from heaven might send them:
If sent, those amorous trophies speed to me!
What Christians call good fortune will attend them:
Thenceforth your Master's follower I will be!’
She passed; looked back; stood mute; then smiling still
That smile he knew, nodded, and said, ‘I will.’

She reached the spot. Lo, where in snowy vest
Stands the pure victim, modest, shy, yet still,

While two old crones from throat to vestal breast
Draw its warm fold that so with practised skill
The headsman grey, though failing now in sight,
May note his mark and plant his stroke aright.

Then came, the Legend saith, from heaven a Sign:
For, while the raised sword flashed before her eyes,
O'er her an Angel hung, a Child divine
On purple wings starred like the midnight skies—
‘From Him thou lovest, these.’ She answered thus;
‘Not mine! I sought them for Theophilus.’

That moment at the Præfect's festal board
That mocker sat, and in his airiest mood,
When lo, between him and the banquet's lord
A beauteous Child lifting a casket stood.
Sweet-voiced he spake—yet they that heard him feared—
‘From Dorothea these,’ and disappeared.

Theophilus clasped that casket, ill at ease
The Præfect oped it. Lo, three apples golden
That waxed in radiance till by slow degrees
The unnumbered torches round the board highholden
Were lost therein. That great hall shone more bright
Than heaven when August's sun has scaled its height.

Next from that casket forth he drew three roses:
The scent thereof that palace filled as when
The dawn-mist raised, some blossoming vale discloses
A world of flowers; and all the wind-swept glen
Grows satiate with the sweets that o'er it stream
Seaward, dissolving in the matin beam.

Long time that night through alley, court, and street
The Præfect's guard that Child all-beauteous sought
Despite the wildering snow and wounding sleet;
Sought him to slay him: when they found him not,
The courtiers swore that marvel was but fancy;
The priests, imposture mixed with necromancy.

Again the revellers revelled; all save one,
The last in whom till then or friend or foe
Had looked for serious thought or deed well done:
Propping on steadfast hand a head bent low
Theophilus mused. Still in his heart he said,
‘How knew she that I loved my mother dead?

‘I hid my grief.’ At dawn o'er snow-plains frore
He saw that Plantain grove and narrow field,
And slowly t'ward them moved, like one in war
Wounded nigh death and yet not wholly healed,
And found, half hid in trees, a chapel low:
Its altar-lights gold-barred the frozen snow.

Its door stood open:—lo! a choir of Nuns,
'Twas Christmas morn, around a cradle kneeling
Wherein an imaged Infant lay, at once
To woman-instinct and to Faith appealing,
The Bethlehem Babe. Low-voiced they sang a hymn;
Then sought their convent nigh through vapours dim.

The young man followed—questions many made
Of her by them so loved; so lately dead:
They wept; they smiled; that slender crimson braid
Kept by her nurse, which wound the young child's head,
They showed; and showed on Melas' bank that stone
Whereon each morn the maid had knelt alone.

Somewhat they told him of her later days;
But early and late were now alike gone by,
And dear things kenned through memory's farthest haze
To them seemed dearer yet than dear things nigh:
‘All she became she was,’ they said, ‘even then,
A Saint to Angels whilst a child to men.

‘O what a charity was hers! All night
Last June for one a moment seen she prayed
On yonder stone! She said, “his words were light;
Yet sinners worse have oft, with God to aid,
Made happy deaths.” Farewell, sir, we must go:’
He sought that stone: no more his steps were slow.

There as he mused, drew near an aged Sire
Who served that chapel from his cell hard by
With peril to his life and not for hire:
He to that questioning youth made kind reply,
And showed him what that is in Christian faith
Which, sweetening life, more deeply sweetens death.

Feeble that old man looked; depressed his head
Save when he spake: then tall he grew once more;
It seemed as though his body long since dead
Lived through his spirit's life, like those of yore,
Salem's old Saints who, when the Saviour died,
From graves close-sealed arose and prophesied.

When stared that youth as one who stares through mist,
Seeking lost paths, he added; ‘Love can see:
'Tis wondrous less the All-Wondrous should exist
Than that, without Him, man should live, or tree.

If God be Love, that God for man should bleed
Is natural as that flowers should come of seed.

‘Live thou no more in thraldom! Rome was great:
Her Virtue made her great: Greatness can die:
Virtue's reward brings Pride; and Pride brings Fate:
A maniac that declines to idiotcy
Is Rome this day. Her blessing spurn: her ban!
To be a Christian learn to be a man!’

Faith came at last. That mocker long abused
By tricksome follies cast that bond aside:
The better genius in his spirit was loosed:
He kept his pledge: martyr for Christ he died:
And still when Dorothea's Feast its grace
Bestows, Theophilus with her hath place.

University of Virginia Library

THE LEGEND OF SAINT DOROTHEA.

(DIED A.D. 287.)

ARGUMENT.