University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Catacombs, showing long low-roofed aisles, in different directions, supported by thick pillars of the rough unhewn rock, with rude tombs and heaps of human bones, and the walls in many places lined with human skulls.
Enter Cordenius Maro, speaking to a Christian Father, on whose arm he leans, and followed by Sylvius.
Cor.
One day and two bless'd nights, spent in acquiring
Your heavenly lore, so powerful and sublime.—
Oh! what an alter'd creature they have made me!

Father.
Yes, gentle son, I trust that thou art alter'd.

Cor.
I am, methinks, like one who, with bent back
And downward gaze—if such an one might be—
Hath only known the boundless azure sky
By the strait circle of reflected beauty,
Seen in the watery gleam of some deep pit:
Till on a sudden roused, he stands erect,
And wondering looks aloft and all around
On the bright sunny firmament:—like one
(Granting again that such an one might be)
Who hath but seen the element of fire
On household hearth or woodman's smoky pile,
And looks at once, 'mid 'stounding thunder-peals,
On Jove's magnificence of lightning.—Pardon,
I pray you pardon me! I mean His lightning,
Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehovah.

Father
(smiling).
Be not disturb'd, my son; the lips will utter,
From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects.

Cor.
These blessed hours, which I have pass'd with you,
Have to my intellectual being given
New feelings and expansion, like to that
Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees
The wide developement of nature's amplitude.

Father.
And how was that, my son?

Cor.
I well remember it; even at this moment
Imagination sees it all again.
'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia,
O'er which I led by night my martial cohort,
To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day.
Close round us hung, the vapours of the night
Had form'd a woofy curtain, dim and pale,
Through which the waning moon did faintly mark
Its slender crescent.

Father.
Ay, the waned moon through midnight vapours seen,
Fit emblem is of that retrenching light,
Dubious and dim, which to the earliest patriarchs
Was at the first vouchsafed; a moral guide,
Soon clouded and obscured to their descendants,
Who peopled far and wide, in scatter'd tribes,
The fertile earth.—But this is interruption.
Proceed, my son.

Cor.
Well, on the lofty summit
We halted, and the day's returning light
On this exalted station found us. Then
Our brighten'd curtain, wearing into shreds
And rifted masses, through its opening gave
Glimpse after glimpse of slow revealed beauty,
Which held th' arrested senses magic-bound,
In the intensity of charm'd attention.

Father.
From such an eminence the op'ning mist
Would to the eye reveal most beauteous visions.

Cor.
First, far beneath us, woody peaks appear'd
And knolls with cedars crested; then, beyond,
And lower still, the herdsmen's cluster'd dwellings,
With pasture slopes, and flocks just visible;
Then, further still, soft wavy wastes of forest,
In all the varied tints of sylvan verdure,
Descending to the plain; then, wide and boundless,
The plain itself, with towns and cultured tracts,
And its fair river gleaming in the light,
With all its sweepy windings, seen and lost,
And seen again, till through the pale grey tint
Of distant space, it seem'd a loosen'd cestus
From virgin's tunic blown; and still beyond,
The earth's extended vastness from the sight
Wore like the boundless ocean.
My heart beat rapidly at the fair sight—
This ample earth, man's natural habitation.
But now, when to my mental eye reveal'd,
His moral destiny, so grand and noble,
Lies stretching on even to immensity,
It overwhelms me with a flood of thoughts,
Of happy thoughts.

Father.
Thanks be to God that thou dost feel it so!

Cor.
I am most thankful for the words of power
Which from thy gifted lips and sacred scripture
I have received. What feelings they have raised!
O what a range of thought given to the mind!
And to the soul what loftiness of hope!
That future dreamy state of faint existence
Which poets have described and sages taught,
In which the brave and virtuous pined and droop'd
In useless indolence, changed for a state
Of social love, and joy, and active bliss,—
A state of brotherhood,—a state of virtue,
So grand, so purified;—O it is excellent!
My soul is roused within me at the sound,
Like some poor slave, who from a dungeon issues
To range with free-born men his native land.

Father.
Thou mayst, indeed, my son, redeem'd from thraldom,
Become the high compeer of blessed spirits.

Cor.
The high compeer of such!—These gushing tears,
Nature's mysterious tears, will have their way.

Father.
To give thy heart relief.

Cor.
And yet mysterious. Why do we weep
At contemplation of exalted virtue?
Perhaps in token of the fallen state
In which we are, as thrilling sympathy
Strangely acknowledges some sight and sound,
Connected with a dear and distant home,
Albeit the memory that link hath lost:—
A kind of latent sense of what we were,
Or might have been; a deep mysterious token.

Father.
Perhaps thou'rt right, my son; for e'en the wicked
Will sometimes weep at lofty, generous deeds.
Some broken traces of our noble nature
Were yet preserved; therefore our great Creator
Still loved His work, and thought it worth redemption:
Therefore His generous Son, our blessed Master,
Did, as the elder brother of that race,
Whose form He took, lay down His life to save us,
But I have read thee, from our sacred book,
His gentle words of love.

Cor.
Thou hast! thou hast! they're stirring in my heart:
Each fibre of my body thrills in answer
To the high call.—

Father.
The Spirit of Power, my son, is dealing with thee.

Cor.
(after a pause).
One thing amazes me,— yet it is excellent.

Father.
And what amazes thee? Unbosom freely
What passes in thy mind.

Cor.
That this religion which dilates our thoughts
Of God Supreme to an infinity
Of awful greatness, yet connects us with him,
As children, loved and cherish'd;—
Adoring awe with tenderness united.

Sylvius
(eagerly).
Ay, brave Cordenius, that same thought more moved
My rude unletter'd mind than all the rest.
I struck my hand against my soldier's mail,
And cried, “This faith is worthy of a man!”

Cor.
Our best philosophers have raised their thoughts
To one great universal Lord of all,
Lord even of Jove himself and all the gods;
Yet who durst feel for that high, distant Essence,
A warmer sentiment than deep submission?
But now, adoring love and grateful confidence
Cling to th' infinity of power and goodness,
As the repentant child turns to his sire
With yearning looks, that say, “Am I not thine?”
I am too bold: I should be humbled first
In penitence and sorrow, for the stains
Of many a hateful vice and secret passion.

Father.
Check not the generous tenor of thy thoughts:
O check it not! Love leads to penitence,
And is the noblest, surest path; while fear
Is dark and devious. To thy home return,
And let thy mind well weigh what thou hast heard.
If then thou feel within thee faith assured;
That faith, which may, e'en through devouring flames,
Its passage hold to heaven, baptismal rites
Shall give thee entrance to a purer life,
Receive thee, as thy Saviour's valiant soldier,
For His high warfare arm'd.

Cor.
I am resolved, and feel that in my heart
There lives that faith; baptize me ere we part.

Father.
So be it then. But yet that holy rite
Must be deferr'd; for, lo! our brethren come,
Bearing the ashes of our honour'd saints,
Which must, with hymns of honour, be received.

Enter Christians, seen advancing slowly along one of the aisles, and bearing a large veiled urn, which they set down near the front. They then lift off the veil and range themselves round it, while one sings and the rest join in the chorus at the end of each short verse.
Cor.
(to father).
And ye believe those, who a few hours since
Were clothed in flesh and blood, and here, before us,
Lie thus, e'en to a few dry ashes changed,
Are now exalted spirits, holding life
With blessed powers, and agencies, and all
Who have on earth a virtuous part fulfill'd?
The dear redeem'd of Godlike love, again
To their primeval destiny restored?
It is a generous, powerful, noble faith.

Sylvius.
Did I not tell thee, as we pass'd along,
It well became a Roman and a soldier?

Father.
Nay, worthy Sylvius, somewhat more of meekness
And less of martial ardour were becoming
In those, whose humble Lord stretch'd forth His hand,
His saving hand, to e'en the meanest slave
Who bends beneath an earthly master's rod.
This faith is meet for all of human kind.

Cor.
Forgive him, father: see, he stands reproved;
His heart is meek, though ardent;
It is, indeed, a faith for all mankind.

Father.
We feel it such, my son, press'd as we are;
On every side beset with threatening terrors.
Look on these ghastly walls, these shapeless pillars,
These heaps of human bones,—this court of death;
E'en here, as in a temple, we adore
The Lord of Life, and sing our song of hope,
That death has lost its sting, the grave its triumph.

Cor.
O make me then the partner of your hopes!
[Taking the hand of Sylvius, and then of several other Christians.
Brave men! high destined souls! immortal beings!
The blessed faith and sense of what we are
Comes on my heart, like streams of beamy light
Pour'd from some opening cloud. O to conceive
What lies beyond the dim, dividing veil
Of regions bright, of blest and glorious being!

Father.
Ay, when it is withdrawn, we shall behold
What heart hath ne'er conceived, nor tongue could utter.

Cor.
When but a boy, I've gazed upon the sky,
With all its sparks of light, as a grand cope
For the benighted world. But now my fancy
Will greet each twinkling star, as the bright lamp
Of some fair angel on his guardian watch.
And think ye not, that from their lofty stations
Our future glorious home, our Father's house,
May lie within the vast and boundless ken
Of such seraphic powers?

Father.
Thy fancy soars on wide and buoyant wings;
Speak on, my son, I would not check thy ardour.

Cor.
This solid earth is press'd bencath our feet,
But as a step from which to take our flight;
What boots it then, if rough or smooth it be,
Serving its end?—Come, noble Sylvius!
We've been companions in the broil of battle,
Now be we fellow-soldiers in that warfare
Which best becomes the brave.

Sylvius.
Cordenius Maro, we shall be companions
When this wide earth with all its fields of blood
Where war hath raged, and all its towers of strength
Which have begirded been with iron hosts,
Are shrunk to nothing, and the flaming sun
Is in his course extinguish'd.

Cor.
Come, lead me, father, to the holy fount,
If I in humble penitence may be
From worldly vileness clear'd.

Father.
I gladly will, my son. The Spirit of Grace
Is dealing with thy spirit: be received,
A ransom'd penitent, to the high fellowship
Of all the good and bless'd in earth and heaven! Enter a Convert.

Whence com'st thou, Fearon? Why wast thou prevented
From joining in our last respectful homage
To those, who have so nobly for the truth
Laid down their lives?

Convert.
I have been watching near the grated dungeon
Where Ethocles, the Grecian, is immured.

Father.
Thou sayst not so! A heavier loss than this,
If they have seized on him, the righteous cause
Could not have suffer'd. Art thou sure of it?
We had not heard of his return from Syria.

Convert.
It is too true: he landed ten days since
On the Brundusian coast, and, as he enter'd
The gates of Rome, was seized and dragg'd to prison.

Father.
And we in utter ignorance of this!

Convert.
He travell'd late and unaccompanied,
So this was done at nightfall and conceal'd.
But see his writing given me by a guard,
Who has for pity's sake betray'd his trust:
It is address'd to thee.

[Giving him a paper.
Father
(after reading it).
Alas, alas! it is a brief account
Of his successful labours in the East:
For with his excellent gifts of eloquence,
Learning, and prudence, he has made more converts
Than all our zealous brotherhood beside.
What can we do? He will be sacrificed:
The church in him must bleed, if God so wills.
It is a dreadful blow.

Cor.
(to the convert).
I pray thee, in what prison is he kept?

Convert.
In Sylla's tower, that dwelling of despair.

Cor.
Guarded by Romans?

Convert.
Yes; and strongly guarded.

Cor.
Yet, he shall be released.

Father
(to Cordenius).
Beware, my son, of rash, imprudent zeal:
The truth hath suffer'd much from this; beware:
Risk not thyself: thy life is also precious.

Cor.
My whole of life is precious: but this shred,
This earthly portion of it, what is that,
But as it is employ'd in holy acts?
Am I Christ's soldier at a poorer rate
Than I have served an earthly master? No;
I feel within my glowing breast a power
Which says I am commission'd for this service.
Give me thy blessing—thy baptismal blessing,
And then God's spirit guide me! Serving God,
I will not count the cost but to discharge it.

Father.
His will direct thee then, my gen'rous son!
His blessing be upon thee!—Lead him, Sylvius,
To the blest fount, where from his former sins
He shall by heavenly grace be purified.

[Exeunt.