University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A vaulted quadrangle within the prison. A table spread.
Saturus, Saturninus, Vivia Perpetua, Felicitas, Revocatus, and other Christians, seated; Tertius and Pomponius ministering. Attilius and CÆci- lius standing near Vivia. Citizens, Soldiers, Beggars, &c. looking on.
SATURNINUS.
Silence!

A CITIZEN.
For you?—ha, ha!

A SOLDIER.
I say, old comrade,
You'd better have kept to the trade.

Enter Lentulus, Naso, and Pudens.
NASO.
Silence!

A CITIZEN.
Who comes?

A LICTOR.
Keep the peace here!

LENTULUS.
Jove! Naso, look—she's seated next a slave!

NASO.
What wonder next?—there's something in this faith.

SATURUS.
And you we now are leaving, let your eyes
Look on us as on those about to take
Swiftly a journey to that happier land,
Where, midst the joys awaiting us, ofttime
Our spirits yet will yearn for fuller bliss
To welcome ye, who yet uncall'd remain,
After your toilsome pilgrimage is o'er.
Hold consecrate within your memories
This our last supper, and His ordinance,
Whom we so oft together have remember'd,
When his command to “do this” was unfelt
For love that leapt to his feet in reverence.
Hold consecrate those praying, watching hours,—
In ray-lit darkness held, or full-day'd twilight;—
Whether beneath the cypresses, where oft
We talk'd of death leading to endless life;
Or in our cavern dim beside the sea,
Out of the depths we lifted up to Him
Our hearts in song;—to feel this answer come
Down like a sunbeam, cleaving through the dark,—
There is nor height nor depth, in heaven or hell,
The radiance of Christ's mercy may not reach!

A VOICE.
Who was it that beneath those cypresses
Did prophesy this end unto ye all?

SATURUS.
Who was it that beneath those cypresses
Answer'd, It would come welcom'd, whensoe'er?
He who doth now beneath a deeper gloom—
The searchless shadow of death's silent wings—
Pray that thine hour, whene'er it come, may find
A heart as calm, and from a trust as sure.

A VOICE.
I want no pray'r of thine; best pray for those
Who tremble round thee at their coming doom.

SATURUS.
Answer me, fellow-martyrs! Is there one
Would now resign his privilege to die?

VIVIA.
And if there be, let him forbear a while:
Ere he yield up his passport into heaven,
I would make known a vision from the Lord,—
His gracious answer to a pray'r for sign
Might satisfy my brother of the end.
I saw a ladder reaching to the skies:
Near to its foot a scaly dragon crouch'd;
And by its upward sides all instruments
That ruthless, wretched men employ for torture—
(More pitiable they than those they scathe).
This ladder, like a voice I needs must follow,
Drew me towards it; but ere I was there,
Saturus was before me, and I saw him,
Quick, like an angel's flight, ascend on high.
I saw his face as now; he turn'd it full
And pityingly upon me, and his words
Are fresh as those he spake but now unto us.
I hear them still: “Perpetua, I await you!
Beware the dragon, that he do not tear you!”
Then I invok'd the name of Christ, believing:
And all in faith, and no part in me fear,
I stepp'd upon the ladder—so on the dragon.
Stepp'd?—say, 'twas flight!—no time to think of pain,
For heaven's joy came down like heaven's light
To meet me on the way. Ere I was there,
A dawn more clear than earthly skies e'er saw
Was all around me, brightening as I rose:
Sweet airs from angels' wings fann'd soothingly,
Wafting their sweeter voices;—so I came
To the realm of rest, soaring in light and song!
O garden of the Lord! O Paradise!
O streams that murmur'd music as they flow!
As living fountains newly loos'd in spring
Sing shining to the sun that gave them freedom,
These sung of love, where God is all in all!
O lofty presence, though in shepherd-guise,
Of him who led his flocks beside those waters;
While blessed souls, in raiment white as snow,
A multitude, their feet as noiseless falling,
Still follow'd on the steps of their Redeemer,—
And, oh, the voice that welcom'd me his daughter!
(Attilius, tell my father of this vision;
And say I did remember him in heaven!)
He gave me then a draught of new-drawn milk;
But scarce receiv'd this sacrament of heaven,
When all the voices of those blessed ones
Rang out in songs of joy. The sound swell'd forth
Up to the highest heaven; till echoes came,
Sent from the angels round the throne of God.
Hallelujah! amen! and I awoke,—
The heavenly strain yet ringing in the air!
Still doth it linger, to bear up on high
Our faithful voices. Lift them to the Lord!

VOICES OF ALL THE CHRISTIANS.
“Hallelujah! amen! for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.”

ATTILIUS.
Thy voice is sacrificial flame, my sister;
Thine eyes they burn like stars.

VIVIA.
Heaven hath descended!

NASO.
May a stranger speak with you,—one who would ask
In earnestness as earnestness deserves?

VIVIA.
Whate'er thou wilt.

NASO.
I would some questions solve
That beat about for answer, while I look
At you and at your fate.

VIVIA.
Speak on.

NASO.
Your God,—
You say he is all love; yet he condemns you
To such a death?

VIVIA.
Say to such life eternal!
And were there only death,—no life beyond,—
He hath so miracled my soul with gifts
In these last hours, that I for such a God
Would die; nor scarcely feel in death a pang,
For joy and wonder at his mighty power.

NASO.
Your spirit soars in triumph. Yet 'tis won
By sacrifice of all your human love?—
All the affections once so dearly prized
Cast off—forgotten!

VIVIA.
(Christ, thou knowest!)—Not so.
They are beneath the wings, and I will bear them
Up to His throne, and He, in that great love
You do deny him,—oh! he will receive them;
And Christ, for whom I die, will plead for them—
I know he will; and thus comes death to me,
To free me, that I see him face to face,
To implore his grace for those I lov'd on earth.

NASO.
I could—almost I could, bid thee implore
A grace for me! Yet answer me once more,—
You die for Christ, you say; he cannot need
The death of one like thee?

VIVIA.
I need to die.
I could not live,—could'st thou?—to feel a truth
Cry loudly in the heart, and strangle it.
Were this the end, no other life beyond,
Better to perish thus, our dust unurn'd
(So it might nourish still a living flower),
Rather than breathe such breath as hourly kills
The truth that blooms within.

NASO.
This truth in thee?

VIVIA.
I do believe all men have equal claim;—
Or mightiest emperor, or meanest slave:
For one great God, he did create us all!
To him; and unto Christ,—as unto him
Who liv'd and died to atone us with the Father,
My worship rises. Should I sacrifice
To the emperor,—to Jove, believing this?

NASO.
For criminals!—claim or regard for them?

VIVIA.
In pity: that doth sadden o'er their error;
For, seeming good howe'er to them, 'tis yet
Consummate loss. Oh, blessed Christ, who ne'er
Could bid us hate a sin ere he would say,
“Compassionate the sinner.” With what gifts
He sought to win them,—hope, love, life immortal!

NASO.
Thou dost believe that all unto this heaven
Of love will come at last?

VIVIA.
Christ said, “with God
All things are possible!” and God is love.

NASO.
But what were left to us, the work achiev'd?
Each having gain'd an entrance to this heaven,
There were no more to do.

VIVIA.
Oh, have you not
A life within, that asks another life
For its unfolding? Hast not felt thy soul
To swell and press against this limiting earth?
Hast never thirsted for a perfect truth?
Hast never long'd to meet with what should fill
Full to its large desire thy sense of praise?
To praise—praise infinitely, were enough.
To dwell for ever with the Great Perfection,
The one untiring, ever-moving spirit
Of Good,—what were it! Then to have reveal'd
By light, the element wherein he dwells,
His mighty plans, wrought out of one great law,
The law of love. No longer mystery:
Faith turn'd to sight, as promis'd of the Lord.
Think with what joy, what loving adoration,
Would burst the song of praise from forth our souls,—
Praise that had gain'd increas'd intelligence,
To meet the work of His intelligence,—
When with our upturn'd eyes, we reach'd the height,
Where, like the beams of his own sun on the mountain,
Rested the all-seeing gaze of the Creator
Over the world he made; and he proclaim'd
That “All was good!”

NASO.
Beautiful prophetess,
Thou shalt not die!

VIVIA.
He reads;—hush! let us listen.

SATURUS

(reading from a scroll).
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

LENTULUS.
Where is that pallid quiet man was with thee
In the Forum?

TERTIUS.
Paler and quieter now!
We scarce had enter'd in the prison-gates
Ere he sank down. A smile was on his face;
He wears it yet—in death!—as I shall do
Long in my mem'ry, as an old man may.
Ah, sir! as there he lies, like smiling marble—
A monument of Christian grace—there comes
A voice from forth the quiet of that smile:
He being dead, yet speaketh of the peace
Those only know in death who know the Lord.

LENTULUS.
Naso, this place is like an ague to me,—
Hot, stifling, pent, and yet my blood is ice.
I am going: you will sup with me to-morrow,
And tell me of these doings of the morning?

NASO.
I shall not go to the amphitheatre.

LENTULUS.
Not go?

NASO.
Good night.

[Exit Naso.
LENTULUS.
Stay, stay; leave me not here!

[Exit Lentulus.
FIRST CITIZEN.
Where are they off to? let us follow them.

SECOND CITIZEN.
And is this all they do? 'tis hard, methink,
To have them up for this.

SOLDIER.
Oh, they are cunning.
I have heard people say, and great ones too,
They always eat a child before they've done.—
When is that coming on?

TERTIUS.
Come, all ye poor:
We have not much to give; and yet these fragments,
And such as these, have had the blessing rich
Of Him who came to feed the poor like ye,
E'en with the bread of life. Depart in peace!

BEGGARS.
Great Jove reward ye all!

[Exeunt.
BARAC
(comes forward).
You see me now.

FIRST SOLDIER.
Ha! pay me the coin I won of you.
[Exit Barac.
Holloa there!

[Exeunt Soldiers and Citizens.
VIVIA.
My brother, we must part. Hast thou no word—
Not one—of hope that we shall meet again?

ATTILIUS.
Would I were Christian too, to die with thee!

VIVIA.
Live to be one, and live eternally!
Thou wilt, I do believe it, my Attilius.
Give me thy hand, and let it be for token
That thou believ'st it too. Oh, clasp it, clasp it!
I do believe this very death I die—
Do not relax thy grasp—shall lead the way
For those I love to heaven!

SATURUS.
Part in peace!

VOICES OF THE CHRISTIANS.
Part in peace! Christ's life was peace,—
Let us live our life in him!
Part in peace! Christ's death was peace,—
Let us die our death in him!
Part in peace! Christ promise gave
Of a life beyond the grave,
Where all mortal partings cease.
Part in peace!

ATTILIUS.
Is there such life?

VIVIA.
My brother, part in peace.
[Exit Attilius. The Christians separate.
Cæcilius, go not thou.—Gaoler, give leave.
Nay, quench the lights,—my lamp will serve; and ere
The prison-rounds are o'er, this youth shall meet thee
At the outer gate.

PUDENS.
Thy time, how long soe'er.

[Exit.
VIVIA.
I have not spoke with thee to-night, Cæcilius:
The slightest word had made the ready tears
Brim o'er their boundaries. Said I not?—weep on!
Thou hast wept to me before, and I with thee.
Ease thy full heart; then be thou strong to listen.
I need thee;—thou canst help me, if thou wilt.

CÆCILIUS.
Help thee?—and if I will!

VIVIA.
But ere I speak
Of the one only thought 'twixt me and heaven,
Tell me of Nola; for my heart is yearning
To see her once again before I die.

CÆCILIUS.
She stays within her chamber; was forbid
To haste to you. She stays in sure belief
That you will be releas'd, will come to her.

VIVIA.
Releas'd I shall be! She must come to me.
[She takes a golden arrow from her hair.
Give her this token. Say, our early love
Is fresh with me, as though 'twere yesterday
We wander'd, arm-encircl'd, gathering shells.—
Could it be yesterday she talk'd of it?—
Tell her, that He for whom I die was one
Who taught all love to hope: so bid her thought
Soar up, to meet my blessing on the way.
Sure, unforgotten as she is in death,
I still may be her friend in heav'n!—Your thoughts?—
They wander.

CÆCILIUS.
They are still with thee!—with thee,
And with the morrow.

VIVIA.
Mark me! many thoughts
In many morrows I now ask of thee.
Much has been said—too much—of loving kindness
Render'd to one who was left motherless;—
This time to-morrow—Thascius—wilt thou—

CÆCILIUS.
Will I? oh, find thy words to tell me what!

VIVIA.
Thou'rt young; hast many years—and be they blest—
Before thee. I have mark'd a strength in thee,
Seen most within these latter days of trial;
And Heav'n hath prosper'd so the thought that thou
Wilt come to hold the faith; I unto thee,
Commit in trust this child, my Thascius,—
In trust unto thy thought. It may be years—
Never, perchance—ere act of thine may serve;
Still let him have a home within thy thought.
And thy good strength, and youth, and years to come,
And fate alike, so oft a loving bond,
And something for his mother's memory,—
No, no, there needs no word of thine, Cæcilius;
That look has laid an answer at my heart!
Blessing of Heav'n descend on thee and him!

CÆCILIUS.
I would I were your God, to give you wings
Now, now to bear you up! I would not stay you,
Though they would take you quite away from me.
But, oh, that morrow's doom!

VIVIA.
Why fear it thus?
The pain of martyrdom dwells not in death.
Think'st thou the love that dares it hath not joy
In loving, to make light the keenest pangs
That touch the body? No!—the torture comes,
And sharpen'd fangs are busiest at the heart,
When all the old affections are dragg'd forth,
And torn upon the rack. What is't to die?

CÆCILIUS.
To sink in quiet 'neath a sighing tree,
Like to the warrior in the song you lov'd;
To die like him, lapsing in quiet shadow,
Were peace: but, oh, the death that waits for thee!—
The glare—the tumult!

VIVIA.
What are they? since I
Have sat alone, girt with the dreadful dark,
The never-ceasing night, with that one image
In terrible light, stern, pale, and palpable,—
The image of my father in his grief:
Eyes shut—the same—or staring wide again,
Still would it come—look, look, now while I speak!

[Vivius appears with a lamp at the opposite side of the quadrangle. He comes slowly forward. The father and daughter gaze at each other for sometime without speaking.
VIVIUS.
Do ye know me, who I am?—no, no—no wonder!
I am older many years since yester morn.
I was before that time a man nam'd Vivius,
A happy father, who did read his hopes
Upon the noble brows, and, as he thought,
The most true brows, of a beloved daughter!
I am—I know not what. And when I ask
Help of the outward universe to bring
Back to myself the former consciousness,
The sun shuts up the while I look on him;
The stars all hurry past me while I pray;
The earth sinks from my feet: all false! all false!

VIVIA.
No bitterness now!

VIVIUS.
No bitterness?—gods,
No bitterness!

[He weeps.
VIVIA.
My father, that thou couldst
Crowd all thyself at once into one thought!
Think of the faith—look on me as I stand,
A creature anguished at thy agony,—
How far beyond the morrow's suffering!—
One who hath lost even the few brief hours
She reckoned as her own, to tend her child;—
Then think upon the faith that bids my heart
Have yet beneath it all, a hope as calm
As were his lids, when last I parted from him.
Whence comes such miracle—of whom such faith?

VIVIUS.
Faith! faith!—is that the word?—and miracle!
Yes!—that thy tongue would stir to speak the word!
What is thy faith?—a lie. What are its fruits?
What made thee false to me? What made thee thus
Shew forth fine joys to woo me in thy face,—
A black'ning plague-spot hidden in thy breast;—
Lur'd me to build my trust on thee for rock,
While thou wert rotten as the poisonous heap
The sea throws up for waste? And this is faith!
A lie!—it is a lie!

VIVIA.
No more! forbear!
I see, though thou dost not, God's angel stand
Shelt'ring my hope in thee! Thou shalt not speak,
Lest he be moved to stretch a ruffled wing
Up to the Lord, with those accusing words.
I will not have thee less before the Lord
When I shall plead for thee—as plead I will—
Plead for the earthly father, who once taught
His child in youth to love the truth, so led
Unto the heav'nly. Hath it been gainsay'd?
Thou know'st it hath not. Thou dost know 'twas love,
And love alone, that, fearful of thy grief,
Delay'd to bring it on thee, hoping still
A way might shew to mitigate the pang.
And I will not be lesser than I am,
Unworthy as I am for this emprize;—
For thy sake, not. 'Twas thou who mad'st me true,
And true I am; 'twas thou who mad'st me dare,
And I have dar'd. Who was it in my youth
Did crown our Dido empress of my soul,
For that she gave her blood for double worth,—
A faith unbroken, and her people's good?
Did tell me of the wife of Asdrubal,
How that she lov'd the honour of her Carthage
More than her life, and leapt from off the walls
Giving herself, her children, to the flames?
My Carthage is the world! I do but stretch
The line they held—Christ guiding still my hand,
Who first did point the way.

VIVIUS.
And can it be
Thou art that very child so oft hath stood
Between my knees to listen those old tales?
Oh for that child again!

VIVIA.
I am that child
In all that's simple truth. It was your wont
To question, that an answering lisp might come
Of names, of things, almost too large for one
Of infant speech. Ask me of this,—what is it?
Why, I should say, it is a water-cruise;
I know it that, and could not say it other.
I could no more deny to those who ask
Of me, what am I;—I do know myself
A Christian, and must say I am a Christian.

VIVIUS.
Thy breath comes to me like the sharpen'd air
To cut my heart in twain; cold,—cold. But, no!
Here's fire enough. And I will shew the world
White ashes yet may cover glowing heat!
You had a boy.

VIVIA.
Dead?

VIVIUS.
To you!

VIVIA.
Oh, cruel!—
Oh, spare me, for 'tis here that I am weak.
No, no, spare not; 'tis here I would be strong,
And, trust Christ's mercy, he will guard a child
Blest by such love as mine hath had upon him.
Such love, sure am I, it can never perish.
E'en now doth comfort, like a flower, spring up
Sudden within my breast. You—you,—I know
That you will nourish him—will cherish him,—
Will teach his tongue the truth you taught to mine;
(And hath not Christ abundant for the rest?)
And when that he and time have smil'd down sorrow,
Oft will you, while you sit and gaze on him,
See his dead mother live from out his eyes,—
His loving eyes; and then,—dear child! dear father!

VIVIUS
(falling at her feet).
You weep!—you weep! Oh let those tears at once
Revive my dying hopes like dew, and quench
The fire that's smouldering in a tortur'd brain.
Once more; yet save me—save thyself;—thou canst;
'Tis not too late. Although the storm hangs black,
A word can wave it off, and bring us heaven!
Oh save me from a poison'd, livid past!
Oh save me from a future, that doth yawn
A flaming gulf of hell before my feet!
These are thy father's hands that clasp thy knees;
These are his lips, that on thy very feet
Now print their hope for mercy. Save me!—save me!

VIVIA.
Oh that my blood had double tide, that I
Might die another death for thy salvation!
Up—up, my father!—my own noble father!
It is thyself in me that stands erect;—
Claim kindred with thine own.

VIVIUS.
Thou teachest well.
I thank thee for thy counsel,—this the last
That we shall take together. I am up;
But not to claim. Utterly I disclaim
All kindred with thee! Blood thou'rt none of mine.
Blood thou hast none in thee; thy heart is stone.
Weakness in me to pray, to weep to it;
Weakness in thee, that thou dost blindly scan
The doom that darkly gathers o'er our house.
E'en now the Fates begin with busy finger
To weave the dusky web shall dimly shroud
Him, the devoted of a mother's shame!
Where is the hope that I should cherish him,
Poor sickly sapling, 'neath a blasted tree?
All wreck'd, near mad, 'tis like they may decree
That I, my brain on fire, my senses gone,
Wild with an agony of memory,
Taking him for my grief, should swing him thus,
And dash the life from out him!

VIVIA.
Oh for mercy!

CÆCILIUS.
The trust will hold, although no word was said.

VIVIUS.
Thou here? Come, I must have a vow of thee.
Hearken, young sir! Swear by thy mother's dust—
Or hath this faith made it but rottenness?
Good boy! good boy!—truer unto dead bones
Than others unto living quivering flesh.
Yet swear!—that if in after-life you cross
The path of him was yesterday her child—
For he must live in double orphanage,
Unbless'd with e'en the memory of a mother—
Ne'er to make known to him—to him or any,
That he did hold communion with her blood.

CÆCILIUS.
I will not take such oath!

VIVIUS.
How! (seizing him)
Let me feel it
Come up thy throat—Speak! or—

VIVIA.
Cæcilius, do it.

CÆCILIUS.
I swear!

VIVIUS.
'Tis well. And now, farewell to all—
To thee, who art the corpse of all my hopes—
Unurned, unburied, ever so to be.
O hell! my very words do twist their sense
Like tortuous snakes, to sting me as I speak.
Curses on Carthage!—curses on her people!
Would that to-morrow's crowds might find the earth,
Treacherous as they, give way beneath them all,
And, with one gape of its devouring jaws,
Swallow them quick. 'Twill come, or soon or late,
The flame, the sword, and mighty desolation.
The Goth shall trample where your gardens flourish'd,
Scattering your children like the weeds they grew.

VIVIA.
O Christ, who wept over Jerusalem!

VIVIUS.
Weep thou, and for thine own—no longer thine—
(Of little heed). Let me but have the pow'r
To fix these loosen'd wits, I'll make of him
One, who would turn thy love into a curse.
Hope quickens with the thought—there's much to do:
Time narrows in, and I stay here! Away!
Thascius shall be a conqueror—shall hew
His path through this thy faith. Thou sacrifice
Hast chosen;—mark me! sacrifice shall be
His very end of life; his highest triumph
Won by the sword; and Fame, with crimson hands,
Shall steep in blood the wreath that crowns his brow.
Away! away!

[Exit Vivius.
VIVIA.
Cæcilius, follow him!
My hope lives in thee, as thou wert Christ's angel.
To-morrow, at the last, bring me thy tidings.

CÆCILIUS.
To-morrow!

VIVIA.
Speak not word (nor look) to mar
My trust in thee. [Exit Cæcilius.]
My trust, O God, in thee!—
[She kneels.
So sure, I have no words that come as prayer.
Thou who dost all things well, shall I of thee
Crave other than thou dost? And, blessed Christ,
'Twas thou who bad'st us visit in their need
The widow and the fatherless, I know
Thou wilt take pity on a childless father.
Thou, the good Shepherd, who didst gently fold
Those little ones, with blessing, in thine arms,
Wilt care for him, my tender one—my yearling,
Else all bereft.—One prayer—but one—the last:
That in the final hours of this frail life,
With love and praise triumphant over all,
We may shew forth thy glory, blessed Lord.
[She rises.
Now to my rest. Not yet—a little while.

[Exit.