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A TALE OF THE FIRST CHRISTIANS.

Long years have come, long years have gone,
Since dawned one bright spring day,
On the purple hills of Asia,
On Smyrna's silver bay.
And the breeze with perfume laden,
Came sweetly from the shore,
As a little Smyrniote maiden
Played at her father's door.
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“O, father, dearest father,”
Thus did the maiden say,
“Why do the people gather
Along the public way?
“And why, with flowers and odours,
My tresses have they dressed?
And laced my silver sandals,
And tied my broidered vest?
“Shall we the sacred garlands twine
For heaven's high queen above?
Or go before his altar shrine,
To sacrifice to Jove?
“Or shall the whirling chariot, sire,
Go bounding o'er the plain?
Or the fleet coursers, snorting fire,
Spring from the silken rein?
“Or shall sweet music linger,
From harp, or viol clear,
Beneath the pressing finger?
Where go we, father dear?”
And the gay Greek made answer,
Without a tear, or sigh,
“We go to the amphitheatre,
To see the Christian die.”
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No pity turned that young cheek pale,
No sorrow thrilled her heart,
But she has called for her white veil,
All eager to depart.
For through the court by fountains dewed,
Her father's perfumed court,
She heard the maddened multitude
Rush onward to the sport.
And she has caught her father's hand,
And chidden his delay,
And through the marble porch they pass,
And up the crowded way.
And still the throng more eager grew,
And still with quickened pace,
On rolled the mighty living mass,
Unto the public place.
As waters mingle in one sea,
Most strange it was to view,
How thronged that amphitheatre
The Gentile and the Jew.
The Roman with his cold proud lip,
Half curled in cruel scorn,
The Syrian soft, the polished Greek,
The slave, and the free born,
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The high-souled, and the sensitive,
They filled that fearful spot,
Ah! mercy hath no place on earth,
Where God's true love is not.
There, beauty sat with jewelled brow,
And rolled the large soft eye,
And conscious stretched the neck of snow,
To see an old man die.
And the best blood of Asia,
Sat smiling at her side;
Alas for human nature!
And alas for worldly pride!
An ancient man with long white hair,
And noble mien was he,
On whom that people came to gaze,
In his last agony.
He looked in all the faces round,
Stage rising over stage,
And some grew pale with terror,
And some grew white with rage.
His was the only placid brow,
The only eye serene;
So calm looks out the clear blue heaven,
Dark rolling clouds between.
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There stood the Asian's pagan priest,
There frowned Nicetas dark,
And the Consul stern looked down on him,
And the haughty Irenarch.
All cold, all proud, all pitiless,—
He turned to the kindling pile,
And his steady lip a moment moved,
As with a conqueror's smile.
Then up and down and through the crowd,
One voice rose wide and high,
“Away with the godless Christian!
False Polycarp to die.”
And half the little maiden wished
She had not come to see:
When she was aware of some one near,
Lamenting bitterly.
And lo! a little Parthian slave,
Close to her side was press'd;
The scourge had scarred his shoulder,
The brand had marked his breast.
And ever, as the people called,
“False Polycarp to die,”
The tears came fast and faster still,
From the little slave boy's eye.
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The shout has sunk on the green hill side,
On the sea, and on the city:
“What makes you weep, what makes you weep?”
Said the child in childish pity.
Ah! little we think how one kind word
May soothe another's pain!
The boy's bright eye looked through his tears,
As sunbeams look through rain.
And he has turned to the little maid,
And brushed his tears away,
“I weep for my good lord Polycarp,
For he must die to-day.”
“O love him not,” she answered,
“A godless man is he.”
“He hath a God,” said the slave boy,
“A God not known to thee.
“He told me of that good great God,
Who made the bond and free,
Who set them all in their place on earth,
And loveth them equally.
“He told me of His Saviour Son,
The God Who dwelt with man,
Who bore their sin, and punishment,
And washed them clean again.
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“He told me of the Holy Spirit,
That leaveth us not alone,
His gift, Who knows our weaknesses,
For they were once His own.
“He buried me in the cleansing sea,
He traced the Cross on my brow,
In the name of the Holy Trinity,
I am a Christian now.
“But they have bound the honoured hand,
That led me to the fold,
And they will seal the lips, that spake
In words so kind and bold.
“Who now shall tend the wandering lambs?”
And the slave boy wept aloud;
For once again that taunting cry
Rose, gathering, through the crowd.
“Ha, thou that troublest Asia,
Ha, thou that wouldst o'ercast
The altars of the glorious gods,
Thine hour is come at last.
“Mad fool, deny the Crucified!”
Ah, senseless, and depraved,
Thus mocked they at the dying Saint,
Thus God's dear mercy braved.
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There came a sound above their heads,
Like a rush of many wings;
And the little slave boy heard a voice
As when an angel sings.
That strain the maiden might not hear,
Nor the deep sweet words it said,
“Fear not, My servant Polycarp,
Have thou no doubt, or dread.”
Now they have bound him to the stake,
And the slave boy weepeth not,
And the Martyr lifted up his hands,
As the flame grew fierce and hot.
He looked to earth, he looked to sea,
Calm slept each purple hill,
How glorious was the golden light,
The wave how calm and still!
And his eye one moment rested
On the city, and the plain,
And where the distant sails shone white,
Along the Grecian main.
Perchance it lingered o'er that sea,
Because his thought had gone
Back to the exile Hebrew's isle,
His own beloved S. John.
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A fond, but scarce a sad farewell,
That long look seemed to take,
Then, the full eye was fixed on Heaven,
And the dying Martyr spake:
“I bless Thee, Holiest Father,
I thank Thee, Blessed Son,
Because the golden crown is near,
The race is nearly run.
“God of all things created,
Angels, and earthly power,
I praise Thee for the agony
Of this departing hour:
“That Thou hast deemed Thy servant meet
With all Thy Martyr band,
To drink Christ's cup of suffering:
Who shall hereafter stand,
“In soul, and body, incorrupt,
Around Thy glory's throne;
Therefore I praise, and magnify,
Th' Eternal Three in One.”
O wonderful! most wonderful!
The flame burns hot, and red,
It toucheth him not, it hath not singed
One hair on the old man's head.
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But over him, like a golden arch,
The broad flame flickered and played,
He stood unhurt in the burning fire,
And fervently he prayed.
The Pagan people yelled in wrath,
The Roman drew his sword,
He pierced the side of Polycarp,
And forth the red blood poured.
God's elements are merciful,
Man only mocks His will;
The raging fire had spared the Saint,
The sword had power to kill.
Dim, dim, before that innocent blood
Waxed the reproachful fire,
He lieth a costly sacrifice,
On an unconsumèd pyre.
The maiden plucked her father's robe,
She turned her head aside,
“Come home, come home in haste, my sire,
We have seen enough,” she cried.
The slave boy too, has looked his last,
On him he loved so well,
And he has turned to his master's home,
And yet no tear-drop fell.
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And well it was: we need not weep
For the dead Saints, the blest,
Who have come home triumphantly,
To everlasting rest.
But for the mocker, the deceived,
For them the tear may flow,
And for the souls by sin aggrieved,
Who still strive on below.
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