University of Virginia Library

THOUGHTS OF A GALATIAN CONVERT. A. D. 57.

And yet among our people, on the heights
Of Phrygia's hills, and round the ancient shrines
Of old Galatian towns, there lingered still
Some traces of the wild, mysterious power,
The spell that bound our fathers to their faith.
The beardless priests of Cybele would wave
Their wands, and clash their cymbals, and their song,
First stealing through the brain with subtle power,
Waking each nerve to tension,—then with floods
Of surging sound tumultuous, sweeping on,
Like some great river foaming in its pride,
Filled all the soul with madness; and the charm,
In one wild, dizzy, whirling, frenzied dance,
Drew all who worshipped; and the drops poured down
From pallid brows and languid limbs, till night
Fell on them with its darkness, covering deeds
Yet darker; and the morning grey looked in
On haggard faces, spectral forms, and eyes
Ghastly and vacant, drunk, but not with wine.
I, too, have known all this, have felt the blood
Rush like a boiling torrent through my veins,
Half-tempted, in the madness of the hour,
To be as Atys was, and like her priests
To serve the Goddess-mother; but the sense
Of memory, waking in me, held me back,
The hopes of many summers, and the face
Of one fair, bright-eyed maiden on the hills.
So life went on. Near thirty years had passed,
When through our village came the strangest band
That ever travelled through Galatia's vales:
No merchants they, with pearls, or purple robes,
Or precious spikenard in the milk-white vase,
Or golden goblets; no centurions, come
To take our numbers, and to tax our farms;
Nor yet as pilgrims hasting to the shrine
Of Pessinus, where Cybele holds sway,
Mother of all the gods, with crown of towers.
Like none of these they came, those travellers three;
One in full age, dark-eyed, with eagle face,
Like those whom in Pisidian synagogues
Men know as Rabbis. Grave he was, and oft
Could speak to touch men's hearts, and stir their fears
With words of coming woe: yet not of him
Thought we most then, or most remember now.
The next was young and slender, scarcely past
His eighteenth summer, gentle as a girl,
Shrinking from each rude gaze, or jesting word;
A hidden fire within his lustrous eyes,
Telling of musings deep; and pale, thin cheeks,
Bearing their witness of the midnight watch
And fast prolonged, and conquest over self;
Timotheos, so they called him, won our love,
And paid it back with tears: yet not of him
Thought we most then, or most remember now.
The third who journeyed with them, weak and worn,
Blear-eyed, dim-visioned, bent and bowed with pain,
We looked upon with wonder. Not for him
The praise of form heroic, supple limbs,
The glory of the sculptor as he moulds
The locks of Zeus o'erspreading lofty brows;
Apollo, the Far-darter, in the pride
Of manhood's noblest beauty, or the grace
Of sandalled Hermes, messenger of gods:
Not thus he came, but clad in raiment worn,
Of roughest texture, bearing many stains
Of age and travel. In his hand he bore
A staff, on which he leant as one whose limbs
Have lost before their time the strength of youth;
And underneath his arm a strange, old book,
Whose mystic letters seemed for him the words
Of wisdom and of truth. And oft he read,
In solemn cadence, words that thrilled his soul,
And, lighting that worn face with new-born gleam,
Bade him go on rejoicing.
So they came;
So entered he our town; but, ere the sun
Had lit the Eastern clouds, a fever's chill
Fell on him; parchèd thirst, and darting throbs
Of keenest anguish racked those weary limbs;
His brow seemed circled with a crown of pain;
And oft, pale, breathless, as if life had fled,
He looked like one in ecstasy, who sees
What others see not, to whose ears a voice,
Which others hear not, floats from sea or sky:
And broken sounds would murmur from his lips
Of glory wondrous, sights ineffable,
The cry of “Abba, Father,” and the notes
Of some strange, solemn chant of other lands.
So stricken, prostrate, pale, the traveller lay,
So stript of all the comeliness of form,
Men might have spurned and loathed him, passing on
To lead their brighter life. And yet we stayed;
We spurned him not, nor loathed; through all the shrouds
Of poverty and sickness we could see
The hero-soul, the presence as of One
Whom then we knew not. When the pain was sharp,
And furrowed brows betrayed the strife within,
Then was he gentlest. Even to our slaves
He spake as brothers, winning all their hearts
By that unwonted kindness. Those who came
To give some casual help, the grape's fresh juice,
Or golden fruit from Pontus, found a spring
Of new-born feeling flooding all their souls;
The careless, sportive youths, hard-toiling men,
And mothers worn with age and household work,
And children smiling in their infant glee,
Would gather round his couch; and each and all
Found it their highest blessing but to soothe
One throb of anguish, and (could such things be)
Would fain have offered health, and strength, and youth,
Would fain have given their own bright, gleaming eyes,
And walked in darkness, so that he might see.
'Twas done, and in the newness of that life
Some few days glided by. We lived alone,
In silent thought retracing all the past;
And then we met once more. At eventide,
When the Jews' Sabbath drew towards its close
(So heard we from our teachers, for no word
Bade us to keep that Sabbath), all the West
Yet purple, we, the new disciples, met
That pale, worn teacher in the upper room,
His home for those few days. A simple meal
Was set before us, cakes of bread, and wine,
Such as our peasants drink. That bread he blest,
Over that cup gave thanks, and we partook,
(The new-born sense of kindred breaking down
All barriers of the past) the rich, the poor,
The slave, the freeman, foes of many years,
Husbands and wives, the fathers, and the sons,
We all drew near, as sharers in a life
Above our own, and so embracing all.
Oh, happiest hour, of memories full of peace,
And love ineffable, and brightest hopes,
Which even yet can gladden!
Yet there came
A moment higher still. Upon our heads
Those feeble hands were laid, and through our frames,
With strange vibrations of a rushing flood
Of thoughts and powers fresh kindling into life,
The Spirit came upon us. From our lips
Burst the strange, mystic speech of other lands,
We, too, cried, “Abba! Lord of Sabaoth!”
We, too, could raise the Hallelujah chant,
And from our feeble tongues, in wondrous tones,
As of the voice of trumpet, loud and long,
The mighty “Maranatha” smote the air.
We knew not all we spake, but evermore
The clear, loud accents thrilled through all the soul;
We praised, adoring. Men might count our words
As wild and aimless, yet to us they brought
The joy ecstatic of the eternal choirs,
The hymns of angels at the throne of God.
And others, calmer in their strength of heart,
Received new power to read the thoughts that stirred
In each man's breast, to speak with words of fire,
Swift-darting as an arrow to their mark,
To say to this one, “Thou hast sinned, thy deed
Of secret shame is blazoned on thy brow;”
To that, “Fear not; thy hidden tears are known,
Thy yearning after peace; and God, who loves
The contrite heart, has pardoned all thy sins.”