THE POET'S SONG

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dryDense weights of heat press down. The large bright dropsShrink in the leaves. From dark acacia topsThe nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry;And ever as the sun mounts hot and highThin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokesThe wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.I hear far in among the motionless trees—Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod—The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reachStretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the beesMurmur among the full-fringed golden-rod,Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry

Dense weights of heat press down. The large bright drops

Shrink in the leaves. From dark acacia tops

The nuthatch flings his short reiterate cry;

And ever as the sun mounts hot and high

Thin voices crowd the grass. In soft long strokes

The wind goes murmuring through the mountain oaks.

Faint wefts creep out along the blue and die.

I hear far in among the motionless trees—

Shadows that sleep upon the shaven sod—

The thud of dropping apples. Reach on reach

Stretch plots of perfumed orchard, where the bees

Murmur among the full-fringed golden-rod,

Or cling half-drunken to the rotting peach.

IThere came no change from week to weekOn all the land, but all one way,Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak,Day followed day.Within the palace court the roundsOf glare and shadow, day and night,Went ever with the same dull sounds,The same dull flight:The motion of slow forms of state,The far-off murmur of the street,The din of couriers at the gate,Half-mad with heat;Sometimes a distant shout of boysAt play upon the terrace walk,The shutting of great doors, and noiseOf muttered talk.In one red corner of the wall,That fronted with its granite stainThe town, the palms, and, beyond all,The burning plain,As listless as the hour, alone,The poet by his broken luteSat like a figure in the stone,Dark-browed and mute.He saw the heat on the thin grassFall till it withered joint by joint,The shadow on the dial passFrom point to point.He saw the midnight bright and bareFill with its quietude of starsThe silence that no human prayerAttains or mars.He heard the hours divide, and stillThe sentry on the outer wallMake the night wearier with his shrillMonotonous call.He watched the lizard where it lay,Impassive as the watcher's face;And only once in the long dayIt changed its place.Sometimes with clank of hoofs and criesThe noon through all its trance was stirred;The poet sat with half-shut eyes,Nor saw, nor heard.And once across the heated closeLight laughter in a silver showerFell from fair lips: the poet roseAnd cursed the hour.Men paled and sickened; half in fear,There came to him at dusk of eveOne who but murmured in his earAnd plucked his sleeve:'The king is filled with irks, distressed,And bids thee hasten to his side;For thou alone canst give him rest.'The poet cried:'Go, show the king this broken lute!Even as it is, so am I!The tree is perished to its root,The fountain dry.'What seeks he of the leafless tree,The broken lute, the empty spring?Yea, tho' he give his crown to me,I cannot sing!'IIThat night there came from either handA sense of change upon the land;A brooding stillness rustled throughWith creeping winds that hardly blew;A shadow from the looming west,A stir of leaves, a dim unrest;It seemed as if a spell had broke.And then the poet turned and wokeAs from the darkness of a dream,And with a smile divine supremeDrew up his mantle fold on fold,And strung his lute with strings of gold,And bound the sandals to his feet,And strode into the darkling street.Through crowds of murmuring men he hied,With working lips and swinging stride,And gleaming eyes and brow bent down;Out of the great gate of the townHe hastened ever and passed on,And ere the darkness came, was gone,A mote beyond the western swell.And then the storm arose and fellFrom wheeling shadows black with rainThat drowned the hills and strode the plain;Round the grim mountain-heads it passed,Down whistling valleys blast on blast,Surged in upon the snapping trees,And swept the shuddering villages.That night, when the fierce hours grew long,Once more the monarch, old and grey,Called for the poet and his song,And called in vain. But far away,By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred,The shepherds in their watches heard,Above the torrent's charge and clang,The cleaving chant of one that sang.

There came no change from week to weekOn all the land, but all one way,Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak,Day followed day.

There came no change from week to week

On all the land, but all one way,

Like ghosts that cannot touch nor speak,

Day followed day.

Within the palace court the roundsOf glare and shadow, day and night,Went ever with the same dull sounds,The same dull flight:

Within the palace court the rounds

Of glare and shadow, day and night,

Went ever with the same dull sounds,

The same dull flight:

The motion of slow forms of state,The far-off murmur of the street,The din of couriers at the gate,Half-mad with heat;

The motion of slow forms of state,

The far-off murmur of the street,

The din of couriers at the gate,

Half-mad with heat;

Sometimes a distant shout of boysAt play upon the terrace walk,The shutting of great doors, and noiseOf muttered talk.

Sometimes a distant shout of boys

At play upon the terrace walk,

The shutting of great doors, and noise

Of muttered talk.

In one red corner of the wall,That fronted with its granite stainThe town, the palms, and, beyond all,The burning plain,

In one red corner of the wall,

That fronted with its granite stain

The town, the palms, and, beyond all,

The burning plain,

As listless as the hour, alone,The poet by his broken luteSat like a figure in the stone,Dark-browed and mute.

As listless as the hour, alone,

The poet by his broken lute

Sat like a figure in the stone,

Dark-browed and mute.

He saw the heat on the thin grassFall till it withered joint by joint,The shadow on the dial passFrom point to point.

He saw the heat on the thin grass

Fall till it withered joint by joint,

The shadow on the dial pass

From point to point.

He saw the midnight bright and bareFill with its quietude of starsThe silence that no human prayerAttains or mars.

He saw the midnight bright and bare

Fill with its quietude of stars

The silence that no human prayer

Attains or mars.

He heard the hours divide, and stillThe sentry on the outer wallMake the night wearier with his shrillMonotonous call.

He heard the hours divide, and still

The sentry on the outer wall

Make the night wearier with his shrill

Monotonous call.

He watched the lizard where it lay,Impassive as the watcher's face;And only once in the long dayIt changed its place.

He watched the lizard where it lay,

Impassive as the watcher's face;

And only once in the long day

It changed its place.

Sometimes with clank of hoofs and criesThe noon through all its trance was stirred;The poet sat with half-shut eyes,Nor saw, nor heard.

Sometimes with clank of hoofs and cries

The noon through all its trance was stirred;

The poet sat with half-shut eyes,

Nor saw, nor heard.

And once across the heated closeLight laughter in a silver showerFell from fair lips: the poet roseAnd cursed the hour.

And once across the heated close

Light laughter in a silver shower

Fell from fair lips: the poet rose

And cursed the hour.

Men paled and sickened; half in fear,There came to him at dusk of eveOne who but murmured in his earAnd plucked his sleeve:

Men paled and sickened; half in fear,

There came to him at dusk of eve

One who but murmured in his ear

And plucked his sleeve:

'The king is filled with irks, distressed,And bids thee hasten to his side;For thou alone canst give him rest.'The poet cried:

'The king is filled with irks, distressed,

And bids thee hasten to his side;

For thou alone canst give him rest.'

The poet cried:

'Go, show the king this broken lute!Even as it is, so am I!The tree is perished to its root,The fountain dry.

'Go, show the king this broken lute!

Even as it is, so am I!

The tree is perished to its root,

The fountain dry.

'What seeks he of the leafless tree,The broken lute, the empty spring?Yea, tho' he give his crown to me,I cannot sing!'

'What seeks he of the leafless tree,

The broken lute, the empty spring?

Yea, tho' he give his crown to me,

I cannot sing!'

That night there came from either handA sense of change upon the land;A brooding stillness rustled throughWith creeping winds that hardly blew;A shadow from the looming west,A stir of leaves, a dim unrest;It seemed as if a spell had broke.

That night there came from either hand

A sense of change upon the land;

A brooding stillness rustled through

With creeping winds that hardly blew;

A shadow from the looming west,

A stir of leaves, a dim unrest;

It seemed as if a spell had broke.

And then the poet turned and wokeAs from the darkness of a dream,And with a smile divine supremeDrew up his mantle fold on fold,And strung his lute with strings of gold,And bound the sandals to his feet,And strode into the darkling street.

And then the poet turned and woke

As from the darkness of a dream,

And with a smile divine supreme

Drew up his mantle fold on fold,

And strung his lute with strings of gold,

And bound the sandals to his feet,

And strode into the darkling street.

Through crowds of murmuring men he hied,With working lips and swinging stride,And gleaming eyes and brow bent down;Out of the great gate of the townHe hastened ever and passed on,And ere the darkness came, was gone,A mote beyond the western swell.

Through crowds of murmuring men he hied,

With working lips and swinging stride,

And gleaming eyes and brow bent down;

Out of the great gate of the town

He hastened ever and passed on,

And ere the darkness came, was gone,

A mote beyond the western swell.

And then the storm arose and fellFrom wheeling shadows black with rainThat drowned the hills and strode the plain;Round the grim mountain-heads it passed,Down whistling valleys blast on blast,Surged in upon the snapping trees,And swept the shuddering villages.

And then the storm arose and fell

From wheeling shadows black with rain

That drowned the hills and strode the plain;

Round the grim mountain-heads it passed,

Down whistling valleys blast on blast,

Surged in upon the snapping trees,

And swept the shuddering villages.

That night, when the fierce hours grew long,Once more the monarch, old and grey,Called for the poet and his song,And called in vain. But far away,By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred,The shepherds in their watches heard,Above the torrent's charge and clang,The cleaving chant of one that sang.

That night, when the fierce hours grew long,

Once more the monarch, old and grey,

Called for the poet and his song,

And called in vain. But far away,

By the wild mountain-gorges, stirred,

The shepherds in their watches heard,

Above the torrent's charge and clang,

The cleaving chant of one that sang.

A moment the wild swallows like a flightOf withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,The hurrying centres of the storm uniteAnd spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hingeTower darkening on. And now from heaven's heightWith the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,And pelted waters, on the vanished plainPlunges the blast. Behind the wild white flashThat splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash,Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed,Column on column comes the drenching rain.

A moment the wild swallows like a flight

Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,

Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.

The leaves hang still. Above the weird twilight,

The hurrying centres of the storm unite

And spreading with huge trunk and rolling fringe,

Each wheeled upon its own tremendous hinge

Tower darkening on. And now from heaven's height

With the long roar of elm-trees swept and swayed,

And pelted waters, on the vanished plain

Plunges the blast. Behind the wild white flash

That splits abroad the pealing thunder-crash,

Over bleared fields and gardens disarrayed,

Column on column comes the drenching rain.

Canst thou not rest, O city,That liest so wide and fair;Shall never an hour bring pity,Nor end be found for care?Thy walls are high in heaven,Thy streets are gay and wide,Beneath thy towers at evenThe dreamy waters glide.Thou art fair as the hills at morning,And the sunshine loveth thee,But its light is a gloom of warningOn a soul no longer free.The curses of gold are about thee,And thy sorrow deepeneth still;One madness within and without thee,One battle blind and shrill.I see the crowds for everGo by with hurrying feet;Through doors that darken neverI hear the engines beat.Through days and nights that followThe hidden mill-wheel strains;In the midnight's windy hollowI hear the roar of trains.And still the day fulfilleth,And still the night goes round,And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth,With the dance's mocking sound.In chambers of gold elysian,The cymbals clash and clang,But the days are gone like a visionWhen the people wrought and sang.And toil hath fear for neighbour,Where singing lips are dumb,And life is one long labour,Till death or freedom come.Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing—They neither laugh nor weep—I see them coming and going,Like things that move in sleep:Grey sires and burdened brothers,The old, the young, the fair,Wan cheeks of pallid mothers,And the girls with golden hair.Care sits in many a fashion,Grown grey on many a head,And lips are turned to ashenWhose years have right to red.Canst thou not rest, O city,That liest so wide, so fair;Shalt never an hour bring pity,Nor end be found for care?

Canst thou not rest, O city,That liest so wide and fair;Shall never an hour bring pity,Nor end be found for care?

Canst thou not rest, O city,

That liest so wide and fair;

Shall never an hour bring pity,

Nor end be found for care?

Thy walls are high in heaven,Thy streets are gay and wide,Beneath thy towers at evenThe dreamy waters glide.

Thy walls are high in heaven,

Thy streets are gay and wide,

Beneath thy towers at even

The dreamy waters glide.

Thou art fair as the hills at morning,And the sunshine loveth thee,But its light is a gloom of warningOn a soul no longer free.

Thou art fair as the hills at morning,

And the sunshine loveth thee,

But its light is a gloom of warning

On a soul no longer free.

The curses of gold are about thee,And thy sorrow deepeneth still;One madness within and without thee,One battle blind and shrill.

The curses of gold are about thee,

And thy sorrow deepeneth still;

One madness within and without thee,

One battle blind and shrill.

I see the crowds for everGo by with hurrying feet;Through doors that darken neverI hear the engines beat.

I see the crowds for ever

Go by with hurrying feet;

Through doors that darken never

I hear the engines beat.

Through days and nights that followThe hidden mill-wheel strains;In the midnight's windy hollowI hear the roar of trains.

Through days and nights that follow

The hidden mill-wheel strains;

In the midnight's windy hollow

I hear the roar of trains.

And still the day fulfilleth,And still the night goes round,And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth,With the dance's mocking sound.

And still the day fulfilleth,

And still the night goes round,

And the guest-hall boometh and shrilleth,

With the dance's mocking sound.

In chambers of gold elysian,The cymbals clash and clang,But the days are gone like a visionWhen the people wrought and sang.

In chambers of gold elysian,

The cymbals clash and clang,

But the days are gone like a vision

When the people wrought and sang.

And toil hath fear for neighbour,Where singing lips are dumb,And life is one long labour,Till death or freedom come.

And toil hath fear for neighbour,

Where singing lips are dumb,

And life is one long labour,

Till death or freedom come.

Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing—They neither laugh nor weep—I see them coming and going,Like things that move in sleep:

Ah! the crowds that for ever are flowing—

They neither laugh nor weep—

I see them coming and going,

Like things that move in sleep:

Grey sires and burdened brothers,The old, the young, the fair,Wan cheeks of pallid mothers,And the girls with golden hair.

Grey sires and burdened brothers,

The old, the young, the fair,

Wan cheeks of pallid mothers,

And the girls with golden hair.

Care sits in many a fashion,Grown grey on many a head,And lips are turned to ashenWhose years have right to red.

Care sits in many a fashion,

Grown grey on many a head,

And lips are turned to ashen

Whose years have right to red.

Canst thou not rest, O city,That liest so wide, so fair;Shalt never an hour bring pity,Nor end be found for care?

Canst thou not rest, O city,

That liest so wide, so fair;

Shalt never an hour bring pity,

Nor end be found for care?

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent,Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands,Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance,Full of foreboding.Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches,Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them,Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasureRuthlessly scattered:Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and ironComes and finds them silent and uncomplaining,Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious,Gravely enduring.Me too changes, bitter and full of evil,Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked,Grey with sorrow. Even the days before meFade into twilight,Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spiritClear and valiant, brother to these my nobleElms and maples, utterly grave and fearless,Grandly ungrieving.Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals,Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth,Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure,Lovely with blossoms—Shining white anemones, mixed with roses,Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover—You, and me, and all of us, met and equal,Softly shall cover.

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent,Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands,Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance,Full of foreboding.

Clothed in splendour, beautifully sad and silent,

Comes the autumn over the woods and highlands,

Golden, rose-red, full of divine remembrance,

Full of foreboding.

Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches,Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them,Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasureRuthlessly scattered:

Soon the maples, soon will the glowing birches,

Stripped of all that summer and love had dowered them,

Dream, sad-limbed, beholding their pomp and treasure

Ruthlessly scattered:

Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and ironComes and finds them silent and uncomplaining,Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious,Gravely enduring.

Yet they quail not: Winter with wind and iron

Comes and finds them silent and uncomplaining,

Finds them tameless, beautiful still and gracious,

Gravely enduring.

Me too changes, bitter and full of evil,Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked,Grey with sorrow. Even the days before meFade into twilight,

Me too changes, bitter and full of evil,

Dream by dream have plundered and left me naked,

Grey with sorrow. Even the days before me

Fade into twilight,

Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spiritClear and valiant, brother to these my nobleElms and maples, utterly grave and fearless,Grandly ungrieving.

Mute and barren. Yet will I keep my spirit

Clear and valiant, brother to these my noble

Elms and maples, utterly grave and fearless,

Grandly ungrieving.

Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals,Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth,Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure,Lovely with blossoms—

Brief the span is, counting the years of mortals,

Strange and sad; it passes, and then the bright earth,

Careless mother, gleaming with gold and azure,

Lovely with blossoms—

Shining white anemones, mixed with roses,Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover—You, and me, and all of us, met and equal,Softly shall cover.

Shining white anemones, mixed with roses,

Daisies mild-eyed, grasses and honeyed clover—

You, and me, and all of us, met and equal,

Softly shall cover.

We have not heard the music of the spheres,The song of star to star, but there are soundsMore deep than human joy and human tears,That Nature uses in her common rounds;The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strainThe oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, mightOf thunder breaking afar off, or rainThat falls by minutes in the summer night.These are the voices of earth's secret soul,Uttering the mystery from which she came.To him who hears them grief beyond control,Or joy inscrutable without a name,Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled,Before the birth and making of the world.

We have not heard the music of the spheres,

The song of star to star, but there are sounds

More deep than human joy and human tears,

That Nature uses in her common rounds;

The fall of streams, the cry of winds that strain

The oak, the roaring of the sea's surge, might

Of thunder breaking afar off, or rain

That falls by minutes in the summer night.

These are the voices of earth's secret soul,

Uttering the mystery from which she came.

To him who hears them grief beyond control,

Or joy inscrutable without a name,

Wakes in his heart thoughts bedded there, impearled,

Before the birth and making of the world.

O Power to whom this earthly climeIs but an atom in the whole,O Poet-heart of Space and Time,O Maker and Immortal Soul,Within whose glowing rings are bound,Out of whose sleepless heart had birthThe cloudy blue, the starry round,And this small miracle of earth:Who liv'st in every living thing,And all things are thy script and chart,Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing,And yearnest in the human heart;O Riddle with a single clue,Love, deathless, protean, secure,The ever old, the ever new,O Energy, serene and pure.Thou, who art also part of me,Whose glory I have sometime seen,O Vision of the Ought-to-be,O Memory of the Might-have-been,I have had glimpses of thy way,And moved with winds and walked with stars,But, weary, I have fallen astray,And, wounded, who shall count my scars?O Master, all my strength is gone;Unto the very earth I bow;I have no light to lead me on;With aching heart and burning brow,I lie as one that travailethIn sorrow more than he can bear;I sit in darkness as of death,And scatter dust upon my hair.The God within my soul hath slept,And I have shamed the nobler rule;O Master, I have whined and crept;O Spirit, I have played the fool.Like him of old upon whose headHis follies hung in dark arrears,I groan and travail in my bed,And water it with bitter tears.I stand upon thy mountain-heads,And gaze until mine eyes are dim;The golden morning glows and spreads;The hoary vapours break and swim.I see thy blossoming fields, divine,Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees—And then that broken soul of mine—How much less beautiful than these!O Spirit, passionless, but kind,Is there in all the world, I cry,Another one so base and blind,Another one so weak as I?O Power, unchangeable, but just,Impute this one good thing to me,I sink my spirit to the dustIn utter dumb humility.

O Power to whom this earthly clime

Is but an atom in the whole,

O Poet-heart of Space and Time,

O Maker and Immortal Soul,

Within whose glowing rings are bound,

Out of whose sleepless heart had birth

The cloudy blue, the starry round,

And this small miracle of earth:

Who liv'st in every living thing,And all things are thy script and chart,Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing,And yearnest in the human heart;O Riddle with a single clue,Love, deathless, protean, secure,The ever old, the ever new,O Energy, serene and pure.

Who liv'st in every living thing,

And all things are thy script and chart,

Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing,

And yearnest in the human heart;

O Riddle with a single clue,

Love, deathless, protean, secure,

The ever old, the ever new,

O Energy, serene and pure.

Thou, who art also part of me,Whose glory I have sometime seen,O Vision of the Ought-to-be,O Memory of the Might-have-been,I have had glimpses of thy way,And moved with winds and walked with stars,But, weary, I have fallen astray,And, wounded, who shall count my scars?

Thou, who art also part of me,

Whose glory I have sometime seen,

O Vision of the Ought-to-be,

O Memory of the Might-have-been,

I have had glimpses of thy way,

And moved with winds and walked with stars,

But, weary, I have fallen astray,

And, wounded, who shall count my scars?

O Master, all my strength is gone;Unto the very earth I bow;I have no light to lead me on;With aching heart and burning brow,I lie as one that travailethIn sorrow more than he can bear;I sit in darkness as of death,And scatter dust upon my hair.

O Master, all my strength is gone;

Unto the very earth I bow;

I have no light to lead me on;

With aching heart and burning brow,

I lie as one that travaileth

In sorrow more than he can bear;

I sit in darkness as of death,

And scatter dust upon my hair.

The God within my soul hath slept,And I have shamed the nobler rule;O Master, I have whined and crept;O Spirit, I have played the fool.Like him of old upon whose headHis follies hung in dark arrears,I groan and travail in my bed,And water it with bitter tears.

The God within my soul hath slept,

And I have shamed the nobler rule;

O Master, I have whined and crept;

O Spirit, I have played the fool.

Like him of old upon whose head

His follies hung in dark arrears,

I groan and travail in my bed,

And water it with bitter tears.

I stand upon thy mountain-heads,And gaze until mine eyes are dim;The golden morning glows and spreads;The hoary vapours break and swim.I see thy blossoming fields, divine,Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees—And then that broken soul of mine—How much less beautiful than these!

I stand upon thy mountain-heads,

And gaze until mine eyes are dim;

The golden morning glows and spreads;

The hoary vapours break and swim.

I see thy blossoming fields, divine,

Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees—

And then that broken soul of mine—

How much less beautiful than these!

O Spirit, passionless, but kind,Is there in all the world, I cry,Another one so base and blind,Another one so weak as I?O Power, unchangeable, but just,Impute this one good thing to me,I sink my spirit to the dustIn utter dumb humility.

O Spirit, passionless, but kind,

Is there in all the world, I cry,

Another one so base and blind,

Another one so weak as I?

O Power, unchangeable, but just,

Impute this one good thing to me,

I sink my spirit to the dust

In utter dumb humility.

'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.'—Psalm cxxi. 1.

Æons ago ye were,Before the struggling changeful race of manWrought into being, ere the tragic stirOf human toil and deep desire began:So shall ye still remain,Lords of an elder and immutable race,When many a broad metropolis of the plain,Or thronging port by some renownèd shore,Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its placeRecalled no more.Empires have come and gone,And glorious cities fallen in their prime;Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stoneHave vanished in the dust and void of time;But ye, firm-set, secure,Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm,Are yet the same for ever; ye endureBy virtue of an old slow-ripening word,In your grey majesty and sovereign calm,Untouched, unstirred.Tempest and thunderstroke,With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core,Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak,And made your hollow gorges clash and roar,And scarred your brows in vain.Around your barren heads and granite steepsTempestuous grey battalions of the rainCharge and recharge, across the plateaued floors,Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweepsYour pitiless scaurs.The long midsummer heatChars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire:Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feetOn your wide forests wreaks his fell desire,Heaping in barbarous wreckThe treasure of your sweet and prosperous days;And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beckChannels are turned to stone and tempests wheel,On brow and breast and shining shoulder laysHis hand of steel.And yet not harsh alone,Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies,O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone,Who gather beauty round your Titan knees,As the lens gathers light.The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows,The sun at noonday folds you in his might,And swathes your forehead at his going down,Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows,His golden crown.In unregarded glooms,Where hardly shall a human footstep pass,Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums,Or lily-breathing slender pyrolasDistil their hearts for you.Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keepCoverts the lonely thrush shall wander through,With echoes that seem ever to recede,Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep,His ghostly reed.The fierce things of the wildFind food and shelter in your tenantless rocks,The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled,The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox;For far away indeedAre all the ominous noises of mankind,The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed:Your rugged haunts endure no slavery:No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind,But all are free.Therefore out of the stirOf cities and the ever-thickening pressThe poet and the worn philosopherTo your bare peaks and radiant lonelinessEscape, and breathe once moreThe wind of the Eternal: that clear mood,Which Nature and the elder ages bore,Lends them new courage and a second prime,At rest upon the cool infinitudeOf Space and Time.The mists of troublous days,The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips,The blindness gathered in Life's aimless waysFade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit stripsThe bandage from their eyes,Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see;Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprisePour over them from some divine abode,Falling as in a flood of memory,The bliss of God.I too perchance some day,When Love and Life have fallen far apart,Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward wayAnd make my dwelling in your changeless heart;And there in some quiet glade,Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell,Pure with cool water and inviolate shade,I'll build a blameless altar to the dearAnd kindly gods who guard your haunts so wellFrom hurt or fear.There I will dream day-long,And honour them in many sacred ways,With hushèd melody and uttered song,And golden meditation and with praise.I'll touch them with a prayer,To clothe my spirit as your might is cladWith all things bountiful, divine, and fair,Yet inwardly to make me hard and true,Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad,And strong like you.

Æons ago ye were,

Before the struggling changeful race of man

Wrought into being, ere the tragic stir

Of human toil and deep desire began:

So shall ye still remain,

Lords of an elder and immutable race,

When many a broad metropolis of the plain,

Or thronging port by some renownèd shore,

Is sunk in nameless ruin, and its place

Recalled no more.

Empires have come and gone,And glorious cities fallen in their prime;Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stoneHave vanished in the dust and void of time;But ye, firm-set, secure,Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm,Are yet the same for ever; ye endureBy virtue of an old slow-ripening word,In your grey majesty and sovereign calm,Untouched, unstirred.

Empires have come and gone,

And glorious cities fallen in their prime;

Divine, far-echoing, names once writ in stone

Have vanished in the dust and void of time;

But ye, firm-set, secure,

Like Treasure in the hardness of God's palm,

Are yet the same for ever; ye endure

By virtue of an old slow-ripening word,

In your grey majesty and sovereign calm,

Untouched, unstirred.

Tempest and thunderstroke,With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core,Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak,And made your hollow gorges clash and roar,And scarred your brows in vain.Around your barren heads and granite steepsTempestuous grey battalions of the rainCharge and recharge, across the plateaued floors,Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweepsYour pitiless scaurs.

Tempest and thunderstroke,

With whirlwinds dipped in midnight at the core,

Have torn strange furrows through your forest cloak,

And made your hollow gorges clash and roar,

And scarred your brows in vain.

Around your barren heads and granite steeps

Tempestuous grey battalions of the rain

Charge and recharge, across the plateaued floors,

Drenching the serried pines; and the hail sweeps

Your pitiless scaurs.

The long midsummer heatChars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire:Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feetOn your wide forests wreaks his fell desire,Heaping in barbarous wreckThe treasure of your sweet and prosperous days;And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beckChannels are turned to stone and tempests wheel,On brow and breast and shining shoulder laysHis hand of steel.

The long midsummer heat

Chars the thin leafage of your rocks in fire:

Autumn with windy robe and ruinous feet

On your wide forests wreaks his fell desire,

Heaping in barbarous wreck

The treasure of your sweet and prosperous days;

And lastly the grim tyrant, at whose beck

Channels are turned to stone and tempests wheel,

On brow and breast and shining shoulder lays

His hand of steel.

And yet not harsh alone,Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies,O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone,Who gather beauty round your Titan knees,As the lens gathers light.The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows,The sun at noonday folds you in his might,And swathes your forehead at his going down,Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows,His golden crown.

And yet not harsh alone,

Nor wild, nor bitter are your destinies,

O fair and sweet, for all your heart of stone,

Who gather beauty round your Titan knees,

As the lens gathers light.

The dawn gleams rosy on your splendid brows,

The sun at noonday folds you in his might,

And swathes your forehead at his going down,

Last leaving, where he first in pride bestows,

His golden crown.

In unregarded glooms,Where hardly shall a human footstep pass,Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums,Or lily-breathing slender pyrolasDistil their hearts for you.Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keepCoverts the lonely thrush shall wander through,With echoes that seem ever to recede,Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep,His ghostly reed.

In unregarded glooms,

Where hardly shall a human footstep pass,

Myriads of ferns and soft maianthemums,

Or lily-breathing slender pyrolas

Distil their hearts for you.

Far in your pine-clad fastnesses ye keep

Coverts the lonely thrush shall wander through,

With echoes that seem ever to recede,

Touching from pine to pine, from steep to steep,

His ghostly reed.

The fierce things of the wildFind food and shelter in your tenantless rocks,The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled,The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox;For far away indeedAre all the ominous noises of mankind,The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed:Your rugged haunts endure no slavery:No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind,But all are free.

The fierce things of the wild

Find food and shelter in your tenantless rocks,

The eagle on whose wings the dawn hath smiled,

The loon, the wild-cat, and the bright-eyed fox;

For far away indeed

Are all the ominous noises of mankind,

The slaughterer's malice and the trader's greed:

Your rugged haunts endure no slavery:

No treacherous hand is there to crush or bind,

But all are free.

Therefore out of the stirOf cities and the ever-thickening pressThe poet and the worn philosopherTo your bare peaks and radiant lonelinessEscape, and breathe once moreThe wind of the Eternal: that clear mood,Which Nature and the elder ages bore,Lends them new courage and a second prime,At rest upon the cool infinitudeOf Space and Time.

Therefore out of the stir

Of cities and the ever-thickening press

The poet and the worn philosopher

To your bare peaks and radiant loneliness

Escape, and breathe once more

The wind of the Eternal: that clear mood,

Which Nature and the elder ages bore,

Lends them new courage and a second prime,

At rest upon the cool infinitude

Of Space and Time.

The mists of troublous days,The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips,The blindness gathered in Life's aimless waysFade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit stripsThe bandage from their eyes,Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see;Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprisePour over them from some divine abode,Falling as in a flood of memory,The bliss of God.

The mists of troublous days,

The horror of fierce hands and fraudful lips,

The blindness gathered in Life's aimless ways

Fade from them, and the kind Earth-spirit strips

The bandage from their eyes,

Touches their hearts and bids them feel and see;

Beauty and Knowledge with that rare apprise

Pour over them from some divine abode,

Falling as in a flood of memory,

The bliss of God.

I too perchance some day,When Love and Life have fallen far apart,Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward wayAnd make my dwelling in your changeless heart;And there in some quiet glade,Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell,Pure with cool water and inviolate shade,I'll build a blameless altar to the dearAnd kindly gods who guard your haunts so wellFrom hurt or fear.

I too perchance some day,

When Love and Life have fallen far apart,

Shall slip the yoke and seek your upward way

And make my dwelling in your changeless heart;

And there in some quiet glade,

Some virgin plot of turf, some innermost dell,

Pure with cool water and inviolate shade,

I'll build a blameless altar to the dear

And kindly gods who guard your haunts so well

From hurt or fear.

There I will dream day-long,And honour them in many sacred ways,With hushèd melody and uttered song,And golden meditation and with praise.I'll touch them with a prayer,To clothe my spirit as your might is cladWith all things bountiful, divine, and fair,Yet inwardly to make me hard and true,Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad,And strong like you.

There I will dream day-long,

And honour them in many sacred ways,

With hushèd melody and uttered song,

And golden meditation and with praise.

I'll touch them with a prayer,

To clothe my spirit as your might is clad

With all things bountiful, divine, and fair,

Yet inwardly to make me hard and true,

Wide-seeing, passionless, immutably glad,

And strong like you.

The old grey year is near his term in sooth,And now with backward eye and soft-laid palmAwakens to a golden dream of youth,A second childhood lovely and most calm,And the smooth hour about his misty headAn awning of enchanted splendour weaves,Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red,And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves.With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreamsFar in a hollow of the sunlit wood,Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams,Nor sees the polar armies overfloodThe darkening barriers of the hills, nor hearsThe north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.

The old grey year is near his term in sooth,

And now with backward eye and soft-laid palm

Awakens to a golden dream of youth,

A second childhood lovely and most calm,

And the smooth hour about his misty head

An awning of enchanted splendour weaves,

Of maples, amber, purple and rose-red,

And droop-limbed elms down-dropping golden leaves.

With still half-fallen lids he sits and dreams

Far in a hollow of the sunlit wood,

Lulled by the murmur of thin-threading streams,

Nor sees the polar armies overflood

The darkening barriers of the hills, nor hears

The north-wind ringing with a thousand spears.

Think not, because thine inmost heart means well,Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet wordsAre like the voices of returning birdsFilling the soul with summer, or a bellThat calls the weary and the sick to prayer.Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair.

Think not, because thine inmost heart means well,

Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet words

Are like the voices of returning birds

Filling the soul with summer, or a bell

That calls the weary and the sick to prayer.

Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair.

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands,That keep this restless world at strife,Mean passions that, like choking sands,Perplex the stream of life,Pride and hot envy and cold greed,The cankers of the loftier will,What if ye triumph, and yet bleed?Ah, can ye not be still?Oh, shall there be no space, no time,No century of weal in store,No freehold in a nobler clime,Where men shall strive no more?Where every motion of the heartShall serve the spirit's master-call,Where self shall be the unseen part,And human kindness all?Or shall we but by fits and gleamsSink satisfied, and cease to rave,Find love but in the rest of dreams,And peace but in the grave?

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands,That keep this restless world at strife,Mean passions that, like choking sands,Perplex the stream of life,

Harsh thoughts, blind angers, and fierce hands,

That keep this restless world at strife,

Mean passions that, like choking sands,

Perplex the stream of life,

Pride and hot envy and cold greed,The cankers of the loftier will,What if ye triumph, and yet bleed?Ah, can ye not be still?

Pride and hot envy and cold greed,

The cankers of the loftier will,

What if ye triumph, and yet bleed?

Ah, can ye not be still?

Oh, shall there be no space, no time,No century of weal in store,No freehold in a nobler clime,Where men shall strive no more?

Oh, shall there be no space, no time,

No century of weal in store,

No freehold in a nobler clime,

Where men shall strive no more?

Where every motion of the heartShall serve the spirit's master-call,Where self shall be the unseen part,And human kindness all?

Where every motion of the heart

Shall serve the spirit's master-call,

Where self shall be the unseen part,

And human kindness all?

Or shall we but by fits and gleamsSink satisfied, and cease to rave,Find love but in the rest of dreams,And peace but in the grave?

Or shall we but by fits and gleams

Sink satisfied, and cease to rave,

Find love but in the rest of dreams,

And peace but in the grave?

Day and night pass over, rounding,Star and cloud and sun,Things of drift and shadow, emptyOf my dearest one.Soft as slumber was my baby,Beaming bright and sweet;Daintier than bloom or jewelWere his hands and feet.He was mine, mine all, mine only,Mine and his the debt;Earth and Life and Time are changers;I shall not forget.Pansies for my dear one—heartsease—Set them gently so;For his stainless lips and forehead,Pansies white as snow.Would that in the flower-grown littleGrave they dug so deep,I might rest beside him, dreamless,Smile no more, nor weep.

Day and night pass over, rounding,Star and cloud and sun,Things of drift and shadow, emptyOf my dearest one.

Day and night pass over, rounding,

Star and cloud and sun,

Things of drift and shadow, empty

Of my dearest one.

Soft as slumber was my baby,Beaming bright and sweet;Daintier than bloom or jewelWere his hands and feet.

Soft as slumber was my baby,

Beaming bright and sweet;

Daintier than bloom or jewel

Were his hands and feet.

He was mine, mine all, mine only,Mine and his the debt;Earth and Life and Time are changers;I shall not forget.

He was mine, mine all, mine only,

Mine and his the debt;

Earth and Life and Time are changers;

I shall not forget.

Pansies for my dear one—heartsease—Set them gently so;For his stainless lips and forehead,Pansies white as snow.

Pansies for my dear one—heartsease—

Set them gently so;

For his stainless lips and forehead,

Pansies white as snow.

Would that in the flower-grown littleGrave they dug so deep,I might rest beside him, dreamless,Smile no more, nor weep.

Would that in the flower-grown little

Grave they dug so deep,

I might rest beside him, dreamless,

Smile no more, nor weep.

Not, not for thee,Beloved child, the burning grasp of lifeShall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife,And clamour of midday thou shall not see;But wrapt for ever in thy quiet grave,Too little to have known the earthly lot,Time's clashing hosts above thine innocent head,Wave upon wave,Shall break, or pass as with an army's tread,And harm thee not.A few short yearsWe of the living flesh and restless brainShall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain,The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears;And then at last when all is touched and tried,Our own immutable night shall fall, and deepIn the same silent plot, O little friend,Side by thy side,In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end,We too shall sleep.

Not, not for thee,

Beloved child, the burning grasp of life

Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife,

And clamour of midday thou shall not see;

But wrapt for ever in thy quiet grave,

Too little to have known the earthly lot,

Time's clashing hosts above thine innocent head,

Wave upon wave,

Shall break, or pass as with an army's tread,

And harm thee not.

A few short yearsWe of the living flesh and restless brainShall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain,The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears;And then at last when all is touched and tried,Our own immutable night shall fall, and deepIn the same silent plot, O little friend,Side by thy side,In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end,We too shall sleep.

A few short years

We of the living flesh and restless brain

Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain,

The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears;

And then at last when all is touched and tried,

Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep

In the same silent plot, O little friend,

Side by thy side,

In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end,

We too shall sleep.

There is no break in all the wide grey sky,Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves,And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lieRound greyer stones, and the new-fallen leavesHeap the chill hollows of the naked woods,A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry,Creeps far among the charnel solitudes,Numbing the waste with mindless misery.In these bare paths, these melancholy lands,What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young?What lovers have gone forth with linkèd hands?What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung?Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away,With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay.

There is no break in all the wide grey sky,

Nor light on any field, and the wind grieves,

And talks of death. Where cold grey waters lie

Round greyer stones, and the new-fallen leaves

Heap the chill hollows of the naked woods,

A lisping moan, an inarticulate cry,

Creeps far among the charnel solitudes,

Numbing the waste with mindless misery.

In these bare paths, these melancholy lands,

What dream, or flesh, could ever have been young?

What lovers have gone forth with linkèd hands?

What flowers could ever have bloomed, what birds have sung?

Life, hopes, and human things seem wrapped away,

With shrouds and spectres, in one long decay.

Now being on the eve of death, dischargedFrom every mortal hope and earthly care,I questioned how my soul might best employThis hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind,In the brief hours yet left me for their use;Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend,Of you, Philarchus, and your company,Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed;Perchance that I may break into thine heartSome sorrowful channel for the love divine,I make this simple record of our proofIn diverse sufferings for the name of Christ,Whereof the end already for the mostIs death this day with steadfast faith endured.We were in prison many days, close-pentIn the black lower dungeon, housed with thievesAnd murderers and divers evil men;So foul a pressure, we had almost died,Even there, in struggle for the breath of lifeAmid the stench and unendurable heat;Nor could we find each other save by voiceOr touch, to know that we were yet alive,So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hardTo keep the sacred courage in our hearts,When all was blind with that unchanging night,And foul with death, and on our ears the tauntsAnd ribald curses of the soldieryFell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a loadSharper to bear, more bitter than their blows.At first, what with that dread of our abode,Our sudden apprehension, and the threatsRinging perpetually in our ears, we lostThe living fire of faith, and like poor hindsWould have denied our Lord and fallen away.Even Perpetua, whose joyous faithWas in the later holier days to beThe stay and comfort of our weaker ones,Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrankIn the mere sickness of the flesh, confusedAnd shaken by our new and horrible plight—The tender flesh, untempered and untried,Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul;For she was of a fair and delicate make,Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threatsAnd our foul prison-house were things undreamed.But little by little as our spirits grewInured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tonguesThat cheered each other to incessant prayer,We rose and faced our trouble: we recalledOur Master's sacred agony and death,Setting before our eyes the high rewardOf steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.So passed some days whose length and count we lost,Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came.One who had interest with the governorWrought our removal daily for some hoursInto an upper chamber, where we satAnd held each other's hands in childish joy,Receiving the sweet gift of light and airWith wonder and exceeding thankfulness.And then began that life of daily growthIn mutual exaltation and sweet helpThat bore us as a gently widening streamUnto the ocean of our martyrdom.Uniting all our feebler souls in one—A mightier—we reached forth with this to God.Perpetua had been troubled for her babe,Robbed of the breast and now these many daysWasting for want of food; but when that changeWhereof I spake, of light and libertyRelieved the horror of our prison gloom,They brought it to her, and she sat apart,And nursed and tended it, and soon the childWould not be parted from her arms, but throveAnd fattened, and she kept it night and day.And always at her side with sleepless careHovered the young Felicitas—a slightAnd spiritual figure—every touch and toneCharged with premonitory tenderness,Herself so near to her own motherhood.Thus lightened and relieved, PerpetuaRecovered from her silent fit. Her eyesRegained their former deep serenity,Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knewHer life should not be taken till her babeHad strengthened and outgrown the need of her.Daily we were amazed at her soft strength,Her pliant and untroubled constancy,Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death,Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.Her father, when our first few bitterest daysWere over, like a gust of grief and rage,Came to her in the prison with wild eyes,And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you sayYou are a Christian? How can any oneOf honoured blood, the child of such as me,Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badgeOnly of outcasts and rebellious slaves!'And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze,Showing the fulness of her slender height:'This vessel, father, being what it is,An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus?Or would you name it by some other name?''Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath,And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can ICall myself aught but what I surely am—A Christian!' and her father, flashing backIn silent anger, left her for that time.A special favour to PerpetuaSeemed daily to be given, and her soulWas made the frequent vessel of God's grace,Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst,Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreamsWere sent her, full of forms august, and fraughtWith signs and symbols of the glorious endWhereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake.Once—at what hour I know not, for we layIn that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost,And day and night were indistinguishable—We had been sitting a long silent while,Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer,When on a sudden, like a voice from God,Perpetua spake to us and all were roused.Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said,'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I sawA ladder leading to heaven, all of gold,Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A landOf darkness and exceeding peril layAround it, and a dragon fierce as hellGuarded its foot. We doubted who should firstEssay it, but you, Saturus, at last—So God hath marked you for especial grace—Advancing and against the cruel beastAiming the potent weapon of Christ's name—Mounted, and took me by the hand, and IThe next one following, and so the restIn order, and we entered with great joyInto a spacious garden filled with lightAnd balmy presences of love and rest;And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired,Surrounded by unnumbered myriadsOf spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed,Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyesHe welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech,Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowedNot through the ears, but forth-right to the soul,God's language of pure love. Between the lipsOf each he placed a morsel of sweet curd;And while the curd was yet within my mouth,I woke, and still the taste of it remains,Through all my body flowing like white flame,Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.'And when Perpetua had spoken, allWere silent in the darkness, pondering,But Saturus spake gently for the rest:'How perfect and acceptable must beYour soul to God, Perpetua, that thusHe bends to you, and through you speaks his will.We know now that our martyrdom is fixed,Nor need we vex us further for this life.'While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls,There came the rumour that a day was setTo hear us. Many of our former friends,Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats,Came to us to pervert us; with the restAgain Perpetua's father, worn with care;Nor could we choose but pity his distress,So miserably, with abject cries and tears,He fondled her and called her 'Domina,'And bowed his agèd body at her feet,Beseeching her by all the names she lovedTo think of him, his fostering care, his years,And also of her babe, whose life, he said,Would fail without her; but Perpetua,Sustaining by a gift of strength divineThe fulness of her noble fortitude,Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I,And all of us, my father, at this hourAre equally in God's hands, and what he willsMust be'; but when the poor old man was goneShe wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer,Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.One day, while we were at our midday meal,Our cell was entered by the soldiery,And we were seized and borne away for trial.A surging crowd had gathered, and we passedFrom street to street, hemmed in by tossing headsAnd faces cold or cruel; yet we caughtAt moments from masked lips and furtive eyesOf friends—some known to as and some unknown—Many veiled messages of love and praise.The floorways of the long basilicaFronted us with an angry multitude;And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frownedIn hundreds from the columned galleries.We were placed all together at the bar,And though at first unsteadied and confusedBy the imperial presence of the law,The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd,None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongueEach met the stern Proconsul's brief demandIn clear profession. Rapt as in a dream,Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake,I watched with wondering eyes the delicate faceAnd figure of Perpetua; for herWe that were youngest of our companyLoved with a sacred and absorbing love,A passion that our martyr's brotherly vowHad purified and made divine. She stoodIn dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed,A glowing stillness that was near a smileUpon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come,When, like a puppet struggling up the steps,Her father from the pierced and swaying crowdAppeared, unveiling in his agèd armsThe smiling visage of her babe. He graspedHer robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyesWere bent upon her. With a softening glance,And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom,The old Proconsul turned to her and said:'Lady, have pity on your father's age;Be mindful of your tender babe; this grainOf harmless incense offer for the peaceAnd welfare of the Emperor'; but she,Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes,As one that saw a vision, only said:'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued,Bending a brow upon her rough as rock,With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to breakOr snare her with a sudden stroke of fear:'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea,I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrathHe motioned a contemptuous hand and badeThe lictors scourge the old man down and forthWith rods, and as the cruel deed was done,Perpetua stood white with quivering lips,And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his criesWere mingling with the curses of the crowd,Hilarianus, calling name by name,Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phraseCondemned us to the beasts, and we returnedRejoicing to our prison. Then we wishedOur martyrdom could soon have followed, notAs doubting for our constancy, but someGrew sick under the anxious long suspense.Perpetua again was weighed uponBy grief and trouble for her babe, whom nowHer father, seeking to depress her will,Withheld and would not send it; but at lengthWord being brought her that the child indeedNo longer suffered, nor desired the breast,Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God,All were united in new bonds of hope.Now being fixed in certitude of death,We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear,The useless raiment of this world; and thus,Striving together with a single will,In daily increment of faith and power,We were much comforted by heavenly dreams,And waking visitations of God's grace.Visions of light and glory infiniteWere frequent with us, and by night or dayWoke at the very name of Christ the Lord,Taken at any moment on our lips;So that we had no longer thought or careOf life or of the living, but becameAs spirits from this earth already freed,Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh.To Saturus appeared in dreams the spaceAnd splendour of the heavenly house of God,The glowing gardens of eternal joy,The halls and chambers of the cherubim,In wreaths of endless myriads involvedThe blinding glory of the angel choir,Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and lightThe thunder of their vast antiphonies.The visions of Perpetua not lessPossessed us with their homely tenderness—As one, wherein she saw a rock-set poolAnd weeping o'er its rim a little child,Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates:Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream,Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat.She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen,And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep,And prattling in a tender childish joyRan gaily off, as infants do, to play.By this she knew his soul had found releaseFrom torment, and had entered into bliss.Quickly as by a merciful gift of God,Our vigil passed unbroken. YesternightThey moved us to the amphitheatre,Our final lodging-place on earth, and thereWe sat together at our agapéFor the last time. In silence, rapt and pale,We hearkened to the aged Saturus,Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence,Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life,God's goodness and the solemn joy of death.Perpetua was silent, but her eyesFell gently upon each of us, suffusedWith inward and eradiant light; a smilePlayed often upon her lips.While yet we sat,A tribune with a band of soldieryEntered our cell, and would have had us boundIn harsher durance, fearing our escapeBy fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua,Facing him gently with a noble noteOf wonder in her voice, and on her lipsA lingering smile of mournful irony:'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us,And rob us of our natural food and rest?Should ye not rather tend us with soft care,And so provide a comely spectacle?We shall not honour Cæsar's birthday well,If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew,Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.'The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed,Or by her grave and tender grace abashed,Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew.The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some,For others in brief sleep, broken by dreamsAnd spiritual visitations. Earliest dawnFound us arisen, and Perpetua,Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued,Besought us to take food; lest so, she said,For all the strength and courage of our hearts,Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without,Already ere the morning light was full,The din of preparation, and the humOf voices gathering in the upper tiers;Yet had we seen so often in our thoughtsThe picture of this strange and cruel death,Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp,The nearness scarcely moved us, and our handsMet in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.The day is over. Ah, my friend, how longWith its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed!Night comes, and I am still alive—even I,The least and last—with other two, reservedTo grace to-morrow's second day. The restHave suffered and with holy rapture passedInto their glory. Saturus and the menWere given to bears and leopards, but the crowdFeasted their eyes upon no cowering shape,Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They diedLike armèd men, face foremost to the beasts,With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips.Perpetua and the frail FelicitasWere seized before our eyes and roughly stripped,And shrinking and entreating, not for fear,Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne awayInto the vast arena, and hung upIn nets, naked before the multitude,For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss.Some sudden tumult of compassion seizedThe crowd, and a great murmur like a waveRose at the sight, and grew, and thundered upFrom tier to tier, deep and imperious:So white, so innocent they were, so pure:Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame;And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint,And covered with light raiment, and againLed forth, and now with smiling lips they passedPale, but unbowed, into the awful ring,Holding each other proudly by the hand.Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent,But, conscious only of the glaring eyes,She strove to hide herself as best she couldIn the torn remnants of her flimsy robe,And putting up her hands clasped back her hair,So that she might not die as one in grief,Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned,And in her loving arms caressed and raisedThe dying, bruised Felicitas. Once moreGored by the cruel beast, they both were borneSwooning and mortally stricken from the field.Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lipsParted as in a lingering ecstasy,Could not believe the end had come, but askedWhen they were to be given to the beasts.The keepers gathered round her—even they—In wondering pity—while with fearless hand,Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm,She bared her breast, and guided to its goalThe gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.The night is passing. In a few short hoursI too shall suffer for the name of Christ.A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!I know that they who left us, Saturus,Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,Await me at the opening gates of heaven.

Now being on the eve of death, discharged

From every mortal hope and earthly care,

I questioned how my soul might best employ

This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind,

In the brief hours yet left me for their use;

Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend,

Of you, Philarchus, and your company,

Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed;

Perchance that I may break into thine heart

Some sorrowful channel for the love divine,

I make this simple record of our proof

In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ,

Whereof the end already for the most

Is death this day with steadfast faith endured.

We were in prison many days, close-pentIn the black lower dungeon, housed with thievesAnd murderers and divers evil men;So foul a pressure, we had almost died,Even there, in struggle for the breath of lifeAmid the stench and unendurable heat;Nor could we find each other save by voiceOr touch, to know that we were yet alive,So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hardTo keep the sacred courage in our hearts,When all was blind with that unchanging night,And foul with death, and on our ears the tauntsAnd ribald curses of the soldieryFell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a loadSharper to bear, more bitter than their blows.At first, what with that dread of our abode,Our sudden apprehension, and the threatsRinging perpetually in our ears, we lostThe living fire of faith, and like poor hindsWould have denied our Lord and fallen away.Even Perpetua, whose joyous faithWas in the later holier days to beThe stay and comfort of our weaker ones,Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrankIn the mere sickness of the flesh, confusedAnd shaken by our new and horrible plight—The tender flesh, untempered and untried,Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul;For she was of a fair and delicate make,Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threatsAnd our foul prison-house were things undreamed.But little by little as our spirits grewInured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tonguesThat cheered each other to incessant prayer,We rose and faced our trouble: we recalledOur Master's sacred agony and death,Setting before our eyes the high rewardOf steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.

We were in prison many days, close-pent

In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves

And murderers and divers evil men;

So foul a pressure, we had almost died,

Even there, in struggle for the breath of life

Amid the stench and unendurable heat;

Nor could we find each other save by voice

Or touch, to know that we were yet alive,

So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard

To keep the sacred courage in our hearts,

When all was blind with that unchanging night,

And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts

And ribald curses of the soldiery

Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load

Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows.

At first, what with that dread of our abode,

Our sudden apprehension, and the threats

Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost

The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds

Would have denied our Lord and fallen away.

Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith

Was in the later holier days to be

The stay and comfort of our weaker ones,

Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank

In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused

And shaken by our new and horrible plight—

The tender flesh, untempered and untried,

Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul;

For she was of a fair and delicate make,

Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats

And our foul prison-house were things undreamed.

But little by little as our spirits grew

Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues

That cheered each other to incessant prayer,

We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled

Our Master's sacred agony and death,

Setting before our eyes the high reward

Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.

So passed some days whose length and count we lost,Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came.One who had interest with the governorWrought our removal daily for some hoursInto an upper chamber, where we satAnd held each other's hands in childish joy,Receiving the sweet gift of light and airWith wonder and exceeding thankfulness.And then began that life of daily growthIn mutual exaltation and sweet helpThat bore us as a gently widening streamUnto the ocean of our martyrdom.Uniting all our feebler souls in one—A mightier—we reached forth with this to God.

So passed some days whose length and count we lost,

Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came.

One who had interest with the governor

Wrought our removal daily for some hours

Into an upper chamber, where we sat

And held each other's hands in childish joy,

Receiving the sweet gift of light and air

With wonder and exceeding thankfulness.

And then began that life of daily growth

In mutual exaltation and sweet help

That bore us as a gently widening stream

Unto the ocean of our martyrdom.

Uniting all our feebler souls in one—

A mightier—we reached forth with this to God.

Perpetua had been troubled for her babe,Robbed of the breast and now these many daysWasting for want of food; but when that changeWhereof I spake, of light and libertyRelieved the horror of our prison gloom,They brought it to her, and she sat apart,And nursed and tended it, and soon the childWould not be parted from her arms, but throveAnd fattened, and she kept it night and day.And always at her side with sleepless careHovered the young Felicitas—a slightAnd spiritual figure—every touch and toneCharged with premonitory tenderness,Herself so near to her own motherhood.Thus lightened and relieved, PerpetuaRecovered from her silent fit. Her eyesRegained their former deep serenity,Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knewHer life should not be taken till her babeHad strengthened and outgrown the need of her.Daily we were amazed at her soft strength,Her pliant and untroubled constancy,Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death,Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.

Perpetua had been troubled for her babe,

Robbed of the breast and now these many days

Wasting for want of food; but when that change

Whereof I spake, of light and liberty

Relieved the horror of our prison gloom,

They brought it to her, and she sat apart,

And nursed and tended it, and soon the child

Would not be parted from her arms, but throve

And fattened, and she kept it night and day.

And always at her side with sleepless care

Hovered the young Felicitas—a slight

And spiritual figure—every touch and tone

Charged with premonitory tenderness,

Herself so near to her own motherhood.

Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua

Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes

Regained their former deep serenity,

Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew

Her life should not be taken till her babe

Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her.

Daily we were amazed at her soft strength,

Her pliant and untroubled constancy,

Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death,

Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.

Her father, when our first few bitterest daysWere over, like a gust of grief and rage,Came to her in the prison with wild eyes,And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you sayYou are a Christian? How can any oneOf honoured blood, the child of such as me,Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badgeOnly of outcasts and rebellious slaves!'And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze,Showing the fulness of her slender height:'This vessel, father, being what it is,An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus?Or would you name it by some other name?''Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath,And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can ICall myself aught but what I surely am—A Christian!' and her father, flashing backIn silent anger, left her for that time.

Her father, when our first few bitterest days

Were over, like a gust of grief and rage,

Came to her in the prison with wild eyes,

And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say

You are a Christian? How can any one

Of honoured blood, the child of such as me,

Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge

Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!'

And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze,

Showing the fulness of her slender height:

'This vessel, father, being what it is,

An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus?

Or would you name it by some other name?'

'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath,

And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I

Call myself aught but what I surely am—

A Christian!' and her father, flashing back

In silent anger, left her for that time.

A special favour to PerpetuaSeemed daily to be given, and her soulWas made the frequent vessel of God's grace,Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst,Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreamsWere sent her, full of forms august, and fraughtWith signs and symbols of the glorious endWhereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake.Once—at what hour I know not, for we layIn that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost,And day and night were indistinguishable—We had been sitting a long silent while,Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer,When on a sudden, like a voice from God,Perpetua spake to us and all were roused.Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said,'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I sawA ladder leading to heaven, all of gold,Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A landOf darkness and exceeding peril layAround it, and a dragon fierce as hellGuarded its foot. We doubted who should firstEssay it, but you, Saturus, at last—So God hath marked you for especial grace—Advancing and against the cruel beastAiming the potent weapon of Christ's name—Mounted, and took me by the hand, and IThe next one following, and so the restIn order, and we entered with great joyInto a spacious garden filled with lightAnd balmy presences of love and rest;And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired,Surrounded by unnumbered myriadsOf spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed,Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyesHe welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech,Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowedNot through the ears, but forth-right to the soul,God's language of pure love. Between the lipsOf each he placed a morsel of sweet curd;And while the curd was yet within my mouth,I woke, and still the taste of it remains,Through all my body flowing like white flame,Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.'And when Perpetua had spoken, allWere silent in the darkness, pondering,But Saturus spake gently for the rest:'How perfect and acceptable must beYour soul to God, Perpetua, that thusHe bends to you, and through you speaks his will.We know now that our martyrdom is fixed,Nor need we vex us further for this life.'

A special favour to Perpetua

Seemed daily to be given, and her soul

Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace,

Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst,

Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams

Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught

With signs and symbols of the glorious end

Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake.

Once—at what hour I know not, for we lay

In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost,

And day and night were indistinguishable—

We had been sitting a long silent while,

Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer,

When on a sudden, like a voice from God,

Perpetua spake to us and all were roused.

Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said,

'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw

A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold,

Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land

Of darkness and exceeding peril lay

Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell

Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first

Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last—

So God hath marked you for especial grace—

Advancing and against the cruel beast

Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name—

Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I

The next one following, and so the rest

In order, and we entered with great joy

Into a spacious garden filled with light

And balmy presences of love and rest;

And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired,

Surrounded by unnumbered myriads

Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed,

Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes

He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech,

Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed

Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul,

God's language of pure love. Between the lips

Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd;

And while the curd was yet within my mouth,

I woke, and still the taste of it remains,

Through all my body flowing like white flame,

Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.'

And when Perpetua had spoken, all

Were silent in the darkness, pondering,

But Saturus spake gently for the rest:

'How perfect and acceptable must be

Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus

He bends to you, and through you speaks his will.

We know now that our martyrdom is fixed,

Nor need we vex us further for this life.'

While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls,There came the rumour that a day was setTo hear us. Many of our former friends,Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats,Came to us to pervert us; with the restAgain Perpetua's father, worn with care;Nor could we choose but pity his distress,So miserably, with abject cries and tears,He fondled her and called her 'Domina,'And bowed his agèd body at her feet,Beseeching her by all the names she lovedTo think of him, his fostering care, his years,And also of her babe, whose life, he said,Would fail without her; but Perpetua,Sustaining by a gift of strength divineThe fulness of her noble fortitude,Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I,And all of us, my father, at this hourAre equally in God's hands, and what he willsMust be'; but when the poor old man was goneShe wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer,Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.

While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls,

There came the rumour that a day was set

To hear us. Many of our former friends,

Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats,

Came to us to pervert us; with the rest

Again Perpetua's father, worn with care;

Nor could we choose but pity his distress,

So miserably, with abject cries and tears,

He fondled her and called her 'Domina,'

And bowed his agèd body at her feet,

Beseeching her by all the names she loved

To think of him, his fostering care, his years,

And also of her babe, whose life, he said,

Would fail without her; but Perpetua,

Sustaining by a gift of strength divine

The fulness of her noble fortitude,

Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I,

And all of us, my father, at this hour

Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills

Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone

She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer,

Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.

One day, while we were at our midday meal,Our cell was entered by the soldiery,And we were seized and borne away for trial.A surging crowd had gathered, and we passedFrom street to street, hemmed in by tossing headsAnd faces cold or cruel; yet we caughtAt moments from masked lips and furtive eyesOf friends—some known to as and some unknown—Many veiled messages of love and praise.The floorways of the long basilicaFronted us with an angry multitude;And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frownedIn hundreds from the columned galleries.We were placed all together at the bar,And though at first unsteadied and confusedBy the imperial presence of the law,The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd,None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongueEach met the stern Proconsul's brief demandIn clear profession. Rapt as in a dream,Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake,I watched with wondering eyes the delicate faceAnd figure of Perpetua; for herWe that were youngest of our companyLoved with a sacred and absorbing love,A passion that our martyr's brotherly vowHad purified and made divine. She stoodIn dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed,A glowing stillness that was near a smileUpon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come,When, like a puppet struggling up the steps,Her father from the pierced and swaying crowdAppeared, unveiling in his agèd armsThe smiling visage of her babe. He graspedHer robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyesWere bent upon her. With a softening glance,And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom,The old Proconsul turned to her and said:'Lady, have pity on your father's age;Be mindful of your tender babe; this grainOf harmless incense offer for the peaceAnd welfare of the Emperor'; but she,Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes,As one that saw a vision, only said:'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued,Bending a brow upon her rough as rock,With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to breakOr snare her with a sudden stroke of fear:'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea,I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrathHe motioned a contemptuous hand and badeThe lictors scourge the old man down and forthWith rods, and as the cruel deed was done,Perpetua stood white with quivering lips,And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his criesWere mingling with the curses of the crowd,Hilarianus, calling name by name,Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phraseCondemned us to the beasts, and we returnedRejoicing to our prison. Then we wishedOur martyrdom could soon have followed, notAs doubting for our constancy, but someGrew sick under the anxious long suspense.Perpetua again was weighed uponBy grief and trouble for her babe, whom nowHer father, seeking to depress her will,Withheld and would not send it; but at lengthWord being brought her that the child indeedNo longer suffered, nor desired the breast,Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God,All were united in new bonds of hope.Now being fixed in certitude of death,We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear,The useless raiment of this world; and thus,Striving together with a single will,In daily increment of faith and power,We were much comforted by heavenly dreams,And waking visitations of God's grace.Visions of light and glory infiniteWere frequent with us, and by night or dayWoke at the very name of Christ the Lord,Taken at any moment on our lips;So that we had no longer thought or careOf life or of the living, but becameAs spirits from this earth already freed,Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh.To Saturus appeared in dreams the spaceAnd splendour of the heavenly house of God,The glowing gardens of eternal joy,The halls and chambers of the cherubim,In wreaths of endless myriads involvedThe blinding glory of the angel choir,Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and lightThe thunder of their vast antiphonies.The visions of Perpetua not lessPossessed us with their homely tenderness—As one, wherein she saw a rock-set poolAnd weeping o'er its rim a little child,Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates:Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream,Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat.She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen,And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep,And prattling in a tender childish joyRan gaily off, as infants do, to play.By this she knew his soul had found releaseFrom torment, and had entered into bliss.

One day, while we were at our midday meal,

Our cell was entered by the soldiery,

And we were seized and borne away for trial.

A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed

From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads

And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught

At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes

Of friends—some known to as and some unknown—

Many veiled messages of love and praise.

The floorways of the long basilica

Fronted us with an angry multitude;

And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned

In hundreds from the columned galleries.

We were placed all together at the bar,

And though at first unsteadied and confused

By the imperial presence of the law,

The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd,

None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue

Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand

In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream,

Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake,

I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face

And figure of Perpetua; for her

We that were youngest of our company

Loved with a sacred and absorbing love,

A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow

Had purified and made divine. She stood

In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed,

A glowing stillness that was near a smile

Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come,

When, like a puppet struggling up the steps,

Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd

Appeared, unveiling in his agèd arms

The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped

Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes

Were bent upon her. With a softening glance,

And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom,

The old Proconsul turned to her and said:

'Lady, have pity on your father's age;

Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain

Of harmless incense offer for the peace

And welfare of the Emperor'; but she,

Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes,

As one that saw a vision, only said:

'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued,

Bending a brow upon her rough as rock,

With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break

Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear:

'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea,

I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath

He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade

The lictors scourge the old man down and forth

With rods, and as the cruel deed was done,

Perpetua stood white with quivering lips,

And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries

Were mingling with the curses of the crowd,

Hilarianus, calling name by name,

Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase

Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned

Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished

Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not

As doubting for our constancy, but some

Grew sick under the anxious long suspense.

Perpetua again was weighed upon

By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now

Her father, seeking to depress her will,

Withheld and would not send it; but at length

Word being brought her that the child indeed

No longer suffered, nor desired the breast,

Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God,

All were united in new bonds of hope.

Now being fixed in certitude of death,

We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear,

The useless raiment of this world; and thus,

Striving together with a single will,

In daily increment of faith and power,

We were much comforted by heavenly dreams,

And waking visitations of God's grace.

Visions of light and glory infinite

Were frequent with us, and by night or day

Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord,

Taken at any moment on our lips;

So that we had no longer thought or care

Of life or of the living, but became

As spirits from this earth already freed,

Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh.

To Saturus appeared in dreams the space

And splendour of the heavenly house of God,

The glowing gardens of eternal joy,

The halls and chambers of the cherubim,

In wreaths of endless myriads involved

The blinding glory of the angel choir,

Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light

The thunder of their vast antiphonies.

The visions of Perpetua not less

Possessed us with their homely tenderness—

As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool

And weeping o'er its rim a little child,

Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates:

Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream,

Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat.

She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen,

And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep,

And prattling in a tender childish joy

Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play.

By this she knew his soul had found release

From torment, and had entered into bliss.

Quickly as by a merciful gift of God,Our vigil passed unbroken. YesternightThey moved us to the amphitheatre,Our final lodging-place on earth, and thereWe sat together at our agapéFor the last time. In silence, rapt and pale,We hearkened to the aged Saturus,Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence,Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life,God's goodness and the solemn joy of death.Perpetua was silent, but her eyesFell gently upon each of us, suffusedWith inward and eradiant light; a smilePlayed often upon her lips.

Quickly as by a merciful gift of God,

Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight

They moved us to the amphitheatre,

Our final lodging-place on earth, and there

We sat together at our agapé

For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale,

We hearkened to the aged Saturus,

Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence,

Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life,

God's goodness and the solemn joy of death.

Perpetua was silent, but her eyes

Fell gently upon each of us, suffused

With inward and eradiant light; a smile

Played often upon her lips.

While yet we sat,A tribune with a band of soldieryEntered our cell, and would have had us boundIn harsher durance, fearing our escapeBy fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua,Facing him gently with a noble noteOf wonder in her voice, and on her lipsA lingering smile of mournful irony:'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us,And rob us of our natural food and rest?Should ye not rather tend us with soft care,And so provide a comely spectacle?We shall not honour Cæsar's birthday well,If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew,Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.'The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed,Or by her grave and tender grace abashed,Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew.The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some,For others in brief sleep, broken by dreamsAnd spiritual visitations. Earliest dawnFound us arisen, and Perpetua,Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued,Besought us to take food; lest so, she said,For all the strength and courage of our hearts,Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without,Already ere the morning light was full,The din of preparation, and the humOf voices gathering in the upper tiers;Yet had we seen so often in our thoughtsThe picture of this strange and cruel death,Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp,The nearness scarcely moved us, and our handsMet in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.

While yet we sat,

A tribune with a band of soldiery

Entered our cell, and would have had us bound

In harsher durance, fearing our escape

By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua,

Facing him gently with a noble note

Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips

A lingering smile of mournful irony:

'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us,

And rob us of our natural food and rest?

Should ye not rather tend us with soft care,

And so provide a comely spectacle?

We shall not honour Cæsar's birthday well,

If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew,

Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.'

The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed,

Or by her grave and tender grace abashed,

Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew.

The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some,

For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams

And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn

Found us arisen, and Perpetua,

Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued,

Besought us to take food; lest so, she said,

For all the strength and courage of our hearts,

Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without,

Already ere the morning light was full,

The din of preparation, and the hum

Of voices gathering in the upper tiers;

Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts

The picture of this strange and cruel death,

Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp,

The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands

Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.

The day is over. Ah, my friend, how longWith its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed!Night comes, and I am still alive—even I,The least and last—with other two, reservedTo grace to-morrow's second day. The restHave suffered and with holy rapture passedInto their glory. Saturus and the menWere given to bears and leopards, but the crowdFeasted their eyes upon no cowering shape,Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They diedLike armèd men, face foremost to the beasts,With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips.Perpetua and the frail FelicitasWere seized before our eyes and roughly stripped,And shrinking and entreating, not for fear,Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne awayInto the vast arena, and hung upIn nets, naked before the multitude,For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss.Some sudden tumult of compassion seizedThe crowd, and a great murmur like a waveRose at the sight, and grew, and thundered upFrom tier to tier, deep and imperious:So white, so innocent they were, so pure:Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame;And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint,And covered with light raiment, and againLed forth, and now with smiling lips they passedPale, but unbowed, into the awful ring,Holding each other proudly by the hand.

The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long

With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed!

Night comes, and I am still alive—even I,

The least and last—with other two, reserved

To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest

Have suffered and with holy rapture passed

Into their glory. Saturus and the men

Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd

Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape,

Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died

Like armèd men, face foremost to the beasts,

With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips.

Perpetua and the frail Felicitas

Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped,

And shrinking and entreating, not for fear,

Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away

Into the vast arena, and hung up

In nets, naked before the multitude,

For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss.

Some sudden tumult of compassion seized

The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave

Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up

From tier to tier, deep and imperious:

So white, so innocent they were, so pure:

Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame;

And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint,

And covered with light raiment, and again

Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed

Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring,

Holding each other proudly by the hand.

Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent,But, conscious only of the glaring eyes,She strove to hide herself as best she couldIn the torn remnants of her flimsy robe,And putting up her hands clasped back her hair,So that she might not die as one in grief,Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned,And in her loving arms caressed and raisedThe dying, bruised Felicitas. Once moreGored by the cruel beast, they both were borneSwooning and mortally stricken from the field.Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lipsParted as in a lingering ecstasy,Could not believe the end had come, but askedWhen they were to be given to the beasts.The keepers gathered round her—even they—In wondering pity—while with fearless hand,Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm,She bared her breast, and guided to its goalThe gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.

Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent,

But, conscious only of the glaring eyes,

She strove to hide herself as best she could

In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe,

And putting up her hands clasped back her hair,

So that she might not die as one in grief,

Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned,

And in her loving arms caressed and raised

The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more

Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne

Swooning and mortally stricken from the field.

Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips

Parted as in a lingering ecstasy,

Could not believe the end had come, but asked

When they were to be given to the beasts.

The keepers gathered round her—even they—

In wondering pity—while with fearless hand,

Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm,

She bared her breast, and guided to its goal

The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.

The night is passing. In a few short hoursI too shall suffer for the name of Christ.A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!I know that they who left us, Saturus,Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,Await me at the opening gates of heaven.

The night is passing. In a few short hours

I too shall suffer for the name of Christ.

A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!

I know that they who left us, Saturus,

Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,

Await me at the opening gates of heaven.

A little while, a year agone,I knew her for a romping child,A dimple and a glance that shoneWith idle mischief when she smiled.To-day she passed me in the press,And turning with a quick surpriseI wondered at her stateliness,I wondered at her altered eyes.To me the street was just the same,The people and the city's stir;But life had kindled into flame,And all the world was changed for her.I watched her in the crowded ways,A noble form, a queenly head,With all the woman in her gaze,The conscious woman in her tread.

A little while, a year agone,I knew her for a romping child,A dimple and a glance that shoneWith idle mischief when she smiled.

A little while, a year agone,

I knew her for a romping child,

A dimple and a glance that shone

With idle mischief when she smiled.

To-day she passed me in the press,And turning with a quick surpriseI wondered at her stateliness,I wondered at her altered eyes.

To-day she passed me in the press,

And turning with a quick surprise

I wondered at her stateliness,

I wondered at her altered eyes.

To me the street was just the same,The people and the city's stir;But life had kindled into flame,And all the world was changed for her.

To me the street was just the same,

The people and the city's stir;

But life had kindled into flame,

And all the world was changed for her.

I watched her in the crowded ways,A noble form, a queenly head,With all the woman in her gaze,The conscious woman in her tread.

I watched her in the crowded ways,

A noble form, a queenly head,

With all the woman in her gaze,

The conscious woman in her tread.

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