Читать книгу Henry Martyn, Saint and Scholar - George Smith - Страница 5

Then came another of priestly garb and mien,

A young man still wanting the years of Christ,

But long since with the saints….

A poet with the contemplative gaze

And listening ear, but quick of force and eye,

Who fought the wrong without, the wrong within,

And, being a pure saint, like those of old,

Abased himself and all the precious gifts

God gave him, flinging all before the feet

Of Him whose name he bore—a fragile form

Upon whose hectic cheek there burned a flush

That was not health; who lived as Xavier lived,

And died like him upon the burning sands,

Untended, yet whose creed was far from his

As pole from pole; whom grateful England still

Loves.

The awakened gaze

Turned wholly from the earth, on things of heaven

He dwelt both day and night. The thought of God

Filled him with infinite joy; his craving soul

Dwelt on Him as a feast; as did the soul

Of rapt Francesco in his holy cell

In blest Assisi; and he knew the pain,

The deep despondence of the saint, the doubt,

The consciousness of dark offence, the joy

Of full assurance last, when heaven itself

Stands open to the ecstasy of faith.

The relentless lie

Of Islam … he chose to bear, who knew

How swift the night should fall on him, and burned

To save one soul alive while yet 'twas day.

This filled his thoughts, this only, and for this

On the pure altar of his soul he heaped

A costlier sacrifice, this youth in years,

For whom Love called, and loving hands, and hope

Of childish lives around him, offering these,

Like all the rest, to God.

Yet when his hour

Was come to leave his England, was it strange

His weakling life pined for the parting kiss

Of love and kindred, whom his prescient soul

Knew he should see no more?

… The woman of his love

Feared to leave all and give her life to his,

And both to God; his sisters passed away

To heaven, nor saw him more. There seemed on earth

Nothing for which to live, except the Faith,

Only the Faith, the Faith! until his soul

Wore thin her prison bars, and he was fain

To rest awhile, or work no more the work

For which alone he lived.

A Vision of Saints. By LEWIS MORRIS.