Читать книгу Authors and Writers Associated with Morristown - Julia Keese Colles - Страница 22

I mused on Claudian's tinseled eulogies,

And turned to seek in other dusty tomes,

Through the wild waste of those degenerate days,

Some living word, some utterance of the heart;

Till as when one lone peak of Jura flames

With sudden sunbeams breaking through the mist,

So from the dull page of Theodoret

A flash of splendor rends the clouds of life,

And bares to view the awful throne of love.

The bishop's tale is meagre, but as leaven,

It works in thoughts that rise and fill the soul.

*. … *. … *. … *. … *

He felt the soil, long drenched with martyr's blood,

Send healing through his feet to all his frame.

He drank the air that trembled with the joys

Of opening Paradise, and bared his soul

To spirits whispering, "Come with us to-day!"

The longings of his life were satisfied,

He stood at last in Rome, Christ's Capital,

The gate of heaven and not the mouth of hell.

Suddenly, rudely, comes disastrous change.

He starts and gazes, as the glory of the saints

Fades round him and the angel songs are stilled:

A world of hatred hides the throne of love;

Hell opens in the gleam of myriad eyes

Hungry for slaughter, in a hush that tells

How in each heart a tiger pants for blood.

Into the vast arena files a band

Of Goths, the prisoners of Pollentia—

Freemen, the dread of Rome, but yesterday,

Now doomed as slaves to wield those terrible arms

In mutual murder, kill and die, amid

The exultation of their nation's foes.

Pausing before the throne, with well-taught lips

They utter words they know not; but Rome hears;

"Cæsar, we greet thee who are now to die!"

Then part and line the lists; the trumpet blares

For the onset, sword and javelin gleam, and all

Is clash of smitten shields and glitter of arms.

Without the tumult, one of mighty limb

And towering frame stands moveless; never yet

A nobler captive had made sport for Rome.

Throngs watch that eye of Mars, Apollo's grace,

The thews of Hercules, in cruel hope

That ten may fall before him ere he falls.

They bid him charge; he moves not; shield and sword

Sink to his feet; his eyes are filled with light

That is not of the battle. Three draw near

Whose valor or despair has cut a path

Through the thick mass of combat, and their swords,

Reeking with carnage, seek a victim new

The glory of whose death may win them grace

With that fierce multitude. Telemachus

Gazes, and half the horror turns to joy

As the fair Goth undaunted bares his breast

Before the butchers, and awaits the blow

With peaceful brow, a firm and tender lip

Quivering as with a breath of inward prayer,

And hands that move as mindful of the cross.

And with a mighty cry, "Christ! he is thine!

He is my brother! Help!" The monk leaps forth,

Gathers in hands unarmed the points of steel,

Throws back the startled warriors, and commands,

"In Christ's name, hold! Ye people of Rome give ear!

God will have mercy and not sacrifice.

He who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar,

And smitten again in those he died to save,

Is silent now in his great oracles.

The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair,

Speaks thus through me:—'In Rome, my capital,

Let love be Lord, and close the mouth of hell.

I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'"

The slaughter paused, he ceased, and all was still,

But baffled myriads with their cruel thumbs

Point earthward, and the bloody three advance:

Their swords meet in his heart. Honorius

Cries "Save,"—too late, he is already safe—

And turns, with tears like Peter's, to proclaim,

The festival dissolved: nor from that hour

Ever again did Rome, Christ's capital,

Make holiday with blood, but hand in hand

The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair

Honored the martyr—Saint Telemachus,

And love was Lord and closed the mouth of hell.