Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FOOTSTEPS OF PROSERPINE: 4. SAINT VERONICA, by NEWMAN HOWARD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FOOTSTEPS OF PROSERPINE: 4. SAINT VERONICA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Veronica, speedwell, eyelet of the hedge
Last Line: Life conquer death, and love at last prevail.
Subject(s): Death; Life; Love; Saints; Tears; Dead, The


VERONICA, Speedwell, eyelet of the hedge,
Maiden whose mantle print is of the sky,
Yon rebel lover, lightly passing by,
Recked not you flung your raiment for a pledge
That Love shall yet prevail; nor knew he trod --
Blue heaven above him, drops of heaven below --
Miniatures Mother Earth would fain bestow,
Warm from her breast, of that one smile of God;
Types of that blue entablature above
The pillars of this desecrated fane;
Tears out of heaven to ease Prometheus' pain;
Circlets of azure woven in looms of Love.

But I, my Speedwell, -- seeing your tiny plaid
Wrought with like woof and legend, -- have I missed
The meaning of that ancient herbalist
Who named you from the Galilean maid?
Hers was the print of Him whose countenance
Mirrored the azure -- Him who, first of men,
Dared name the Power that flings the dice of pain
Prometheus' judge and lord of Fate and Chance,
"Father!" -- O marvel! -- Him who set at naught
Rome, at whose frontier beat a baffled world,
Who reared his cross above her eagles furled,
Who conquered all her legions with a Thought!

To Him the fainting maiden's feet were led:
She scarce came nigh Him 'mid the adoring press,
Touched but his raiment, moaned her long distress:
"Woman, thy faith hath made thee whole," He said.
-- Once more they throng, but curse the healer now:
His soul, a shining heaven, with hell at bay,
Cries, "Lord, forgive! they know not what they say!"
The woman weeps to see his sanguined brow.
He bears his cross: they deem the thing a play.
Blinded, He staggers; blood obscures his sight.
They spit, they goad Him: who shall help his plight?
Who come betwixt the wolves' teeth and the prey?

Helpless at last He falls, the brow unstanched;
They howl their joy, they froth their venomed hate:
No voice, no visage seems compassionate.
None? Nay, behold! A woman, tearful, blanched,
Braves the ranked cohorts, breaks the serried line,
Lays her white kerchief on his bleeding face,
Dries, cools his brow, revives Him with the grace
Of woman's love for which the godlike pine.
Speechless He thanks her, mute a promise makes;
She only knows his look the deed approves, --
Jesus despairs not while one woman loves:
He passes glad; not now his God forsakes.

She with the many mingles, weeping sore,
Deaf to the hooting crowd, the obscene jest,
Clasping the kerchief closely to her breast,
Her keepsake when the Master is no more.
-- No more? Alas, O blue soft turtle dove!
O crested lark, whose songs no longer wake
The Master dreaming by Capernaum's lake,
Dreaming of faith and brotherhood and love!
O sacrificial Bird imbrued with gore,
Who singest in the human jackal's den
Of heavenly kingdoms in the hearts of men,
Is this thy song's end? Wilt thou sing no more?

Back to Capernaum, past the Vale of Tears,
The kerchief in her breast to assuage her woes;
Past Shiloh, Bethel, back the maiden goes:
An impress on the wimple fold appears!
Faint like a film of smoke at first, the lines
Watered with weeping, ever wax more bold;
Until at length, O wondrous to be told!
Forth from the weft the face of Jesus shines!
The portrait breathes; the soul of Christ is there,
Blown on the fabric, as when masters limn;
She gazes long, her heart communes with Him:
Radiant He looks, as last He looked on her.

She reads his promise, knows her deed's reward:
"Take to thy bosom this my blood, and lo,
Within thy breast my lineaments shall grow."
She reads his look, and knows her living Lord.
So, gazing ever, dragged at last to Rome,
Her country fallen, her friends the tyrant's prey,
She healed an emperor with the weft, they say:
Then, homeless, she who succoured Christ, went home. --
So runs the tale. Yet still the tyrants wait
Pride-sick, unhealed; and still beneath their rod
Men bleed unholpen by the face of God, --
By Love aggrieved, or Love compassionate.

Unhealed we wait, my Speedwell, whom they name
Veronica, namesake of the woman blest
With Love's true image; (Speedwell, have I guessed
Your title's meaning?) -- yet while blossoms fall,
And strew in spring the narrow lanes of life
With replicas of Love's true azure tinct,
Still may we hope our mortal lives are linked
Across this stubble waste of woe and strife,
These steeps which hourly hear an Orpheus wail,
These rocks resounding with Prometheus' groan,
To some great kindly life which moulds our own,
By whom our ills are weighed, our sorrows known,
Who rules that good shall prosper, evil fail,
Life conquer Death, and Love at last prevail.





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