Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: HENRY MARTYN, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: HENRY MARTYN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Then came another, of priestly garb and mien
Last Line: "upon the ungrateful sand of heathen hearts."
Subject(s): Martyn, Henry (1781-1812)


Then came another, of priestly garb and mien,
A young man still, wanting the years of Christ,
But long since with the saints. Not as the priest
Of Sarum, or that peasant pilgrim, he.
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, though his face I knew not. And my guide,
Breathing his name, spake thus:

"In Truro town,
Hard by the wave-worn headlands of the West,
When now the eighteenth century of the Faith
Drew near its end, its martyr that should be
Was Henry Martyn born. His father's arm
Long in the dark abysses of the mine
Slaved for his children's bread. The little son,
A weakly boy and studious, sate apart,
Shunning the school's rude games, too oft the sport
Of coarser wills and stronger, till he found
A stout young arm, upon whose ready aid
He rested and was happy; and his keen
And vivid brain grew stronger, and his thirst
For knowledge, till at length, a boy in age,
To Granta's venerable halls he went,
A student not obscure, and with hard toil
Laboured four happy years of blameless youth,
And took at last the foremost place, and rose
To fame and honour of men, and reaped the high
Reward of studious hours, the untroubled life
Spent in the contemplative courts where comes
No murmur of the world, but only thought
And knowledge draw the thinker, till sometimes
The careless soul, missing the wholesome stir
Of daily care, grows slothful, the quick brain
Sinks low in indolent ease and base content,
And bears no worthy fruit.
But not for him
These perils were, because a higher thirst --
Higher than wealth, or ease, or honour of men,
Or learning's self -- possessed his yearning soul;
When the same friend who helped his friendless youth,
Now to a full and finer manhood grown,
Bade him do all things not for fame of men,
But for God's glory. And his sister's voice
Thrilled through him with the pure ascetic glow
Of simple fervour. Not at first his soul
Gave heed, impatient with those warning words,
And fired with youthful pride and hot pursuit
Of flying knowledge; but at length the spark
Kindled within him, and the sudden loss
Of the dear father of his love laid bare
The chambers of his soul, and filled his heart
With other thoughts than earth's, till, when he gained
The meed of all his hopes, which opened to him
The path of earthly honour, the youth's soul
Knew, with a sick surprise, his empty hand
Grasped but a shadow.
Then 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.

Therefore, though all men smiled on him, though smooth
Life's path lay stretched before him -- wealth and fame,
The dignity of learning, the high meed
Which crowns the pleader's skill, the Senate itself,
Waiting his keen young brain -- he turned from all
To that untried, laborious way which lay
Across wide seas, to spend a lonely life
Spreading the light he loved, beneath the glare
Of tropic skies, by desert sands and wilds
Far from all Christian converse, and the gain
Of our long eighteen centuries, and pine
Alone 'mid millions, knowing not his Lord;
The Brahmins' fables, the relentless lie
Of Islam -- these 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, and, week by week
Tossed on the wandering wave, driven back once more
By battling winds, looked with deep longing eyes
On the dear shore? Yet never did he pray
The cup might pass from him, not when the curse
Of war assailed his gentle eyes and wrung
His soul with agony. A priest, he filled
All priestly duty, though his shuddering soul
Shrank from the sight of blood. Through storm and stress
And perils of the sea, through all despite
Of scoffing men, who lent no willing ear
To his high message, still the humble saint
Was instant in his work, and bore the jeers
And unbelief around him, he who left
His place of honour for the Faith, and did
His uncomplaining service. Thus at last
He reached the Indian shore, where he would spend
His life in saintly labours till the end.

There ten long years he toiled on, day by day,
Writing his patient record of a soul
Which struggles for the Right. The home of friends
Who cared for him and Heaven, and would have kept him,
Impatient for his work, he left behind,
And straight, across the burning plains, alone,
Sped, cheerful, where no ray of Christ had risen
To break the age-long gloom; there, solitary,
Unfriended, solaced by no answering soul,
With little blessing on his work, or fruit
Of his great toil, reproaching every hour
He lost for God, knowing how short his span,
And how immense his task, now preaching oft
To careless ears, now spending his keen brain
As when he wrought for fame and honour of men,
With Munshi and with Pundit, if his skill
Might give to each, in his own tongue, the Word,
He spent his youth. Last, when his task of love
Was done, and seven long years of ceaseless toil
Had worked their will on him, there came fresh griefs
To try his faith. 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;
The last of all his race, unloved, alone --
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.
Then over seas
Once more he took his way, leaving the land
Where he had hoped to die, along the roll
Of the warm tropic wave. Once more he saw
Ceylon's green palm-fringed shore, the sumptuous tomb
Of him, his brother of old, who strove like him
To spread the Faith, and, like him, died for it,
S. Francis Xavier, and among the caves
Of storied Elephanta stayed; but soon,
His great zeal firing him, took ship again,
And, after weary wanderings, gained at last
The Persian wastes, and dared the difficult track
To Shiraz through the desert. Day by day
The fierce sun blazed upon the sands; by night
The dead air, like a furnace blast, assailed
His fevered frame, and parched him and consumed him
With horrible thirst, and robbed his eyes of sleep
Till life was well-nigh spent. And then the hand
Which seemed to guide him always led his feet
To a sweet vale, England in sight and sound,
Hidden in the dreadful waste, where cool airs blew,
Streams ran, and birds sang clear, and wheat was gold.
Then all his faithful heart burst forth in praise,
As did the Kingly Bard's: 'He maketh us
To lie down in green pastures, and beside
The clear cool waters leadeth.' Thus his soul
Made laud, and was content, praising the Lord,
In Shiraz.
There one happy toilsome year
He sojourned. Day by day the sages came
Who held the faith of Islam, and would hear
Of Him whose Name he taught. Through the long days
He laboured at his work, spending the gifts
God lent him, for the Faith. Last, when at length
The Gospel spake to Persian ears, he bore
His work to Tabriz, where he sought the King,
Faring by night along the moonlit vales,
Through bowery lanes, where the loud nightingales
Thrilled the white fields with song. Then feverish heats
Burned him upon his way, and sapped his strength;
And when, weak unto death, he reached the place
Where the King sojourned late, he found him not,
Only his courtiers' scorn. Then his great heart
Broke in impatient words. 'My God,' he cried,
'What fault is mine that men should mock me thus,
Save only love for Thee?' And when he turned
Despairing homeward, soon again he pined
Prostrate in pain, the fever seizing him
Two weary months, and his brain burned like fire,
A present death in life. Yet not the less
His faithful soul bare witness to the Faith.
Rejection, sickness, torment -- what are these
To the believer's thought! And when he rose,
Musing upon the enormous waste which lay
'Twixt him and home, whither, his brave work done,
His longing eyes were turned, his weary heart
Fainted within him, and he looked no more
To press the hands he loved. Hopeless he fared
On his last journey. 'Neath the fabled peak
Of Ararat he stayed awhile, to rest
In the hushed convent with the Armenian monks,
A cheerful guest. And then again the grip
Of fever clutched him, and depressed his soul
With sad forebodings. Yet he struggled still
Towards Stamboul, though the plague slew day by day
Its thousands, and the affrighted tribes around
Fled the advancing Death. 'Thy will be done;
Living or dying, oh, remember me!'
Thus writes the dying saint. And then long days
Of misery, which his languid hand records,
When now a fire consumed him, now the cold
Of palsy left him ice. Laid on the ground,
His soul was filled with God, his Company,
His Friend, his Comforter. 'Oh, when shall Time
Be done, and that new Heaven and Earth appear
Where dwelleth Righteousness?' Thus his hand traced
Its last pure words. Then but a few brief hours,
And he unfriended, far from help and home,
Alone, but having Christ, with no kind hand
To close the eyes which saw the joys unseen
And vision of the blest; worn out, in pain --
Whether of fever or the deadly force
Of pestilence, none knoweth -- breathed his last,
And bore the martyr's palm."

And then once more
I seemed to hear a voice, -- was it my guide,
Or my own soul? -- discourse:
"Shall any ask,
Was all thy suffering naught, because the strength
Of Error still bears sway? Ah! too brief life,
So jealous of each hour, and counting lost
Each day not vowed to Heaven. What, hadst thou known
Thy labour thus in vain? Fourscore long years
Have passed since thou, like kindred souls to-day,
Diedst for the Truth; the long, slow, barren years
Mock us and all our toil. Hadst thou done well
To reap a little while thy well-earned meed
Of Thought in lettered ease? Hadst thou done well
To give thee to the pleader's art, and strive
To make the Wrong seem Right, and sink at last
To wealth and praise of men, seeking, a judge
Scorning the graceless sophistries of old,
To cure thy former ill -- thou whose keen brain
Had doubtless borne thee far? Hadst thou done well
To doze slow hours, sunk deep in mitred ease,
Soothed by sweet chants, lost in the vaporous grey;
Or, a great preacher, mark the moistened eyes,
Flushed cheeks, and quick-drawn breaths thy facile tongue
Had stirred, thyself unmoved; or shine a light
Of the Senate, till thy peers in high debate
Bowed to thy eloquent speech, and thou shouldst guide
The helm of our great England? Was it well
To hold this strange Twin-Nature of our Race,
Which soars so high and sinks so low, as thou,
Unutterably vile in thought, in will,
In every action vile, trampling thy soul
In dust before thy God, who made thee too,
And all things, and has left us free to take
The path we would, to Heaven or hell, and knows
His work not wholly base, nor framed too fine
For this our place of trial? Nay, I know
How many ways of safety He displays
To the awakened soul the way thou trodd'st,
The way of San Francesco's blessed cell,
The honourable trivial road which leads
By silent saintly liturgies of home
Up to the selfsame Heaven. But this I know
Is certain, that thy lifelong sacrifice
Was best for thee, and best the voice which called
From love and friendship, ay, from all good things
Which make life happy, to the burning plains
Where thou shouldst spend thy few and evil days
Of toil and suffering, pouring forth thy life
Like water for the Faith, shedding thy blood
As did of old the Martyrs, drop by drop,
Upon the ungrateful sand of heathen hearts."





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