Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: S. CECILIA, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: S. CECILIA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Then, as we passed, we came on one whose face
Last Line: "the church on earth, the church of saints in heaven."
Subject(s): Cecilia, Saint (3d Century); Saints


Then, as we passed, we came on one whose face
The whole world knows -- so fine a soul and hand
Saw her long since, and fixed her for our eyes --
A maiden with rapt gaze, and at her side
An idle music; listening half entranced
To some celestial harmonies unheard
Save by pure souls like hers. There was no need
To name her name, when thus the tale began:

"Once in old Rome, long centuries ago,
There lived a pair, noble in rank and soul,
Who, though the Pagan idols still bare sway,
Knelt not to them, holding the faith of Christ.
And one fair girl was theirs, Cecilia,
Nourished on thoughts of virgin purity
Which filled her cloistered gaze. No earthly love
Might touch her pure pale soul, which always viewed,
Lit only by the frosty moon of faith,
The cold clear peaks of soaring duty pierce
The still blue vault of heaven, as soar the snows
Of lifeless Alp on Alp, where comes no herb
Nor blade of green, but all the icy world
Dreams wrapt in robes of sterile purity.

For evermore to her rapt eyes the skies
Stood open, evermore to her rapt ear
Celestial music came, and strains unheard
By mortal ear amid the throng of life
Hushed all the lower tones and noise of earth
With heavenly harmonies; and the high notes
Of the invisible chanting seraphim
Would occupy her life, until her soul,
Rapt by the ravishing sound, would seem to 'scape
From her raised eyes, and float, and speed itself
Between the rhythmic wings of harmony,
Even to Heaven's gate, and was transformed and lost
Its earthly taint; and sometimes on her lips
Thin traces of the heavenly music dwelt,
Which bound the listener fast, and of her skill
Some half-remembered echoes, faint yet sweet,
Were born again on lute or pipe, and linked
The world with Heaven; the immortal chanting quires
With earth's poor song; the anthems of the blest
With our weak halting voices, till the being
Of that fair virginal interpreter,
Pierced with keen melodies, and folded round
With golden links of gracious harmonies,
Was all possest of Heaven, and to her thought
It seemed a guardian angel stood by her
In sleep or waking hours, so that no care
For earth or earthly love might press on her.
Such sweetness touched her voice; the starry quires
Would hearken pleased, and voices not of earth
Mingled with hers harmonious, and she drew
From voice and hand such descants as the skies
Themselves had envied, as with pipe on pipe
Conjoined with wedded notes and varying tones
She made high music to our Lord in heaven.

Now, when this maiden lost in dreaming thought
Was of full age, her father bade her wed
A noble Roman youth, Valerian,
A Pagan yet; but she, whose filial love
Constrained her to obey, beneath her robes
Of marriage hid a robe of penance still,
And to her husband, whom indeed she loved
With wifely love, confessed her mystic tale --
How night and day, whether she slept or woke,
A ghostly presence, standing at her side,
Kept watch and ward, nor left her. And when he
Asked sight of him, and proof, she bade him seek
The saintly Urban in the Catacombs,
Where he lay hid, and he consenting went,
And rose converted from his old unfaith
And was baptized; and when, a Christian now,
He sought his home again, he heard within
Enchanting music strange, and strains divine;
And long time listening rapt, at last he came
To his wife's chamber, and beheld, indeed,
His eyes being ope ed by his faith, a form
Celestial standing by her, with a crown
Of roses in each hand, in scent and hue
Immortal, and the Angel as they knelt
Crowned each with them -- the crown of martyrdom.

And then, because the Lord Valerian
Obeyed so well, the Angel bade him ask
What boon he would. And he: 'My lord, I have
A brother of my love, Tiburtius;
Let him believe.' And he made answer to him,
'So shall it be, and ye shall both attain
The martyr's crown.' And then he passed away.
And presently Tiburtius, entering,
Though yet he might not see the roses, knew
Their fresh immortal sweetness flood the air
With fragrance, and he heard the gracious words
Cecilia spake, and all her proofs inspired
Of Heaven and of the truth, and so his heart
Was touched and he baptized and held the Faith.

But when the Pagan Lord, Almachius,
Who governed, heard these things, he bade them cease
To call on Christ, and when they would not, sent them
To prison dungeons foul, and thence to death.

Last, when the brothers died, his pitiless rage
Summoned Cecilia. Her, with threats of pain
And horrible death, he bade do sacrifice
To the false gods. She, with a smile of scorn,
Denied him; and the people round who heard
Her constancy, wept for the fate they knew
Waited the fair girl-wife, and, bathed in tears,
Confessed themselves to be like her, of Christ,
Till the fierce prefect, mingling rage with fear,
Spake thus: 'What art thou, woman, who dost dare
Defy the gods?' And she, with lofty scorn:
'I am a Roman noble.' Then said he,
'I ask thee of thy faith?' And she: 'Oh, blind!
See these whom my example drew to Christ,
Take them for answer.'
Then with panic haste
He sent a headsman whose keen axe should end
That high undaunted courage. He, with fear
And trembling hand, upon her slender throat
And virgin breast planting three cruel strokes,
Fled, leaving her for dead. But three days yet,
Three precious days, she lingered, strengthening all
Her converts in the Faith, and to the poor
Vowing her wealth; and last of all she sent
For Urban, and besought him of his grace
That of her palace they should make a church
For Christian worship.
The she raised her voice
In soaring hymns of praise, and with her sang
The quire of Angels, chanting row on row
Celestial strains, and the rapt hearers knew
The sound of heavenly music and the lyres
Of the angelic company; and yet,
When her voice soared no longer, but was still,
Fair dying echoes, fainter and more faint,
Stole downward from the skies, and then were lost
Within the heavens -- the music of a soul
Which joins the eternal concert and is blest.

And still where once she sang, the unfailing spell
Of music rises heavenward, day by day;
For, as she would, they built a stately church
Above her. There, when centuries were past,
The Pontiff Paschal found her body lie,
Wrapt in a tissue of gold, and by her side
Her husband and his brother.
And, again,
After long centuries they built a shrine,
And set in it a statue of the saint
In Parian marble. On her side she rests
As one asleep; the delicate hands are crossed,
Wrist upon wrist; a clinging vestment drapes
The virgin limbs, and round her slender throat
A golden circlet masks her cruel wound.
And there she lies for all to see; but still
Her voice is sounding in the Eternal Psalm
Which the Church singeth ever, evermore,
The Church on earth, the Church of Saints in Heaven."





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