Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: THE SEVEN SLEEPERS OF EPHESUS, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: THE SEVEN SLEEPERS OF EPHESUS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When rome was pagan still, a little band
Last Line: "the resurrection and the life to be."
Subject(s): Saints


"When Rome was Pagan still, a little band
Of ardent, generous youths who called on Christ,
Fled their idolatrous city, thinking scorn
To kneel to those false gods their souls abhorred --
And loathing that accursed heathen rout
Turned to the silence of the lonely hills
That brood round Ephesus, and found at length
Shelter and peace, within a winding cave
High on the rock-faced side of Coelian,
And there dwelt safe, lifting their gracious hymns
In worship to the Lord.
At last there came
Some heathen passer-by, who heard the sound,
And straight betrayed them. And the tyrant sent
His soldiers, and that none came forth again
Rolled in the narrow entrance monstrous rocks,
Which shut out air and light. Then when they knew
No change of night and day, and all their food
Had failed, came Heaven-sent sleep to close their eyes.
Deep sleep which knew no waking fell on them
For the long space of nigh two hundred years.

There they slept on, till now the conquering Cross
Prevailed, and 'twas a Christian Caesar ruled
Where raged the Pagan erst. For thirty years
The pious Theodosius swayed the might
Of Rome, and then the powers of evil bred
Dark heresies to rend the seamless robe
The Pagan might not. Doubting voices cried,
'No resurrection is there, but the body
Lies rotting in the earth, and the freed soul
Weltering upon the unbounded seas of space
Is lost within the Universe, nor more
Takes its old shape. What? did the prophets know,
Moses, Esaias, and the rest, this thing?
There is no place of souls nor judgment-day.
Of deeds done in the flesh, nor heaven nor hell,
Only upon the earth our kingdom is.
Be wise and occupy, for never indeed
Comes any resurrection of the dead;
The dead are gone, cleave to the living alone;
Use all your nature. Lives the flower again,
The brute that comes so near us, and is full
Of faithful love and reverence for man
As man for God? If all these die and pass,
Then shall not we? What else than arrogant pride
Blinds men to fact, and fools them with a world
No eye has seen, which all the seers of old
Knew not nor proved? Nay, surely it were well
To take our lives in our own hands, and tread
Our fearless paths not looking for reward
To any dim unreal sphere, but deem
Our individual life ends with the grave,
As ends the flower in frost; or if there come
Something of higher life, yet 'tis the Race
Which profits, naught beside. Wherefore in vain
Are all your hopes of Heaven, your fears of Hell,
Since 'tis not men who live again, but Man.'

Thus having heard, the pious Caesar turned,
Struck cold with doubt, as one a palsy takes,
Making his limbs hang impotent, his will
Powerless to live or die. Alone he sate,
Hating the voice, hating his doubt, himself
Who doubted, and long time from sight of men
Withdrew himself and, clad in sackcloth, pined
With ashes on his head, yet found not peace
For all his penance, but the spectral doubt
Weighed on him like a nightmare night and day.

Now at the selfsame hour, when Caesar strove
With his immense despair, a humble hind,
Seeking to find a shelter for his flock,
Chanced on the secret cave of Coelian,
And toiling with his fellows rolled aside
The rocks which sealed its mouth, and went his way,
Nor entered; but when now, returning dawn
Flooded the long-sealed vault with cheerful day,
It pierced to where the sleepers lay, and breathed
Some stir of coming life, and they once more
Drinking the brisk sweet breath of early morn
Opened their long-closed eyes, and woke again
To the old earth, and kept the far off past
Unchanged in memory, and spake with mirth
Of their long sleep, and the fair dreams it brought,
And said a prayer, and sang a hymn, and then,
Urged by the healthy zest of vigorous youth,
Sent one among them, Malchus hight, to buy
Food for their hunger.
Fearfully he stole
Down the long steep to where great Ephesus
Shining beneath him lay. Scant change was there,
Only the stately house of Artemis
He found not where it stood. Half dazed he seemed
By too long sleep. But when he gained the gate
Of the city, on the walls behold the Cross!
The witness to the faith by which he lived,
The blessed symbol, which to own was death!
But still he seemed to dream, and wondering sought
Another gate, and there again the Cross!
And as he mused what portent 'twas he saw
The passers freely named the holy name
Which yesternight brought doom. Then with great joy,
Yet deep perplexity, he turned to greet
Some face he seemed to know, but it was strange,
And strange the fashion of the dress, and strange
The accent of the tongue, till, half afraid,
He sought where bread was bought, and offering gold,
The seller looking saw an ancient coin
Of Decius, and would ask him whence it came,
Deeming he found by some unhallowed spell
Forbidden treasure; and the youth's strange garb
And speech, and great perplexity, enforced
The doubt, so that they bound him fast and haled him
Through the long streets, where all in vain he sought
One friendly glance, to where upon his throne
The Bishop judged; and when the aged man
Questioned him of the thing, and what had been,
And sware him on the Cross, straightway the youth --
'We fled the tyrant Decius, who would bid us
Serve the false gods, and -- was it yesternight? --
Rolled ponderous rocks to seal the cave where I
And my companions slept; but now, I pray you
What is it that has been? Bear you the Cross
And fear not? Call men now upon the name
Of Christ and dread not all the bitter pains --
The dungeon, and the torture, and the stake,
The tyrannies our fathers knew and we?
What change is this assails my ears and eyes --
Strange speech, strange vestments, forms and faces strange?
Where is the shining house of Artemis?
I pray you tell me what it is has been,
And whether I be alive or long time dead,
Deceived in dreams by long unnoted years.'

Then fell the Bishop, full of pious awe,
Prostrate at Malchus' feet -- the aged man
Before the spirit clothed with changeless youth,
Since well he knew what thing his eyes had seen --
A miracle of life, raised from the grave,
A miracle of Heaven. And all the throng,
Bishop and governor, with all the great
And noble of the city, white-haired lords,
And stately matrons, coming, knelt with him
Before the youth, o'er whose unwrinkled brow
Two hundred years had passed and left no sign --
Swift-coming age before eternal youth,
Brief life before the endless life of death.

Then went they forth, that noble throng, and all
The city, to where upon the Coelian hill
The seven youthful martyrs lay so long.
There in the cave, the blessed company
Sate cheerful, wondering much to see the throng,
With Malchus leading them; and as the array
Drew nearer, heard the sound of hymns, and saw
The sacred symbol borne on high, and knew
All that had been, and that the might of Wrong
Was broken, and the world was of the Faith,
And the false gods no more; and then they raised
Their clear accordant strains in praise to heaven,
And from their happy heads crowned round with light,
And from their cheeks red with the heavenly rose,
And from their lips touched with divinest song,
An effluent glory shone, and all who saw
Knew that their eyes beheld the blessed dead.

Last, Theodosius wrestling with his doubt,
And almost conquering, sped o'er land and sea
To see the portent, and when he was come
And stood before the place the Pagan erst
Sealed fast with monstrous rocks, on the young lives
Fresh vowed to Christ, and left them there to die,
He knelt in silence, and the fire of faith
Burned high in him, and dried the deeps of doubt.
And when he looked on those immortal eyes,
And that first bloom of an immortal youth,
His faith grew perfect, and he blest the Lord
Who sent the sign. Then, with one voice sublime,
The seven awakened spirits sang, 'Believe,
Believe through us, O Caesar! We are dead,
And yet we live. Praise Heaven that we have seen
The faith triumphant. Ere the last great day
The Lord has raised us that men should be strong,
And doubt no longer, but believe indeed
The life and resurrection of the world.'

And when their voices died away they bowed
Their heads upon their breasts, and kneeling, gave
Their spirits back to God; and all who saw,
And all who heard, Caesar, and all the throng,
Doubted no more, but rose and did believe."

Which things, when I had heard, again I seemed
To hear my guide, "Know, thou that hearest me,
Through the round world this fair old legend runs
Where man is higher than the beasts that die.
The Hindu, dreaming on his seething plains,
Cherishes it; the fierce false prophet stole
The story; and throughout the fabulous East
It lives and thrives to-day; the frozen North
Holds it for true; o'er all the ancient world
Some fair faint blossom of the gracious tale
Lingers, and in the modern springs anew
In witness to the light-winged hours which snatch
The swift unconscious life from youth to age.
Too fair, too fleeting, change confusing change --
Change of a day which works the work of years;
Unchanging years, which seem but as a day!"

"But with still clearer voice, and sweeter tongue,
Thus speaks the legend: 'Sleep and Death are one,
Not diverse, and to Death's long slumber comes
Awakening sure and certain, when the Dawn
Of the Last Day shall break, and shall unseal
The long-closed eyes, as that strong sun of Spring
Illumed the caves of sleep, and stirred the blood
Which else had slumbered still.' Yet since no sign
Comes from our sleepers here, the yearning hearts
Which mark the struggling breath come short and faint,
The tired eyes close, and the calm peace which smooths
The weary brow -- and feel 'tis sleep -- no more --
Yet find no proof, cherish the legend fair,
Because life longs to be, because to cease
Is terrible, because the listening soul
Waits for some whisper from beyond the grave,
Waits still, as it has waited through all time,
Waits undismayed, whate'er its form of creed,
Nor fails, though all is silence, to hold fast,
Deep in its sacred depths, too deep for thought,
The Resurrection and the Life to be."





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