Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SAINT, by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SAINT, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: And one there was whose face was softly set
Last Line: To thee, my god, to thee.
Alternate Author Name(s): Myers, Frederic
Subject(s): Religion; Theology


AND one there was whose face was softly set
To find the light which lighteneth from above,
Who in all anguish never should forget
The dear face of his love:
Nay, nor that hour, instinct with holy fear,
What time, but not with sleep, his eyes were dim,
While in the dead night, till the dawn was near,
She fought with God for him.
Yet how by thought her presence to renew?
What pale reflection of the glory fled?
To whom can I compare her? whereunto
Shall she be likened?

With such a look methinks in such a prayer,
On sacred walls the sweet Sebastian stands,
To cruel arrows offering his bare
White breast and holy hands:
Or so with earnest eyes and brow serene,
By some great painter grandly pictured,
S. Roderic the Martyr waits between
The living and the dead.
Yea, ere his feet have fallen or eye be dim
Stands the death-smitten saint, his service done:
And high from heaven an angel holds to him
The crown which he has won.

Or such a spirit theirs, nor yet forgot,
Of whom in simple speech their legends tell
That those weak virgins also chose their lot
In evil ages well:
Who in stern oath had terribly decreed,
If by all effort anywise they can,
With leaguered enterprise to intercede
For fallen fates of man:
Nor ever for a moment found they rest,
Nor sank at any time from fierce desire,
Not ever failed from some consuming breast
The flame of sacred fire:

But whether solemn chaunt they celebrate
To Father and to Son and Holy Ghost,
Or silently with settled eyes await
The showing of the Host:
Or whether sacred service of the dead
In mindful music carefully they keep,
Or haply on their eyes hath lightened
The short repose of sleep:
Always in sure succession night and day
Uplifting tireless hands before the throne,
One woman, strongly confident to pray,
Besought the Lord alone.

And one wail trembled thro' the holy trance,
And the same sigh thro' that enduring prayer:
"Have pity, O God! on Thine inheritance,
Christ my Redeemer, spare!"
Behold she prayeth: and the crimson beams
Of sad declining day have vanished soon,
And coldly clearly thro' the casement streams
The silence of the moon:
And sometimes ere the watch be wholly done
Her spirit swooneth for a little space,
And sometimes in her agony the nun
Hath fallen upon her face:

Yea, when the sense of earth is rapt and gone,—
No dream nor vision nor spirit nor any ghost,
A solemn Presence seems to light upon
The wafer of the Host.
Then surely from her trance she would not fall
Were bolts on thunderbolts about her hurled,
Nor in her ecstasy would heed at all
The blazing of the world:

But when the last, the day of days, shall come
And by strange hosts the space of air is trod,
And Christ the Lord descends to gather home
His saints, elect of God:
Then shalt Thou find that woman waiting there,
And with Thine own hands wake her wonderfully,
And lift her from her last most precious prayer
To Thee, my God, to Thee.





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