And then there seemed a breach in the long ranks Of saintly lives. Till then I heard the tale Of martyrdoms where the fierce Pagan raged Against the nascent faith. Henceforth my dream Was chiefly of white lives, which gained the crown By too great scorn of self, and gave to Heaven Not of its own alone, but part of earth's, And yet grew blessed. Martyrdoms there were, Even as of old, when with fierce bigot rage Christian with Christian striving, plied anew The Pagan's hellish arts of pain and death, The dungeon and the stake, the rack, the sword, Seeking -- oh, shameful thought! -- to chase from earth The heretic God bore with. None of these I saw, or seeing, asked not of my guide, Because my soul grew sick, and could not bear The piteous tale. But of self-sacrifice -- Lavish, indeed, yet blest -- high sacrifice Vowed to great ends and blest, my ears were full, As one in pilgrim's garb, ascetic, seared, Still with some ghost of pain, and some faint trace Of sadness in his eyes, and yet withal, Despite his humble garb and lowly port, A Roman noble, met my curious gaze; And this the tale I heard: "When the first Innocent was Pope of Rome, A Senator there was, Euphemian, Who long with Aglae, his wife, had prayed, Having great riches and no heir to take them, For offspring of their love. At length their prayer Was granted, and a son was born to them, Alexis, fair of body and white of soul. Him the blest vision through his growing years Failed not, but always on his life there shone The light of the Unseen, so that he fared Through all the heats of youth a soul unstained, Clothed in the spotless garb of innocence, And, 'mid the pomps of rank and riches, still Lived evermore in great humility As lived his Master, and still kept a heart Touched with compassion for the poor and weak; And, being parer than the rest, was fain, Through self-contempt and saintly diffidence, To mortify the sinful flesh, and make A daily penance for the wrong he loathed. Therefore, while outwardly in silks and gold, The emblems of his proud patrician birth, He showed before men's eyes, he bore beneath, Seeking to mortify this load of flesh, Next to his heart, a painful vest of hair; And, though he walked before men's eyes a bright And smiling presence, in his secret cell Bewailed with vigils and with tears the wrong He never did, a pure soul bowed and bent By the great burden of the sinful world. Thus sped the fleeting years, which crowned his youth With manhood. Never did his dreaming thought Turn to the earth or earthly things, but still The heavens stood open; the immortal youth Of the adoring angels dimmed the charm Of earthly beauty, and he lived apart, Like that rapt boy who saw as in a glass A fair reflected image in the stream, And loved it only. Then the sire and dame, Because they fain would see their noble tree Blossom before they died, would urge their son That he should wed, and named to him a maid Fair, modest, high of birth, higher of soul, Whom from a child he knew, and well had loved; And he, long time delaying, at the last, Being dutiful and fain to do their will, Assented, and the glad day dawned when they Together in God's house, bridegroom and bride, Knelt at the altar, and the vows were pledged And the words spoken which should make them one. So all day long the joyous marriage feast Sped gaily to the cheerful sound of song. But from his bride, her soft eyes looking love, The young Alexis stood apart, and mused As one whom some deep sorrow presses down; And through the long halls passing, sad, distraught, To all the greetings of the courtly throng Made hardly answer. For before his eyes Ever the beatific dream of old, The virginal whiteness of the saints, the pure Angelic faces bent before the throne, Filled all his musing thought, until the feast, The acclaiming friends, the mirth, nay, the meek face Of his young bride, showed dim and scarcely seen Before his rapturous gaze; nor could he brook The innocent thoughts of love fulfilled which flush The dreams of youth. Such thoughts were not for one Who had seen the opened heavens, the throng of saints, And the pure Virgin Mother; not for him The pulse of earthly passion. Could he dare To quench in deeps of sense the pale white fire Of the ascetic soul? Could mortal love Allure him from his heavenly home, or turn His duteous thought to earth? Nay, nay; he could not. A stern voice bade him fly, while yet 'twas time. And yet 'twas hard to leave the home he loved And those who loved him. But what said the Word? 'Who leaves not father, mother, wife, and child For Me and for My kingdom, loves not me.' 'Love I not thee, oh Lord? Shall not I dare To give all things for Thee? And yet Thy Word Bids each man, leaving all, cleave to his wife. How shall I dare desert her in her grief? How shall I bear to leave her to men's spite And mockery -- a wife her husband shuns, A bride yet not a wife. And my dear sire, And gracious mother? Is not wedlock blest, And are they not of Thee? Do I not cast Reproach on those white souls, who lived in pure And blessed union? If our Lord on earth Dwelt in His father's house, and deigned to be In Cana, at the marriage feast, nor scorned To make the water wine, why should not I -- Being but a worm, indeed, a thing of naught, Too low, too vile for Heaven, too weak for earth -- Why should not I, taking my humble place In the great throng of life, foregoing all My dim celestial dream, bearing the cross In all humility, accept my part, Rearing my children in the fear of God And love of Christ, hastening the blessed hour When all the world is His, and He shall tread All earthly crowns beneath His feet and reign A King among His saints? Surely 'twere best To advance His kingdom thus? And then he turned Back to the joyful feast, and sate beside His innocent love, regarding well content Her fair unsullied beauty, and would strive To take the joyous greetings of his kin, And look with loving glances on his bride. So all day long the joyous marriage feast Sped gaily to the cheerful noise of song. And now the sun had sunk beyond the west, And night had fallen, when a dread voice seemed To summon him away, bidding him fly The world and worldly joys. So clear it came And awful to his ear, he could not stay, He darst not tarry. 'I have need of thee, Alexis' -- so it spake. And he, who heard The voice as of the Lord, without a doubt, Obedient to the heavenly summons, rose And sought his bride; and on her hand he set, In token of his love and troth, a ring Of purest gold, and round her slender waist A zone of precious gems, and on her head A veil of costly purple. Then in tears, The dread voice calling always, with one kiss He left her, and flung forth into the night, Unseen, and no man found him till he died Then through that hapless house there went a sound Of wailing. All the ways they searched to find The truant, but in vain; and straight their joy Was turned to grief, and they in garb of woe Sate mourning, without hope, the son, the spouse, Whom never should they see until the end. But when the bridegroom fled into the night, Leaving behind him light and life and love, Obedient always to the heavenly voice Which summoned him away, his faltering steps Led him to Tiber's bank, whereon he found A little boat; and, clad in pilgrim's garb, All night he laboured seaward, till he came To Ostia. There a bark in act to sail For Asia took him, and he crossed the deep, An exile self-pursued. No vain regret For vanished riches held him, or lost love, Or for the toil and hunger which he dared, Following the heavenly voice, and so content. Only at times some shade of doubt would come, Considering all his mother's love, his sire Left childless, and the sad surprise which filled His bride's sweet eyes when he would go from her, And how the house stood empty of delight, And how those innocent lives must pine and droop That he might do God's will; and all the load And tangle of the too-perplexed world! So, after storm-tost days, he gained at length The Syrian shore, and there long time he lived, A hermit, at Edessa, lone, unknown, Spending his days in alms, his nights in prayer, Till gradually through the land his fame Waxed, and the people's voice acclaimed him saint. Then he, who wept his vileness and was filled With saintly thoughts of deep humility, Fled once again, sailing across the sea For Tarsus, where of old the sainted Paul Hallowed the earth. But a great tempest rose, And drove the hip for many a darkling day Far from her course; and when the sky grew clear, Behold, the well-remembered coast again By Ostia, where the yellow Tiber st ins The purple depths of the Tyrrhenian Sea, And, lost in distance on the northern sky, Rome and the stately palace of his sires. But when Alexis saw the well-known shore Hard by his ancient home, straightway his soul Was filled once more with doubt, because he knew That 'twas the Lord who ruled the storm, and drave The strong ship from her course; and when he mused On all the past, how the strange people turned His humbleness to pride, it seemed indeed That here was his best sacrifice -- to live Within his father's house, unseen, unknown. For since long years of penury had worked Their will on him, and seared his cheek, and bent His body, and bleached his hair, and hardly left The embers of his youth, he might deceive The gaze of loving eyes. So he set forth, Wrapped in his pilgrim's cloak, along the still Dead marsh, a solitary wayfarer, Slow, leaning on his staff, obscured with dust And weariness, until, at last, with eve Rome and the stately palace of his sires. Now when he gained the lofty gate where dwelt His noble sire, the loved home of his youth And manhood, where his fair unwedded wife Still pined for him, the Lord Euphemian Went forth with all his pomp; and as he passed, Alexis -- knowing all the work of time And toil and fastings, and his whitened hair, His furrowed brow, his straight form bowed and bent, His ragged garb, which was a robe of silk, And all the change, whose briefer name is age -- Stood forth, and threw him at his feet, and sought Some humble food and shelter. And his sire, Knowing his son was meek and pitiful Of all the poor and weak, and how, perchance, He, too, was now a wanderer poor as this, Was touched with ruth and raised the suppliant, Bade him be of good cheer, and signed to them Who followed, they should give him food and place Beneath his palace roof, and, charging them That he should want for nothing, went his way; Nor knew he by his blood's unwonted thrill That 'twas his son he looked on. So once more Within his father's house Alexis lay. But those his careless menials, knowing naught Of what had been, and deeming him no more Than the poor wayworn wanderer he seemed, Beneath the marble staircase of the house, Found him some darkling cell, wherein he stayed Being gentle and of great humility; And seeing him so meek, no chiding word E'er passed his uncomplaining lips, they deemed, With the dull insolence of servitude, That 'twas some idiot, weak of speech and brain, Who lay there; and they plucked his board and smote His patient cheek, and on his suffering head Heaped dust and ashes. But he spake no word Reproachful of them, knowing well indeed How great the load of his offence, and how The Lord of all was mocked upon the Tree. So in the house where he was heir to all, He lay long years, knowing the bitter bread Of penury, and cold, and all despite. Long years he lived, below the lowest slave In food and lodging, who was heir to all. But harder than all else it was to bear The daily, nightly sights and sounds of home; To see his mother, ageing day by day, Pass forth, still mourning for her son, and fear To meet the eyes which, had they met his own, Piercing his secret through, had ended all; To know himself the cause of grief and woe To her who bore him; yet withhold the word Which spoken had brought joy to innocent hearts! And most of all things was it grief to him, In the dead hours when all beside was still, Nightly to hear the sound of grief and tears, And know the voice of her who was his bride, Widow ere wedded. 'Whither, love, art gone?' So wailed the voice; 'and wherefore didst thou wed, To leave me thus to mourn for thee, and bear Despite and scorn of men? Are we not one, Knit by the law of God, -- one flesh, one soul, One being, fused by the mysterious word Which spoken joined our lives? Return! return! I weary for thy voice. Return! oh love! But thou art far across the pitiless seas, Or, haply, 'mid the sunless ways of death!' Night after night the wailings came and pierced His heart, and banished sleep, and wrung his soul With torture; for the suffering of the soul, Deeper than bodily anguish piercing, wears The writhing life. For sometimes he would dream He heard the voice, and then a mocking fiend Would chide him for his flight, and whisper, 'Rise. Duty lies plain before thee. Rise and seek Thy injured wife; ask pardon of thy sire, And her thy mother. Pride it was -- naught else -- Apeing contrition, drove thee, that thou wert Not as the world, the dim unnoted throng Of those for whom the trivial daily road Lies between lilies. Rise and take thy place, Bearing the wholesome load of common life, As did thy sires before thee.' Then the saint: 'I may not know if I do right indeed, Such doubt o'erclouds my soul; but this I know -- There is a whiteness in virginity; There is a virtue in the life withdrawn By desert sands or antred wilds, apart From wealth, and ease, and crowded haunts of men. There, on the vigils of the saints, the skies Stand parted sudden, and the Mother of God Opens her virgin arms and clasps her Son, Virgin like her; and round the throne there shine Angels and high archangels, row on row, Pure all and virgin; and below them stand The virgin martyrs. These my eyes have seen; These, when the desert stars shone clear and cold, And lions roared around the springs; these, too, These, when the hot noon quivered round the palms, The opening heavens revealed. And shall I bear To tread the flowery paths of life and sink To earthly joys? Nay, I am vowed, I am vowed! The fields grow white, the harvest of the Lord Ripens, and shall men dream of wedlock, now At the full end and judgment of the world? Then with divided soul Alexis rose -- It was the dead of night -- and through the long Hushed corridors, with noiseless foot-fall, sought, If haply he might see his love again, Himself unseen, the well-remembered door; And, pausing at the threshold, spied within His maiden consort, kneeling bathed in tears, Keeping a vigil for the man she mourned, And heard her loving lips pronounce his name In grief. 'Alexis, whither art thou gone? Return, my love, return! Even where he stood, Hid by the arras, reached the wailing voice, And, by her lamp's dim light, he saw the lines On the beloved brow, which time and grief Had drawn, and all for him; and then great ruth And yearning took him, and he longed to speak. But while he mused, loud on his watching ear A voice, which seemed of God, arose and hushed All thoughts beside. 'Alexis, be thou strong.' Then, with a groan as of a breaking heart, His grief burst into utterance, and sighed, 'No more, dear wife, no more!' And then he stole, Ghost-like, to his own place. But she who heard The words, and knew the voice, gazed with wide eyes, Then swooned, as 'twere his spirit greeting her; Nor slept, but with the morning told the tale, And, grieving deep, was somewhat comforted To think that he had come to her from Heaven. And he, when he had gained his poor retreat, Slept not. His suffering heart was riven in twain, His limbs refused their office, and his voice Grew feeble, as by sickness marred, or age. Nor from his humble pallet ever again Rose he, but sank, with every day that came, To deeper weakness still. At last he knew His hour was come, and so implored of one Who tended him, the means to write; and then A letter wrote he, setting forth at large The truth of all these things, and his sad life, And prayed forgiveness of his sins, and hid The scroll within his vesture, next his heart, And then his face grew calmer, and his eye As of a saint in glory. Till one day They found him in his poor cell, lying dead Clasping the letter, on his face a smile. Now, when Alexis lay in act to die, It chanced that very day Pope Innocent Said solemn Mass for Caesar, and the Court Knelt round, and, with the rest, Euphemian. And when the mystic sacrifice was done, And the proud concourse turned in act to go, From the high altar pealed a voice which said In solemn accents, 'Seek the holy man Who this day comes to die, and ask of him His prayers for Rome;' and while in awe they stayed Expectant, then the strange voice once again -- 'Go, seek him of the Lord Euphemian.' And he, who heard it, knew not what the words Meant, but, the Emperor bidding him, went forth To gain his home, while after him there came Caesar and all the Fathers of the Church, With long-drawn pomp, the Pontiff at their head. But, when Euphemian gained his stately house, Lo! dark upon the gleaming marble stair The slaves had laid a lifeless body down To carry forth for burial; and they said To him who questioned them, 'My gracious Lord, This was the pilgrim whom thou bad'st us take Beneath thy roof years since, and he till now Hath dwelt here of thine alms. An hour ago He died, and soon we bear him to his grave; But in his grasp he holds a secret scroll Which never would he part with, night or day. See! will it please you look upon his face?' Then, with great awe, the Lord Euphemian Drew nigh the bier, remembering the voice Which sent him there and bade him kneel and ask A blessing of the dead, like him of old Who fed the holy angels unawares, And, marked with reverent eyes the pilgrim garb, The scroll grasped tight within the wasted hand, And all the marks of saintly poverty, Nor knew on whom he looked. But when he drew The face-cloth from the visage of the dead, His life stood still; for straight the father's heart, Through all disguise of penury and years, Leapt to his son. For, lo! the wayworn face Grew young in death, a smile was on the lip As of old time, but round the saintly head There shone a glory brighter than the day -- Sign of his rank in Heaven; and on his knees The father fell before the son, and wept, Giving God praise. And while he knelt, there came Caesar and Pontiff, and they knelt with him; And the Pope reverently pressed the hand Stiffened in death, beseeching of the dead That he should give the scroll. And straight his graps, Relaxing, yielded; and the Chancellor Read to the assembled nobles the strange tale Of Life and Death, which thou hast heard to-day. But when within the house the news was told, The childless mother and the widowed wife, Descending, threw themselves upon the bier, Kissing the wasted form; plunged deep in woe, Yet taking comfort that the dead they loved Reigned now among the saints. Seven days and nights They watched and wept before him, and a throng Of halt and sick, and many a one was healed Of his infirmity Such things the saint Wrought, with God's help, upon them for their faith. Then, lest some secular use might mar the place Made sacred by his pain, upon the ground Where stood that stately house, they reared the Church Of S. Alexis, and the marble stair Which sheltered him they left as when he died. And there a sculptor carved him, in mean garb Reclining, by his side his pilgrim's staff, And in his hand the story of his life Of virgin pureness and humility." And, when the tale was done, again my guide: "Shall any scoff, deeming the sacrifice Was vain, a sheer self-torment all unasked, Which wrecked four innocent lives? Does God then ask Such service of His creatures? Does He cast Contempt upon His gracious paths of life, Which all alike may tread -- the precious flowers Which, by the sacred light and warmth of home, Bloom fragrant to the skies; the childish eyes Which bring back Heaven; the priceless liturgies Of daily fruitful sacrifice; the joys Shared, and so doubled; all the blessed pain Of loss; the open grave; the sacred grief That lifts us from the earth? Nay, nay, our lives Are double, and our souls, as fitting those Who move from earth to Heaven. Life has its joys, And all may take them blameless. Yet there is A something higher, too, than these -- a thrill Of ecstasy, a perfect path which hangs Heavenward upon the everlasting hills, Above the flowery meads, the harvest fields, The blushing vineyards, 'mid the perilous snows Where comes not life. Know we not well the snare Of wealth, the deep retributive pain of sense, Which ofttimes clog the sad wayfarer's feet Who treads life's common paths. Some souls there be Too fine and pure to tread them. Were it well That this brave heart had borne its share of love And rank and riches, and had lived its life, Making another's happy in like sort, And spent its little tale of common days, And passed and left no sign? Or was it best To have touched a high ideal unattained, To have grown from sufferance to high victory, To have left the world a story, which shall serve For ages yet, of soul defeating sense; Of aspirations flown too high for earth; Of life which spurns the binding chains of love, And lower weal, and blameless happiness, And soars aloft and takes the hues or Heaven?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |