Classic Poem

O F all the mausoleums, old or new,
High-fam'd in Italy or other lands,
Thine, Clement, I admire, by Angel-hands
Constructed underneath the billows blue,
On the broad Euxine's amber-paven floor,
Near where Chersona stood in days of yore.

Long dwelt thy memory there among the race
Of simple quarrymen, whose toil supplied
Imperial Rome with porphyry, to grace
Her palaces; and long they certified,
Father to child, the story of thy tomb,
And well-remember'd glorious martyrdom.

How, exiled thither by the stern decree
Of Trajan, thou through all the country round
Didst spread the Faith of Christ; and being found
Guilty of death, wast carried out to sea,
And toss'd into the dull oblivious deep,
Yok'd to an anchor for thy surer sleep.

How then, as all the Faithful, on the shore
Lamenting thy lost relics, knelt and pray'd,
Lo, of itself the sea three miles and more
Receding, a broad open pathway made;
And they in search of thee, abreast the tide
Exploring on, a wondrous structure spied!

A marble monument, far out at sea,
Of purest alabaster, by no tool
Of mortal hand proportion'd,—beautiful,
With curious work of mystic imagery,
O'er which, on opal stalactites uprear'd,
A pearly-tinted canopy appear'd.

And lo, within the tomb serenely lying,
The Saint himself, in tranquil death compos'd;
Fragrant with Paradise; a bloom undying
Upon his roseate cheek; his eyelids clos'd;
His arms devoutly cross'd upon his breast;
Picture sublime of everlasting rest!

And not far off the anchor they espied,
So late his instrument of martyrdom,
But emblem now of better things to come;
When at the Resurrection glorified,
He, who for Jesus did his body give,
In that same body shall with Jesus live.

Such, Clement, was thy sepulchre of yore
On the Crimea's coast; but mighty Rome,
O Fourth of those whom Peter's lineage bore,
In time thy relics claim'd, as thy true home;
And she, who cast thee to a doom unjust,
Now worships every remnant of thy dust!