Classic Poem

I

Lives there not, still replaced as time goes by,
 Some man who wears the wide earth's crown of woe,
 Pain's Victim-Priest, a shadow cast below
By Him that Victim-Priest enthroned on high?
Mounts not that man elect his Calvary
 Like Christ by choice not doom? If this be so
 The world's blind prophets ill the graces know
 Men reap from that perennial agony!
Damien! no name like thine exalts old story!
 Dread Leper-Saint, pray well for me and mine,
Both here and harboured in the eternal glory;
 For this is sure—that living woes like thine
 Are knit so closely with Christ's Death divine
They draw from it some power expiatory.

II

Thy greatness is our vaunt; vainglorious thought
 To thee finds access never: that is well!
 The Spirits that whisper round thy midnight cell
Waft thee a dew of purer solace fraught
With Eden's sweetness only—solace caught
 From bowers where love and meekness blended dwell,
 And whence not boasts but songs thanksgiving swell—
Love-songs of martyr souls. This fight well fought
 Thy death will crown; thy greatness then beknown:
Who then shall lead thee to thy paradise?
Those saints who best true joy, true beauty see
When hid by mists of earth—Cecilia, she
 Whose bridal wreath angels discerned alone,
And Agnes angel-veiled from fleshly eyes.