Classic Poem

The splendours of the open day
I cannot see, albeit 'tis June in Rome,
And summer radiance gilds the Capitol
With flame.

To-morrow, at the noon, I die;
Yet all the might of Rome cannot contrive
To make me cheerless while thy ministry
Of love dispels my loneliness and flows
The richer with my need.
Often of late
The soul's strange miracle of memory
Makes me the guest of mine own past. I dream,
And lo, with flapping sail, my little ship
Rocks on the Cydnus, or winds leisurely
Between its emerald shores. Now from the stream
Emerging, sea-winds catch my sail and drive
My keel through the green foam. Or in the night,
Becalmed in some wide stillness where the deep
Reflects the sky—a mirror pricked with stars
That silently glide down behind the sea—
I sleep as happy children sleep, and dream
I see afar before my prow the long,
Dim shores of Cyprus brooding on the wave
In God's still night; and the grave, silent eyes
Of all the stars seem smiling down on me
Out of their heavens.

And oft I dream I stand
Where Taurus opens into Syria
At the Cilician gates, whose purple peaks
Pierce to the highest blue. That western plain
Is Issus, where Darius' hosts clasped hands
With Death before the Macedonian.
Southward lies Antioch, restless and proud
And beautiful; and farther still, the land
Of Israel, my sacred fatherland.
Then drifts my dream to manhood's years awhile.
To wise Gamaliel and Hillel mild;
And oft I ask, how could the child who drank
Such milk of wisdom be one such as I,
Who would have drenched the land with Christian blood
To prop punctilious forms? . . . . .

But soon my soul
Revolted from such tasks. One day I crossed
The Syrian plain while the meridian sun
Scorched with its fire Abana's fertile vale.
I mused, much doubting, if my deeds were just,
For I had seen a Christian martyr fall
With such a glow of faith and fortitude—
A Roman hero might have died to share
The joy of such a courage.

Peace had fled
My life, and I, who had authority,
Was my own soul accusing now, before
That bar where I not only was the judge,
But criminal convicted. When my pride
Was slain, came full surrender to the Christ.
My whole desire was now, to do His will.
And lo! from out the light appeared—His face.
All else, eclipsed in night, then disappeared
As when the stars fade out before the sun.
The day was darkened by the light that broke
In my transfigured heart. The charm of stream,
And vale, and mount, forgotten were. My soul,
Seeing that glow, had now beholden Heaven
And closed its eyes to glories of the earth,
Or passed unnoticing. The silence spake.
I might as readily have thought to stem
The avalanche on Hermon. His appeal
Set all my soul aflame and made my lips
A sword, the cross my battle cry. Thenceforth,
My Hebrew birth, my pride in Rome, were nought.
I knew no triumph but His cross, no joy
But in the courage that would do His will.

Thou knowest how the impact of my zeal
Fell on the Roman world, how I refused
To cover life and truth with masks and forms
Or priestly ordination, for I would
Not Judaize the race nor lay the bonds
Of Moses on an alien tribe. Was man
To lose a world-religion in a cult,
And turn the stream of universal hope
Into a desert of formality,
Make Christianity a Jewish sect
And end that dream for which Messiah died?
Were Roman necks to bear a foreign yoke
Because a wall was raised across Love's path
In Corinth, Antioch and Ephesus?
Thou, Luke, dost know I cleared an open way
To fields of life with no impediment
Of Jewish ritual or Gentile blood.
I hoped to see the hills of Spain and Gaul—
Both pagan yet—and even Britain's shore,
Since there the eagle flies, and I am still
A Roman. It may chance that some who bear
Rome's arms and were awhile my soldier-guards,
Have, even as this comrade of my chain,
Received the mind of Christ, and will proclaim
The cross of love in many distant lands.

By such new hope refreshed and comforted,
I bow submissive to His higher will,
Rejoicing that so soon mine eyes shall see
The glories of the King and feast with joy
Upon the open vision of His face.
Ah, Friend, what wonder if a wistful fire
Burns in thine eyes and eloquently speaks
The yearning of thy soul to see Him too.
The time is brief, be glad. Thou too shalt come
And be with Him, guerdon of all thy toils.

And meanwhile, thou shalt have the joy to write
On during scroll with love-inspirèd pen
The story of His life and fellowship
With men, as thou art minded in thy zeal.
But I shall find in His dear presence, peace
And fuller life. O Mighty Heart, behold,
I come! The sweetest word to me is death.