Andromeda, and Other Poems/Saint Maura. A.D. 304
SAINT MAURA.
a.d. 304.
THANK God! Those gazers' eyes are gone at last!The guards are crouching underneath the rock;The lights are fading in the town below,Around the cottage which this morn was ours.Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;Alone upon our crosses with our God;While all the angels watch us from the stars!Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,And bathe his limbs in glory, for a signOf what awaits him! Oh look on him, Lord!Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb! Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,Never till now loved utterly! Oh say,Say you forgive me? No—you must not speak:You said it to me hours ago—long hours! Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comesSpeak to the people, call them home to God,A deacon on the Cross, as in the Church;And plead from off the tree with outspread arms,To show them that the Son of God enduredFor them—and me. Hush! I alone will speak,And while away the hours till dawn for you.I know you have forgiven me; as I layBeneath your feet, while they were binding me,I knew I was forgiven then! When I cried'Here am I, husband! The lost lamb returned,All re-baptized in blood!' and you said, 'Come!Come to thy bride-bed, martyr, wife once more!'From that same moment all my pain was gone;And ever since those sightless eyes have smiledLove—love! Alas, those eyes! They made me fall.I could not bear to see them bleeding, dark,Never, no never to look into mine;Never to watch me round the little roomSinging about my work, or flash on me Looks bright with counsel.—Then they drove me madWith talk of nameless tortures waiting you—And I could save you! You would hear your love—They knew you loved me, cruel men! And then—Then came a dream; to say one little word,One easy wicked word, we both might say,And no one hear us, but the lictors round;One tiny sprinkle of the incense grains,And both, both free! And life had just begun—Only three months—short months—your wedded wife!Only three months within the cottage there—Hoping I bore your child. . . .Ah! husband! Saviour! God! think gently of me! .I am forgiven! . . .And then another dream;A flash—so quick, I could not bear the blaze;I could not see the smoke among the light—To wander out through unknown lands, and leadYou by the hand through hamlet, port, and town,On, on, until we died; and stand each day To glory in you, as you preached and prayedFrom rock and bourne-stone, with that voice, those words,Mingled with fire and honey—you would wake,Bend, save whole nations! would not that atoneFor one short word?—ay, make it right, to saveYou, you, to fight the battles of the Lord?And so—and so—alas! you knew the rest!You answered me . . .Ah cruel words! No! Blessed, godlike words!You had done nobly had you struck me dead,Instead of striking me to life!--the temptress! . .'Traitress! apostate! dead to God and me!'———'The smell of death upon me?'—so it was!True! true! well spoken, hero! Oh they snapped,Those words, my madness, like the angel's voiceThrilling the graves to birth-pangs. All was clear.There was but one right thing in the world to do;And I must do it. . . Lord, have mercy! Christ!Help through my womanhood: or I shall fail Yet, as I failed before! . . I could not speak—I could not speak for shame and misery,And terror of my sin, and of the thingsI knew were coming: but in heaven, in heaven!There we should meet, perhaps—and by that timeI might be worthy of you once again—Of you, and of my God. . . So I went out.*****Will you hear more, and so forget the pain?And yet I dread to tell you what comes next;Your love will feel it all again for me.No! it is over; and the woe that's deadRises next hour a glorious angel. Love!Say, shall I tell you? Ah! your lips are dry!To-morrow, when they come, we must entreat,And they will give you water. One to-day,A soldier, gave me water in a spongeUpon a reed, and said, 'Too fair! too young!She might have been a gallant soldier's wife!'And then I cried, 'I am a soldier's wife! A hero's!' And he smiled, but let me drink.God bless him for it!So they led me back:And as I went, a voice was in my earsWhich rang through all the sunlight, and the breathAnd blaze of all the garden slopes below,And through the harvest-voices, and the moanOf cedar-forests on the cliffs above,And round the shining rivers, and the peaksWhich hung beyond the cloud-bed of the west,And round the ancient stones about my feet.Out of all heaven and earth it rang, and cried'My hand hath made all these. Am I too weakTo give thee strength to say so?' Then my soulSpread like a clear blue sky within my breast,While all the people made a ring around,And in the midst the judge spoke smilingly—'Well! hast thou brought him to a better mind?''No! He has brought me to a better mind!'—I cried, and said beside—I know not what— Words which I learnt from thee—I trust in GodNought fierce or rude—for was I not a girlThree months ago beneath my mother's roof?I thought of that. She might be there! I looked—She was not there! I hid my face and wept.And when I looked again, the judge's eyeWas on me, cold and steady, deep in thought—'She knows what shame is still; so strip her.' 'Ah!'I shrieked, 'Not that, Sir! Any pain! So youngI am—a wife too—I am not my own,But his—my husband's!' But they took my shawl,And tore my tunic off, and there I stoodBefore them all. . . . Husband! you love me still?Indeed I pleaded! Oh, shine out, kind moon,And let me see him smile! Oh! how I prayed,While some cried 'Shame!' And some 'She is too young!'And some mocked—ugly words: God shut my ears.And yet no earthquake came to swallow me.While all the court around, and walls, and roofs, And all the earth and air were full of eyes,Eyes, eyes, which scorched my limbs like burning flame,Until my brain seemed bursting from my brow:And yet no earthquake came! And then I knewThis body was not yours alone, but God's—His loan—He needed it: and after thatThe worst was come, and any torture moreA change—a lightening; and I did not shriek—Once only—once, when first I felt the whip—It coiled so keen around my side, and sentA fire-flash through my heart which choked me—thenI shrieked—that once. The foolish echo rangSo far and long—I prayed you might not hear.And then a mist, which hid the ring of eyes,Swam by me, and a murmur in my earsOf humming bees around the limes at home;And I was all alone with you and God.And what they did to me I hardly know;I felt, and did not feel. Now I look back,It was not after all so very sharp: So do not pity me. It made me pray;Forget my shame in pain, and pain in you,And you in God: and once, when I looked down,And saw an ugly sight—so many wounds!'What matter?' thought I. 'His dear eyes are dark;For them alone I kept these limbs so white—A foolish pride! As God wills now. 'Tis just.' But then the judge spoke out in haste: 'She is mad,Or fenced by magic arts! She feels no pain!'He did not know I was on fire within:Better he should not; so his sin was less:Then he cried fiercely, 'Take the slave away,And crucify her by her husband's side!'And at those words a film came on my face—A sickening rush of joy—was that the end?That my reward? I rose, and tried to go—But all the eyes had vanished, and the judge;And all the buildings melted into mist:So how they brought me here I cannot tell—Here, here, by you, until the judgment-day, And after that for ever and for ever!Ah! If I could but reach that hand! One touch!One finger tip, to send the thrill through meI felt but yesterday!--No! I can wait:—Another body!--Oh, new limbs are ready,Free, pure, instinct with soul through every nerve,Kept for us in the treasuries of God.They will not mar the love they try to speak,They will not fail my soul, as these have done!*****Will you hear more? Nay—you know all the rest:Yet those poor eyes—alas! they could not seeMy waking, when you hung above me thereWith hands outstretched to bless the penitent—Your penitent—even like The Lord Himself—I gloried in you!—like The Lord Himself!Sharing His very sufferings, to the crownOf thorns which they had put on that dear browTo make you like Him—show you as you were!I told them so! I bid them look on you, And see there what was the highest throne on earth—The throne of suffering, where the Son of GodEndured and triumphed for them. But they laughed;All but one soldier, gray, with many scars;And he stood silent. Then I crawled to you,And kissed your bleeding feet, and called aloud—You heard me! You know all! I am at peace.Peace, peace, as still and bright as is the moonUpon your limbs, came on me at your smile,And kept me happy, when they dragged me backFrom that last kiss, and spread me on the cross,And bound my wrists and ankles—Do not sigh:I prayed, and bore it: and since they raised me upMy eyes have never left your face, my own, my own,Nor will, till death comes! . . .Do I feel much pain?Not much. Not maddening. None I cannot bear.It has become like part of my own life,Or part of God's life in me—honour—bliss!I dreaded madness, and instead comes rest; Rest deep and smiling, like a summer's night.I should be easy, now, if I could move . . . .I cannot stir. Ah God! these shoots of fireThrough all my limbs! Hush, selfish girl! He hears you!Who ever found the cross a pleasant bed?Yes; I can bear it, love. Pain is no evilUnless it conquers us. These little wrists, now—You said, one blessed night, they were too slender,Too soft and slender for a deacon's wife—Perhaps a martyr's:—You forgot the strengthWhich God can give. The cord has cut them through;And yet my voice has never faltered yet.Oh! do not groan, or I shall long and prayThat you may die: and you must not die yet.Not yet—they told us we might live three days . . .Two days for you to preach! Two days to speakWords which may wake the dead!*****Hush! is he sleeping? They say that men have slept upon the cross;So why not he? . . . Thanks, Lord! I hear him breathe:And he will preach Thy word to-morrow!—saveSouls, crowds, for Thee! And they will know his worthYears hence—poor things, they know not what they do!—And crown him martyr; and his name will ringThrough all the shores of earth, and all the starsWhose eyes are sparkling through their tears to seeHis triumph—Preacher! Martyr!—Ah—and me?—If they must couple my poor name with his,Let them tell all the truth—say how I loved him,And tried to damn him by that love! O Lord!Returning good for evil! and was thisThe payment I deserved for such a sin?To hang here on my cross, and look at himUntil we kneel before Thy throne in heaven!