Vivia Perpetua

Now being on the eve of death, discharged     From every mortal hope and earthly care,     I questioned how my soul might best employ     This hand, and this still wakeful flame of mind,     In the brief hours yet left me for their use;     Wherefore have I bethought me of my friend,     Of you, Philarchus, and your company,     Yet wavering in the faith and unconfirmed;     Perchance that I may break into thine heart     Some sorrowful channel for the love divine,     I make this simple record of our proof     In diverse sufferings for the name of Christ,     Whereof the end already for the most     Is death this day with steadfast faith endured.     We were in prison many days, close-pent     In the black lower dungeon, housed with thieves     And murderers and divers evil men;     So foul a pressure, we had almost died,     Even there, in struggle for the breath of life     Amid the stench and unendurable heat;     Nor could we find each other save by voice     Or touch, to know that we were yet alive,     So terrible was the darkness. Yea, 'twas hard     To keep the sacred courage in our hearts,     When all was blind with that unchanging night,     And foul with death, and on our ears the taunts     And ribald curses of the soldiery     Fell mingled with the prisoners' cries, a load     Sharper to bear, more bitter than their blows.     At first, what with that dread of our abode,     Our sudden apprehension, and the threats     Ringing perpetually in our ears, we lost     The living fire of faith, and like poor hinds     Would have denied our Lord and fallen away.     Even Perpetua, whose joyous faith     Was in the later holier days to be     The stay and comfort of our weaker ones,     Was silent for long whiles. Perchance she shrank     In the mere sickness of the flesh, confused     And shaken by our new and horrible plight -     The tender flesh, untempered and untried,     Not quickened yet nor mastered by the soul;     For she was of a fair and delicate make,     Most gently nurtured, to whom stripes and threats     And our foul prison-house were things undreamed.     But little by little as our spirits grew     Inured to suffering, with clasped hands, and tongues     That cheered each other to incessant prayer,     We rose and faced our trouble: we recalled     Our Master's sacred agony and death,     Setting before our eyes the high reward     Of steadfast faith, the martyr's deathless crown.     So passed some days whose length and count we lost,     Our bitterest trial. Then a respite came.     One who had interest with the governor     Wrought our removal daily for some hours     Into an upper chamber, where we sat     And held each other's hands in childish joy,     Receiving the sweet gift of light and air     With wonder and exceeding thankfulness.     And then began that life of daily growth     In mutual exaltation and sweet help     That bore us as a gently widening stream     Unto the ocean of our martyrdom.     Uniting all our feebler souls in one -     A mightier - we reached forth with this to God.     Perpetua had been troubled for her babe,     Robbed of the breast and now these many days     Wasting for want of food; but when that change     Whereof I spake, of light and liberty     Relieved the horror of our prison gloom,     They brought it to her, and she sat apart,     And nursed and tended it, and soon the child     Would not be parted from her arms, but throve     And fattened, and she kept it night and day.     And always at her side with sleepless care     Hovered the young Felicitas - a slight     And spiritual figure - every touch and tone     Charged with premonitory tenderness,     Herself so near to her own motherhood.     Thus lightened and relieved, Perpetua     Recovered from her silent fit. Her eyes     Regained their former deep serenity,     Her tongue its gentle daring; for she knew     Her life should not be taken till her babe     Had strengthened and outgrown the need of her.     Daily we were amazed at her soft strength,     Her pliant and untroubled constancy,     Her smiling, soldierly contempt of death,     Her beauty and the sweetness of her voice.     Her father, when our first few bitterest days     Were over, like a gust of grief and rage,     Came to her in the prison with wild eyes,     And cried: 'How mean you, daughter, when you say     You are a Christian? How can any one     Of honoured blood, the child of such as me,     Be Christian? 'Tis an odious name, the badge     Only of outcasts and rebellious slaves!'     And she, grief-touched, but with unyielding gaze,     Showing the fulness of her slender height:     'This vessel, father, being what it is,     An earthen pitcher, would you call it thus?     Or would you name it by some other name?'     'Nay, surely,' said the old man, catching breath,     And pausing, and she answered: 'Nor can I     Call myself aught but what I surely am -     A Christian!' and her father, flashing back     In silent anger, left her for that time.     A special favour to Perpetua     Seemed daily to be given, and her soul     Was made the frequent vessel of God's grace,     Wherefrom we all, less gifted, sore athirst,     Drank courage and fresh joy; for glowing dreams     Were sent her, full of forms august, and fraught     With signs and symbols of the glorious end     Whereto God's love hath aimed us for Christ's sake.     Once - at what hour I know not, for we lay     In that foul dungeon, where all hours were lost,     And day and night were indistinguishable -     We had been sitting a long silent while,     Some lightly sleeping, others bowed in prayer,     When on a sudden, like a voice from God,     Perpetua spake to us and all were roused.     Her voice was rapt and solemn: 'Friends,' she said,     'Some word hath come to me in a dream. I saw     A ladder leading to heaven, all of gold,     Hung up with lances, swords, and hooks. A land     Of darkness and exceeding peril lay     Around it, and a dragon fierce as hell     Guarded its foot. We doubted who should first     Essay it, but you, Saturus, at last -     So God hath marked you for especial grace -     Advancing and against the cruel beast     Aiming the potent weapon of Christ's name -     Mounted, and took me by the hand, and I     The next one following, and so the rest     In order, and we entered with great joy     Into a spacious garden filled with light     And balmy presences of love and rest;     And there an old man sat, smooth-browed, white-haired,     Surrounded by unnumbered myriads     Of spiritual shapes and faces angel-eyed,     Milking his sheep; and lifting up his eyes     He welcomed us in strange and beautiful speech,     Unknown yet comprehended, for it flowed     Not through the ears, but forth-right to the soul,     God's language of pure love. Between the lips     Of each he placed a morsel of sweet curd;     And while the curd was yet within my mouth,     I woke, and still the taste of it remains,     Through all my body flowing like white flame,     Sweet as of some immaculate spiritual thing.'     And when Perpetua had spoken, all     Were silent in the darkness, pondering,     But Saturus spake gently for the rest:     'How perfect and acceptable must be     Your soul to God, Perpetua, that thus     He bends to you, and through you speaks his will.     We know now that our martyrdom is fixed,     Nor need we vex us further for this life.'     While yet these thoughts were bright upon our souls,     There came the rumour that a day was set     To hear us. Many of our former friends,     Some with entreaties, some with taunts and threats,     Came to us to pervert us; with the rest     Again Perpetua's father, worn with care;     Nor could we choose but pity his distress,     So miserably, with abject cries and tears,     He fondled her and called her 'Domina,'     And bowed his agd body at her feet,     Beseeching her by all the names she loved     To think of him, his fostering care, his years,     And also of her babe, whose life, he said,     Would fail without her; but Perpetua,     Sustaining by a gift of strength divine     The fulness of her noble fortitude,     Answered him tenderly: 'Both you and I,     And all of us, my father, at this hour     Are equally in God's hands, and what he wills     Must be'; but when the poor old man was gone     She wept, and knelt for many hours in prayer,     Sore tried and troubled by her tender heart.     One day, while we were at our midday meal,     Our cell was entered by the soldiery,     And we were seized and borne away for trial.     A surging crowd had gathered, and we passed     From street to street, hemmed in by tossing heads     And faces cold or cruel; yet we caught     At moments from masked lips and furtive eyes     Of friends - some known to as and some unknown -     Many veiled messages of love and praise.     The floorways of the long basilica     Fronted us with an angry multitude;     And scornful eyes and threatening foreheads frowned     In hundreds from the columned galleries.     We were placed all together at the bar,     And though at first unsteadied and confused     By the imperial presence of the law,     The pomp of judgment and the staring crowd,     None failed or faltered; with unshaken tongue     Each met the stern Proconsul's brief demand     In clear profession. Rapt as in a dream,     Scarce conscious of my turn, nor how I spake,     I watched with wondering eyes the delicate face     And figure of Perpetua; for her     We that were youngest of our company     Loved with a sacred and absorbing love,     A passion that our martyr's brotherly vow     Had purified and made divine. She stood     In dreamy contemplation, slightly bowed,     A glowing stillness that was near a smile     Upon her soft closed lips. Her turn had come,     When, like a puppet struggling up the steps,     Her father from the pierced and swaying crowd     Appeared, unveiling in his agd arms     The smiling visage of her babe. He grasped     Her robe, and strove to draw her down. All eyes     Were bent upon her. With a softening glance,     And voice less cold and heavy with death's doom,     The old Proconsul turned to her and said:     'Lady, have pity on your father's age;     Be mindful of your tender babe; this grain     Of harmless incense offer for the peace     And welfare of the Emperor'; but she,     Lifting far forth her large and noteless eyes,     As one that saw a vision, only said:     'I cannot sacrifice'; and he, harsh tongued,     Bending a brow upon her rough as rock,     With eyes that struck like steel, seeking to break     Or snare her with a sudden stroke of fear:     'Art thou a Christian?' and she answered, 'Yea,     I am a Christian!' In brow-blackening wrath     He motioned a contemptuous hand and bade     The lictors scourge the old man down and forth     With rods, and as the cruel deed was done,     Perpetua stood white with quivering lips,     And her eyes filled with tears. While yet his cries     Were mingling with the curses of the crowd,     Hilarianus, calling name by name,     Gave sentence, and in cold and formal phrase     Condemned us to the beasts, and we returned     Rejoicing to our prison. Then we wished     Our martyrdom could soon have followed, not     As doubting for our constancy, but some     Grew sick under the anxious long suspense.     Perpetua again was weighed upon     By grief and trouble for her babe, whom now     Her father, seeking to depress her will,     Withheld and would not send it; but at length     Word being brought her that the child indeed     No longer suffered, nor desired the breast,     Her peace returned, and, giving thanks to God,     All were united in new bonds of hope.     Now being fixed in certitude of death,     We stripped our souls of all their earthly gear,     The useless raiment of this world; and thus,     Striving together with a single will,     In daily increment of faith and power,     We were much comforted by heavenly dreams,     And waking visitations of God's grace.     Visions of light and glory infinite     Were frequent with us, and by night or day     Woke at the very name of Christ the Lord,     Taken at any moment on our lips;     So that we had no longer thought or care     Of life or of the living, but became     As spirits from this earth already freed,     Scarce conscious of the dwindling weight of flesh.     To Saturus appeared in dreams the space     And splendour of the heavenly house of God,     The glowing gardens of eternal joy,     The halls and chambers of the cherubim,     In wreaths of endless myriads involved     The blinding glory of the angel choir,     Rolling through deeps of wheeling cloud and light     The thunder of their vast antiphonies.     The visions of Perpetua not less     Possessed us with their homely tenderness -     As one, wherein she saw a rock-set pool     And weeping o'er its rim a little child,     Her brother, long since dead, Dinocrates:     Though sore athirst, he could not reach the stream,     Being so small, and her heart grieved thereat.     She looked again, and lo! the pool had risen,     And the child filled his goblet, and drank deep,     And prattling in a tender childish joy     Ran gaily off, as infants do, to play.     By this she knew his soul had found release     From torment, and had entered into bliss.     Quickly as by a merciful gift of God,     Our vigil passed unbroken. Yesternight     They moved us to the amphitheatre,     Our final lodging-place on earth, and there     We sat together at our agap     For the last time. In silence, rapt and pale,     We hearkened to the aged Saturus,     Whose speech, touched with a ghostly eloquence,     Canvassed the fraud and littleness of life,     God's goodness and the solemn joy of death.     Perpetua was silent, but her eyes     Fell gently upon each of us, suffused     With inward and eradiant light; a smile     Played often upon her lips.      While yet we sat,     A tribune with a band of soldiery     Entered our cell, and would have had us bound     In harsher durance, fearing our escape     By fraud or witchcraft; but Perpetua,     Facing him gently with a noble note     Of wonder in her voice, and on her lips     A lingering smile of mournful irony:     'Sir, are ye not unwise to harass us,     And rob us of our natural food and rest?     Should ye not rather tend us with soft care,     And so provide a comely spectacle?     We shall not honour Csar's birthday well,     If we be waste and weak, a piteous crew,     Poor playthings for your proud and pampered beasts.'     The noisy tribune, whether touched indeed,     Or by her grave and tender grace abashed,     Muttered and stormed a while, and then withdrew.     The short night passed in wakeful prayer for some,     For others in brief sleep, broken by dreams     And spiritual visitations. Earliest dawn     Found us arisen, and Perpetua,     Moving about with smiling lips, soft-tongued,     Besought us to take food; lest so, she said,     For all the strength and courage of our hearts,     Our bodies should fall faint. We heard without,     Already ere the morning light was full,     The din of preparation, and the hum     Of voices gathering in the upper tiers;     Yet had we seen so often in our thoughts     The picture of this strange and cruel death,     Its festal horror, and its bloody pomp,     The nearness scarcely moved us, and our hands     Met in a steadfast and unshaken clasp.     The day is over. Ah, my friend, how long     With its wild sounds and bloody sights it seemed!     Night comes, and I am still alive - even I,     The least and last - with other two, reserved     To grace to-morrow's second day. The rest     Have suffered and with holy rapture passed     Into their glory. Saturus and the men     Were given to bears and leopards, but the crowd     Feasted their eyes upon no cowering shape,     Nor hue of fear, nor painful cry. They died     Like armd men, face foremost to the beasts,     With prayers and sacred songs upon their lips.     Perpetua and the frail Felicitas     Were seized before our eyes and roughly stripped,     And shrinking and entreating, not for fear,     Nor hurt, but bitter shame, were borne away     Into the vast arena, and hung up     In nets, naked before the multitude,     For a fierce bull, maddened by goads, to toss.     Some sudden tumult of compassion seized     The crowd, and a great murmur like a wave     Rose at the sight, and grew, and thundered up     From tier to tier, deep and imperious:     So white, so innocent they were, so pure:     Their tender limbs so eloquent of shame;     And so our loved ones were brought back, all faint,     And covered with light raiment, and again     Led forth, and now with smiling lips they passed     Pale, but unbowed, into the awful ring,     Holding each other proudly by the hand.     Perpetua first was tossed, and her robe rent,     But, conscious only of the glaring eyes,     She strove to hide herself as best she could     In the torn remnants of her flimsy robe,     And putting up her hands clasped back her hair,     So that she might not die as one in grief,     Unseemly and dishevelled. Then she turned,     And in her loving arms caressed and raised     The dying, bruised Felicitas. Once more     Gored by the cruel beast, they both were borne     Swooning and mortally stricken from the field.     Perpetua, pale and beautiful, her lips     Parted as in a lingering ecstasy,     Could not believe the end had come, but asked     When they were to be given to the beasts.     The keepers gathered round her - even they -     In wondering pity - while with fearless hand,     Bidding us all be faithful and stand firm,     She bared her breast, and guided to its goal     The gladiator's sword that pierced her heart.     The night is passing. In a few short hours     I too shall suffer for the name of Christ.     A boundless exaltation lifts my soul!     I know that they who left us, Saturus,     Perpetua, and the other blessed ones,     Await me at the opening gates of heaven.