Volume 1 — From Once a Week. SAINT DOROTHEA.

The sun blazed fiercely out of cloudless blue, And the deep sea flung back the glare again, As though there were indeed another sun Within the mimic sky reflected there; Not steadily and straight, as from above, But all athwart the little rippling waves The broken daybeams sparkling leapt aloft In glittering ruin; scarce a breath of air To stir the waters or to wave the trees; The flowers hung drooping, and the leaves lay close Against their branches, as if sick and faint With the dull heat and needing strong support. The city walls, the stones of every street, The houses glow'd, you would have thought that none Would venture forth, till that the gracious night Should come with sable robe and wrap the earth In softest folds, and shade men from the day. But see, from every street the seething crowds Pour out, and all along the way they stand, And ribald jest and song resound aloud, And light accost and careless revelry: What means this, wherefore flock the people forth? Ceases the hum, a sudden silence falls On all around, the tramp of armed men Rings through the air; and hark, what further sound? A girl's fresh voice, a sad sweet song is heard Above the clank of arms, men hold their breath; Yet not all sadness is that wondrous chant, That hushes the wild crowd with sudden awe. As when the nightingale's mellifluous tones Rise in the woodland, ere the other birds {667} Have ceased their vesper hymn, that moment drops Each fluttering songster's wild thanksgiving lay, So for awhile did silence fall on all Within the seething crowd at that sweet voice. She comes, they bring her forth to die, for she This day must win the martyr's palm, this day Must witness for her faith, this day must reap The fruit of all her pains, long rest in heaven! Long had they spared her, for the governor Was loth that she should suffer, and her race Was noble, so they hoped to make her yield, And waited still and waited; but at length They grew enraged at her calm steadfastness, They knew not whence a resolution such As made a young maid baffle aged men, So she must die. Now as she went along 'Midst all her guards, again burst forth the mob Into such bitter taunts, such foul wild words, As sent the hot blood mantling to her cheek For shame that she, a maid, must hear such things; And yet was no remorse within their hearts, No light of pity in their savage eyes, Like hungry wolves that scent the blood from far They howled with joy, expectant of their prey. There was one there, he in old days had loved Her fair young face, but he too now, with scorn Written in his dark eyes and on his brow, And in the curl of his short lip, stood by; It 'seemed not such a face, that bitter smile, For he was passing fair, in youth's heyday; But if contemptuous was his mien, his words Were worse for her to bear, for he cried out— He, whom her heart yet own'd its only love! He, whom she held first of all living men! He, whom she honor'd yet, though left by him In her distress and danger!—this man cried, "Ho, Dorothea! doth the bridegroom wait? And goest thou to his arms? Joy go with thee! But yet when in his palace courts above, Whereof thou tellest, fair one, think on us Who toil in this sad world below; on me Think thou before all others, thine old love, And send me somewhat for a token, send Of that same heavenly fruit and of those flowers That fade not!" Then she turn'd and answer'd him, "As thou hast said, so be it, thy request Is granted!" and she pass'd on to her death. She died: her soul was rapt into the skies. The vulgar horde who watch'd her torture, knew Nought of the great unfathomable bliss {668} Which waited her, and when her spirit fled None saw the angel bands receive her, none Heard the long jubilant sweet sound that burst Through heaven's high gates, swept from ten thousand harps By seraph choirs, for she had died on earth Only to enter on the life above. Night fell upon the earth, the city lay Slumb'ring in cool repose, the restless sea, Weary with dancing all day 'neath the sun, Was hushed to sleep by the faint whisp'ring breeze That, wanting force to sport, but rose and fell With soothing murmur, like to pine boughs stirr'd By the north wind: sleep held men's eyelids close. And he, that youth, slept, aye, slept peacefully, Nor reck'd of the vile insult he had pour'd Upon the head of one whom once he swore To love beyond all others. As he lay, Wrapt in the dreamless slumber of young health, Sudden a light unearthly clear hath fill'd The chamber, and he starts up from his couch, Gazing in troubled wonder: by his side What sees he? A young boy he deems him first, But when had mortal such a calm pure smile Since our first father lost his purity? A radiant angel, rather, should he be, Who stands all glorious, bearing in his hands Such fruit and flowers as surely never grew On this dull earth; their fragrance fill'd the air, And smote the senses of Theophilus, That a sad yearning rose within his heart, Such as at times a strain of song will raise, Or some chance word will bring (we know not why), Flooding the inmost soul with that strange sense, Half pain, half pleasure, of some bygone time— Some far off and forgotten happiness, We know not where nor what. The stranger spoke, And thus he said, "Rise up, Theophilus! And take these gifts which I from heaven bring. Fair Dorothea, mindful of her words, Hath sent thee these, and bids thee that henceforth Thou scoff not, but believe!" With those same words Vanish'd the cherub, and the room was dark, Save where the moonbeams made uncertain light, And where remain'd those blossoms and that fruit, For from each leaf and stem there stream'd a ray As of the morning. Down upon his couch Theophilus sank prone, with awe oppress'd; {669} But for a moment. Starting wildly up, He cried, "My love, my Dorothea, list! If thou canst hear me in those starry halls Where now thou dwellest, I accept thy gift. Do thou take mine, for I do give myself Up to the service of thy Lord; thy faith Shall from this hour be mine, for I believe!"