With Christian-like composure
Marana heard her lot,
And though her countenance at first Grew pale, she trembled not. Not for herself the Virgin grieved; She knew in whom she had believed, Knew that a crown of glory
In Heaven would recompense her worth, And her good name remain on earth The theme of sacred story.
Her fears were for her father, How he should bear this grief, Poor wretched heathen, if he still Remain'd in misbelief;
Her looks amid the multitude,
Who struck with deep compassion stood,
Are seeking for Pithyrian:
He cannot bear to meet her eye.
Where goest thou? whither wouldst thou fly, Thou miserable Syrian?
Hath sudden hope inspired him,
Or is it in despair
That through the throng he made his way
And sped he knew not where ?
For how could he the sight sustain When now the sacrificial train
Inhumanly surround her!
How bear to see her when with flowers From rosiers and from jasmine bowers They like a victim crown'd her!
He knew not why nor whither So fast he hurried thence, But felt like one possess'd by some Controlling influence,
Nor turn'd he to Diana's fane, Inly assured that prayers were vain If made for such protection; His pagan faith he now forgot, And the wild way he took was not His own, but Heaven's direction.
He who had never enter'd
A Christian church till then, Except in idle mood profane
To view the ways
Now to a Christian church made straight, And hastened through its open gate, By his good Angel guided,
And thinking, though he knew not why, That there some blessed Power on high Had help for him provided.
Wildly he look'd about him On many a form divine, Whose Image o'er its altar stood,
And many a sculptured shrine, In which believers might behold Relics more precious than the gold
And jewels which encased them. With painful search from far and near Brought to be venerated here
Where piety had placed them.
There stood the Virgin Mother Crown'd with a starry wreath, And there the aweful Crucifix, Appeared to bleed and breathe; Martyrs to whom their palm is given, And sainted Maids who now in Heaven With glory are invested;
Glancing o'er these his rapid eye Toward one image that stood nigh Was drawn, and there it rested.
The countenance that fix'd him Was of a sun-burnt mien, The face was like a Prophet's face Inspired, but yet serene ;
His arms and legs and feet were bare; The raiment was of camel's hair,
That, loosely hanging round him, Fell from the shoulders to the knee; And round the loins, though elsewhere free, A leathern girdle bound him.
With his right arm uplifted The great Precursor stood, Thus represented to the life
In carved and painted wood. Below the real arm was laid Within a crystal shrine display'd
For public veneration;
Not now of flesh and blood, . . but bone,
Sinews, and shrivell❜d skin alone,
In ghastly preservation.
Moved by a secret impulse Which he could not withstand, Let me, Pithyrian cried, adore That blessed arm and hand! This day, this miserable day, My pagan faith I put away, Abjure it and abhor it;
And in the Saints I put my trust, And in the Cross; and, if I must, Will die a Martyr for it.
This is the arm whose succour Heaven brings me here to seek! Oh let me press it to my lips, And so its aid bespeak!
A strong faith makes me now presume That when to this unhappy doom
A hellish power hath brought her, The heavenly hand whose mortal mold I humbly worship, will unfold
Its strength, and save my daughter.
The Sacristan with wonder
And pity heard his prayer, And placed the relic in his hand As he knelt humbly there. Right thankfully the kneeling man To that confiding Sacristan Return'd it, after kissing; And he within its crystal shrine Replaced the precious arm divine,
Nor saw that aught was missing
Он piety audacious !
Oh boldness of belief! Oh sacrilegious force of faith,
That then inspired the thief! Oh wonderful extent of love, That Saints enthroned in bliss above Should bear such profanation, And not by some immediate act, Striking the offender in the fact, Prevent the perpetration !
But sure the Saint that impulse Himself from Heaven had sent,
In mercy predetermining
The marvellous event;
So inconceivable a thought,
Seeming with such irreverence fraught Could else have no beginning;
Nor else might such a deed be done,
As then Pithyrian ventured on,
Yet had no fear of sinning.
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