This ebook is dedicated to
Emmy
friend, colleague, mentor, role model
who fell off the planet far too soon.

The Martyrs’ Idyl

Louise Imogen Guiney.

A ROADSIDE HARP. 16mo, $1.00.

THE WHITE SAIL, and Other Poems. 16mo, $1.25.

SONGS AT THE START. 16mo, $1.00.

THE MARTYRS’ IDYL, and Shorter Poems. 16mo, $1.00.

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
Boston and New York.

The Martyrs’ Idyl
And Shorter Poems

BY LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1899

COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE MARTYRS’ IDYL
TO KATHARINE AND GILES

CONTENTS

THE MARTYRS’ IDYL[ [1]

[1] The outlines of this story, and much of the dialogue, in Scenes II., IV. and V., are taken from the Acta Sanctorum and S. Ambrose.

Sunset. A high rocky pasture above Alexandria. In the year of Our Lord 304.

Didymus, a young soldier, enters and throws himself down.

Didymus.

THIS mound is sweet to me. All my blood aches,

Since driven onward like a dark hill-cloud,

Dizzy with secret lightnings nowhere spent,

I chase yon happy sun to his bright death,

Alas, I know not whither: but I know

I shall not see the myriad shields uphung

In camp to-night, nor on our cypresses

Smoke rise and sink in loath blue fountain spray.

So far, so far I drift from even them

Who fill one gourd with me, who cheer my heart,

Who come in, warm and singing, to the tent,

And miss me who am gone away, I think,

Forever, though a day; out of their world,

Though over a few leagues of upland grass!

Why hast Thou laid on me magic of pain,

God unrevealèd? Was I drawn from sleep,

Man’s duty, body’s health, to be mere wind,

Wind undirected over fallow wastes?

What wouldst Thou ask of me, no sword of Thine,

No ark of service? Yet aware of Thee

I am and shall be. All my thought, outspread,

Is open unto Thee: a lonely beach

Where the wide sobbing surf ebbs everywhere,

And, hard upon each dawn-encolored wave,

Flutters the wavy line of drying sand

Back to the verge: the white line, shadow-quick,

Thrilling there in the dark: an earthen gleam,

Vain huntress of the sea. Suffer me now

To follow and attain Thee, fugitive,

And be my rest, who hast, my whole life long,

Been mine unrest: implored, immortal Love!

A Child enters, with a reed, wearing a wreath of thorns in his hair.

The Child. Soldier, pipe up for me, a herd-boy, glad

Because his flocks are folded.

Didymus. Ah, not I!

My star is withered; I am man no more.

Sigh after sigh the builder Grief takes up,

To heighten over me her gradual arch.

The Child. An arch of entrance to a generous garden,

Where spirits and the moonlit waters are.

Take comfort!

Didymus. Thou art a strange child, methinks,

To say that too wise word.

The Child. Remember, then,

’Twas breathed to thee at Alexandria,

In early-dying April’s golden air.

Didymus. Do I lie here, who deemed myself afar?

I had forgot; I am foolish, lost, bewildered.

The Child. O mine elect: be patient!... Listen now.

There is an evening anthem in my reed;

And while the laurels sparkle, and sun-lit,

The mother-swallow dips into her cave,

And doves move close along their bridal bough,

Murmuring sorrow, I will play to thee.

Didymus. I thank thee, boy, for I may fall asleep.

The Child. Rather shalt wake, and from thy doubt be born!

Lean so, against my knee.

[The Child plays, a long time.

O Didymus,

With thy shut eyes, thy youth undedicate,

Tell me the name of this new pastoral.

Didymus (asleep). He said: “My yoke is sweet, My burden light.”

O light, O sweet, perchance, as it was said!

The Child. True heart! The hour rounds up; thy wine-press waits;

And so this music fades: the silver tones

Thin out, and faintly drip delight, and cease,

No willing man nor bird hears how. Good-night,

O soon-made-perfect!

II

Night. The same fields. Didymus wakes, alone.

Didymus. It is black, and chill.

My little piper’s gone.... How I have dreamed,

How I have dreamed! Lord, gather quietly

All wild hearts like mine own into Thy hand.

Yet on the look of these fresh-kindled stars

I feed, as if their bright benignant lips

Betimes had kissed the fever out of me,

And given to me their seat in warless air,

Their naked majesty, their poignant calm.

Not less remote my spirit, not less free,

After this unimaginable sleep;

Having changed place, indeed, poor moth that was!

With vast abiding things: for now are cast

Old bonds, old ardors, expectation, ease,

Glory and death, belovèd land and sea.

Even as walled frost that feels the solar ray,

Curls up, impermanent, and reels far down

In long blue films, elfin, processional,

While the built stones fall to their first grave hue,

De-silvered: so the awful powers of earth

Exhale from me who stand the same; for these

Are vain, these are phantasmal, but not I.

At last I know myself, and know my need

As simply as a young child might, who cries

For honey from his father’s liberal hive.

I will go down at dawn; I will seek out

The Christian bishop, who shall lift me up,

A soul baptized.... Some lanthorn is beyond,

And moving. Hail, there! Would that I could say,

“The gods be kind to thee!”

A Voice. And why not, friend?

Thou greetest Cratidas, an old sad man,

On his home-going track.

Didymus. I too would house

A head as sad as thine: pause but a space;

I’ll find thee on the road. Now pray thee tell

Whose farms are these? His little herd-boy passed,

And spake or sang to me: Oh, if he were

An angel, or a Greater!

Cratidas. What art thou?

Didymus. One from the camp Nicopolis.

Cratidas. I ask,

Leal to the State, or Christian?

Didymus. In this dark,

Imperial Diocletian’s telltale dark,

And even to the sober ears of eld,

What danger in the word! But now and here,

Danger I love as if she were my fawn.

Turn the lamp full this way: I’ll answer thee.

A true-accounted Christian I am not:

Afar from them my nurture; but I heard

How my young mother, long now in her urn,

Received them: whence aroma of their prayers

Haunted our dwelling ever. In the wars,

I have been sick with longing and half-faith,

Last year and this; that prickle has lived on,

Till every natural mirth is dead in me.

In the shunned name of Christ, I know not how,

Some harvest of mine innermost desire

Is sown, is springing up. Art satisfied,

Father who servest Jove?

Cratidas. Accursèd creed!—

Sir, there my hasty tongue spake for my heart.

A rebel girl I loved forsook me late,

Bit with the Galilean pestilence.

It rages, and it rots our best: be warned.

I am no spy; I will befriend thee. Come.

Didymus. Thou livest nigh?

Cratidas. Not far. Where yon sole gem

Swings from the new moon’s girdle, is my hearth,

’Twixt grove and grove: a solitary place,

Since Theodora went. Hark!...

Didymus. Sound of horror!

The city’s anger must be under it.

Cratidas. Ah me, I tremble: my poor lamb’s the cause

Of such blind fury. Bitter, is it not,

That her last kinsman, hearing, cannot help her?

Didymus. Cratidas, I would help! Read possible aid

In this firm-sinewed arm. Speak.

Cratidas. That I do,

As unto a well-wisher. I distrust

Our fickle and tempestuous populace,

Greek, Roman, Jew, Egyptian, multiform.

Ah, the uproar! I had not thought to find it

So fierce, so soon.

Didymus. Speak quickly!

Cratidas. Loose my wrist.

Many light things are heavy to the old:

Therefore, let me not feel thy touch again,

The while I talk, and guide across the dew.—

I, weeping in the hall, some three days since,

Saw Theodora tried. Aloft he sat,

Eustratius Proculus: no steely man,

But wise and gracious, in the prefect’s chair.

I do not blame him. (Mark the sudden gaps

Along our path.) Eustratius Proculus,

The gold and purple fringing his white robe,

In a domed chamber, on a curving throne;

And next the lighted jasper altar, wheeled

Far up the floor, boxed incense piled thereby,

Tall Theodora, like the lotus-flower

That rides a flooded stream; lictors and priests,

Notaries, naked executioners,

Ranged thick about. The prefect so began:

“Proclaim thyself.” “A maid named Theodora,

Ward of her aged cousin, Cratidas.”

“What is thine age?” “They tell me, seventeen years.”

“And thy condition?” Whereto she replied:

“Christ’s.” Very patiently he asked:

“Art bond or free?” as runs the rote of law.

She smiled in answering: “Free: made free by Christ;

Else, of free parents honorably born,

Rhoxis and Heräis, who both are dead.”

“Then why unmarried?” “For Christ’s sake,” she said,

“I have been busied with the things of Christ:”

(For none could quench that hectic “Christ” in her,

Poor fool!) Then spake Eustratius Proculus:

“Our code imperial deals with virgins thus:

Either unto the gods they sacrifice,

Or in an infamous place shall be exposed.

Come: one small grain within the brazier dropped,

And thou dost forfeit all pollution so,

Nor lose thy burial-rites.” She, blanching not,

Looked up. “Thou art not ignorant, nor I,

How man’s coöperate or revolted will

Doth color, in the councils of high Heaven,

Both what we do, and suffer. Violence,

Though sent to seek my soul, shall by her gate

Sit pilgrim-meek. Christ keeps His citadel.”

The prefect bent again, compassionate:

“O girl! rememberest not thy sires august?

Pity thy beauty, heirloom of their house,

And precious most in thee. Choose to obey;

Since even thee my duty cannot spare.”

But she: “The nail-pierced Hands that have my vow,

Defend it.” “Save thyself,” he cried, “and trust

No crucifièd ghost. From foul disgrace

Snatch thine own youth.” And she: “Behold, I do.

Christ is my source of honor, and mine end:

Christ shall be my preserver.” Next I heard:

“Buffet her twice.” Then: “Wilt thou sacrifice?”

My Theodora of the reddened cheek

Seemed absent from the body for a space,

Before she uttered: “No.” “Child, I am grieved

For such affront, which all our city sees.

Thy quality invites another usage,

Wert thou not crazed.” He paused, being full of ruth;

But self-relentless, she in that same pause

Brake forth: “O my one Wisdom, O my Joy!”

And last, Eustratius Proculus rose up:

“The edict! Let it work. I dally not,

For loyal and immovable regard

Unto mine Emperor.” “Bid me stand as true,”

She murmured, “in allegiance to a Power,

Before whom sceptred Diocletian shines

Brief as this puffing coal.” “Ai, blasphemy!”

The vast crowd thundered. So they led her down

Into a three days’ torture in the prison;

And to the draped tribunal, all unchanged,

This eve she came. Said I, indeed, unchanged?

Her spirit and speech were that; her body swayed

Hither and thither: a candle in a draught.

Some scrupled naught to praise such blithe disdain,

Immaculate, illumined; who e’er knew

Disdain could wear a look so like to Love’s?

And thrice Eustratius Proculus read out

Sentence, whereby the virgin Theodora,

A Christian obdurate and impious,

Must die indeed, but first must be immured,

Until the day break, in the house of shame.

He ended: “May thy God for thee achieve

The best He can!” She added: “Ay, He will.

As Daniel from the lions, from the deeps

Jonah; from furnace-heats the unbought three;

Peter from dungeon chains; as yesterday

Our Agnes from the Roman ignominy,

Shall I be rescued: He is faithful yet.”

Softly she prayed: “Lord, Lord! deliver straight

Thy bounden servant, overshadowing

Thine own, in dread mid-battle, with Thy wing.

Out of Thy mercy, let them harm me not:

By thy most bitter Passion borne for man,

O Fount of chastity, O Fortitude

Of all Thy saints, Jesu! remember me.”

Thus, in that voice which I shall hear no more.

I turned away, dragging my leaden limbs

Hillward, and homeward.

Didymus. And these shouts, these shouts,

Incessant, brutal, terrible, they mean—

Cratidas. That now the lictors drive her forth; they mean

Quick menace to a never-soilèd blossom

Of Hellas come, and her heroic seed.

Ah, well: she will recant; she must recant.—