The Story of Justin Martyr, and Other Poems

by Richard Chenevix Trench

TO ——

If, Lady, at thy bidding, I have strung
As on one thread these few unvalued beads,
I cannot ask the world to count them pearls,
Or to esteem them better than they are:
But thou, I know, wilt prize them, for by thee
Solicited, I have beguiled with these
The enforcèd leisure of the present time,
And dedicate of right my little book
To thee, beloved—sure at least of this
That if my verse has aught of good or true,
It will not lack the answer of one heart—
And if herein it may be thou shalt find
Some notes of jarring discord, some that speak
A spirit ill at ease, unharmonised,
Yet ’twere a wrong unto thyself to deem
These are the utterance of my present heart,
My present mood—but of long years ago,
When neither in the light of thy calm eyes,
Nor in the pure joys of an innocent home,
Nor in the happy laughter of these babes,
Had I as yet found comfort, peace, or joy.
But all is changèd now, and could I weave
A lay of power, it should not now be wrung
From miserable moods of sullen sin,
Chewing the bitter ashes of the fruit
Itself had gathered; rather would I speak
Of light from darkness, good from evil brought
By an almighty power, and how all things,
If we will not refuse the good they bring,
Are messages of an almighty love,
And full of blessings. Oh! be sure of this—
All things are mercies while we count them so;
And this believing, not keen poverty
Nor wasting years of pain or slow disease,
Nor death, which in a moment might lay low
Our pleasant plants,—not these, if they should come,
Shall ever drift our bark of faith ashore,
Whose stedfast anchor is securely cast
Within the veil, the veil of things unseen,
Which now we know not, but shall know hereafter.

Yet wherefore this? for we have not been called
To interpret the dark ways of Providence,
But that unsleeping eye that wakes for us,
Has kept from hurt, and harm, and blind mischance,
Our happy home till now. Yet not for this
Can we escape our share of human fears
And dim forebodings, chiefly when we think
Under what hostile influence malign
They may grow up, for whom their life is cast
Now to begin in this unhappy age,
When all, that by a solemn majesty
And an enduring being once rebuked
And put to shame the sordid thoughts of man,
Must be no more permitted to affront
Him and his littleness, or bid him back
Unto the higher tasks and nobler cares
For which he lives, for which his life is lent.

Yet what though all things must be common now,
And nothing sacred, nothing set apart,
But each enclosure by rude hands laid waste,
That did fence in from the world’s wilderness
Some spot of holy ground, wherein might grow
The tender slips, the planting of the Lord;
Within the precincts of which holy spots,
With awful ordinances fencèd round,
They might grow up in beauty and in peace,
In season due to be transplanted thence
Into the garden of God,—what though all these
May perish, there will yet remain to us
One citadel, one ark, which hands profane
Will scarce invade, or lay unholy touch
Upon the sanctities inviolate,
And pure religion of our sacred homes.
And here the culture may proceed, and here
Heaven may distil its rich and silent dews,
When all around is parched as desert heath.
For this may come, the withering and the drought,
The laying waste of every holy hedge
May come, how soon we know not, but may fear;
Since nations walk, no less than men, by faith,
As seeing that which is invisible
Unto the sealèd eye of sensual men:
And where this vision is not, or the seers
Are lightly counted of, the people perish.
And woe unto our country, if indeed
She has left off this wisdom, or esteems
This for her higher wisdom—to despise
All spiritual purpose, all far-looking aim,
And all that cannot be exchanged for gold—
Woe unto her, and turbulent unrest
Unto ourselves, who cannot hope or wish
In her disquiet to lead quiet lives,
Or to withdraw out of the stormy press
And tumult—to withdraw and keep the latch
Close fastened of our little world apart,
A peaceful island in a stormy sea,
A patch of sunshine amid shadows lying;
This must not be, we were not called to this.
And all the peace we know must be within,
And from within—from that glad river fed,
Whose springs lie deeper than that heat or cold,
Or the vicissitudes earth’s surface knows
Can reach to harm them.

Mayest thou know well
What are these springing waters, wells of life,
By the great Father dug for us at first,
And which, when sin had stopped them, love anew
Has opened, and has given them their old names
And former virtue[1]; and from these refreshed,
Mayest thou pass onward through the wilderness,
And knowing what of ill is imminent,
And may descend upon us, evermore
Strengthen with faith and prayer, with lofty thought
And effort, and it may be in some part
With soul-sustaining verse, the citadel
Of courage and heroic fortitude,
Which in the centre of a woman’s heart
Is stablished, whatsoever outwardly
Of doubt or womanly weak fear prevail.

POEMS, &c.

THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR.
(SEE JUSTIN MARTYR’S FIRST DIALOGUE WITH TRYPHO.)

It seems to me like yesterday,
The morning when I took my way
Upon the shore—in solitude;
For in that miserable mood
It was relief to quit the ken
And the inquiring looks of men—
The looks of love and gentleness,
And pity, that would fain express
Its only purpose was to know,
That, knowing, it might soothe my woe:
But when I felt that I was free
From searching gaze, it was to me
Like ending of a dreary task,
Or putting off a cumbrous mask.

I wandered forth upon the shore,
Wishing this lie of life was o’er;
What was beyond I could not guess,
I thought it might be quietness,
And now I had no dream of bliss,
No thought, no other hope but this—
To be at rest—for all that fed
The dream of my proud youth had fled,
My dream of youth, that I would be
Happy and glorious, wise and free,
In mine own right, and keep my state,
And would repel the heavy weight,
The load that crushed unto the ground
The servile multitude around;
The purpose of my life had failed,
The heavenly heights I would have scaled,
Seemed more than ever out of sight,
Further beyond my feeble flight.
The beauty of the universe
Was lying on me like a curse;
Only the lone surge at my feet
Uttered a soothing murmur sweet,
As every broken weary wave
Sunk gently to a quiet grave,
Dying on the bosom of the sea—
And death grew beautiful to me,
Until it seemed a mother mild,
And I like some too happy child;
A happy child, that tired with play,
Through a long summer holiday,
Runs to his mother’s arms to weep
His little weariness asleep.
Rest—rest—all passion that once stirred
My heart, had ended in one word—
My one desire to be at rest,
To lay my head on any breast,
Where there was hope that I might keep
A dreamless and unbroken sleep;
And the lulled ocean seemed to say,
“With me is quiet,—come away.”
There is a tale that oft has stirred
My bosom deeply: you have heard
How that the treacherous sea-maid’s art
With song inveigles the lost heart
Of some lone fisher, that has stood
For days beside the glimmering flood;
And when has grown upon him there
The mystery of earth and air,
He cannot find with whom to part
The burden lying at his heart;
So when the mermaid bids him come,
And summons to her peaceful home,
He hears—he leaps into the wave,
To find a home, and not a grave.

Anon I said I would not die;
I loathed to live—I feared to die—
So I went forward, till I stood
Amid a marble solitude,
A ruined town of ancient day.
I rested where some steps away
From other work of human hand
Two solitary pillars stand,
Two pillars on a wild hill side,
Like sea-marks of a shrunken tide:
Their shafts were by the sea-breeze worn,
Beneath them waved the verdant corn;
But a few paces from the crown
Of that green summit, farther down,
A fallen pillar on the plain,
Slow sinking in the earth again,
Bedding itself in dark black mould,
Lay moveless, where it first had rolled.
It once had been a pillar high,
And pointing to the starry sky;
But now lay prostrate, its own weight
Now serving but to fix its state,
To sink it in its earthy bed;
I gazed, and to myself I said,
“This pillar lying on the plain
The hand of man might raise again,
And set it as in former days;
But the fall’n spirit who shall raise,
What power on earth? what power in heaven?”
How quickly was an answer given
Unto this voice of my despair!
But now I sat in silence there,
I thought upon the vanished time,
And my irrevocable prime,
My baffled purpose, wasted years,
My sin, my misery—and my tears
Fell thick and fast upon the sands;
I hid my face within my hands,
For tears are strange that find their way
Under the open eye of day,
Under the broad and glorious sun,
Full in the heavens, as mine have done,
And as upon that day they did,
Unnoticed, unrestrained, unchid.
How long I might have felt them flow
Without a check, I do not know,
But presently, while yet I kept
That attitude of woe, and wept,
A mild voice sounded in mine ears—
“You cannot wash your heart with tears!”
I quickly turned—and, vexed to be
Seen in my spirit’s agony,
In anger had almost replied—
An aged man was at my side;
I think that since my life began,
I never saw an older man,
Than he who stood beside me then,
And with mild accents said again:
“You cannot cleanse your heart with tears,
Though you should weep as many years
As our great Father, when he sat
Uncomforted on Ararat—
This would not help you, and the tear
Which does not heal, will scald and sear.
What is your sorrow?”

Until now
I never had unveiled my woe—
Not that I shunned sweet sympathies,
Man’s words, or woman’s pitying eyes;
But that I felt they were in vain,
And could not help me—for the pain,
The wound which I was doomed to feel,
Man gave not, and he could not heal.
But in this old man’s speech and tone
Was something that allured me on:
I told him all—I did not hide
My sin, my sorrow, or my pride:
I told him how, when I began
First to verge upward to a man,
These thoughts were mine—to dwell alone,
My spirit on its lordly throne,
Hating the vain stir, fierce and loud,
The din of the tumultuous crowd;
And how I thought to arm my soul,
And stablish it in self-controul;
And said I would obey the right,
And would be strong in wisdom’s might,
And bow unto mine own heart’s law,
And keep my heart from speck or flaw,
That in its mirror I might find
A reflex of the Eternal mind,
A glass to give me back the truth—
And how before me from my youth
A phantom ever on the wing,
Appearing now, now vanishing,
Had flitted, looking out from shrine,
From painting, or from work divine
Of poet’s, or of sculptor’s art;
And how I feared it might depart,
That beauty which alone could shed
Light on my life—and then I said,
I would beneath its shadow dwell,
And would all lovely things compel,
All that was beautiful or fair
In art or nature, earth or air,
To be as ministers to me,
To keep me pure, to keep me free
From worldly service, from the chain
Of custom, and from earthly stain;
And how they kept me for a while,
And did my foolish heart beguile;
Yet all at last did faithless prove,
And, late or soon, betrayed my love;
How they had failed me one by one,
Till now, when youth was scarcely done,
My heart, which I had thought to steep
In hues of beauty, and to keep
Its consecrated home and fane,
That heart was soiled with many a stain,
Which from without and from within
Had gathered there, till all was sin,
Till now I only drew my breath,
I lived but in the hope of death.

While my last words were giving place
To my heart’s anguish, o’er his face
A shadow of displeasure past,
But vanished then again as fast
As the breeze-shadow from the brook;
And with mild words and pitying look
He gently said—
“Ah me, my son,
A weary course your life has run;
And yet it need not be in vain,
That you have suffered all this pain;
And, if mine years might make me bold
To speak, methinks I could unfold
Why in such efforts you could meet
But only misery and defeat.
Yet deem not of us as at strife,
Because you set before your life
A purpose and a loftier aim,
Than the blind lives of men may claim
For the most part—or that you sought,
By fixed resolve and solemn thought,
To lift your being’s calm estate
Out of the range of time and fate.
Glad am I that a thing unseen,
A spiritual Presence, this has been
Your worship, this your young heart stirred—
But yet herein you proudly erred,
Here may the source of woe be found,
You thought to fling, yourself around,
The atmosphere of light and love
In which it was your joy to move—
You thought by efforts of your own
To take at last each jarring tone
Out of your life, till all should meet
In one majestic music sweet—
Deeming that in our own heart’s ground
The root of good was to be found,
And that by careful watering
And earnest tendance we might bring
The bud, the blossom, and the fruit
To grow and flourish from that root—
You deemed we needed nothing more
Than skill and courage to explore
Deep down enough in our own heart,
To where the well-head lay apart,
Which must the springs of being feed,
And that these fountains did but need
The soil that choked them moved away,
To bubble in the open day.
But, thanks to heaven, it is not so,
That root a richer soil doth know
Than our poor hearts could e’er supply,
That stream is from a source more high,
From God it came, to God returns,
Not nourished from our scanty urns,
But fed from his unfailing river,
Which runs and will run on for ever.”
When now he came to heavenly things
And spake of them, his spirit had wings,
His words seemed not his own, but given—
I could have deemed one spake from heaven
Of hope and joy, of life and death,
And immortality through faith,
Of that great change commenced within,
The blood that cleanses from all sin,
That can wash out the inward stain,
And consecrate the heart again,
The voice that clearer and more clear
Doth speak unto the purgèd ear,
The gracious influences given
In a continued stream from heaven,
The balm that can the soul’s hurt heal,
The Spirit’s witness and its seal.

I listened, for unto mine ear
The Word, which I had longed to hear,
Was come at last, the lifeful word
Which I had often almost heard
In some deep silence of my breast—
For with a sense of dim unrest
That word unborn had often wrought,
And struggled in the womb of thought,
As from beneath the smothering earth
The seed strives upward to a birth:
And lo! it now was born indeed—
Here was the answer to my need.

But now we parted, never more
To meet upon that lone sea-shore.
We have not met on earth again,
And scarcely shall—there doth remain
A time, a place where we shall meet,
And have the stars beneath our feet.
Since then I many times have sought
Who this might be, and sometimes thought
It must have been an angel sent
To be a special instrument
And minister of grace to me,
Or deemed again it might be He,
Of whom some say he shall not die,
Till he have seen with mortal eye
The glory of his Lord again:
But this is a weak thought and vain.

We parted, each upon our way—
I homeward, where my glad course lay
Beside those ruins where I sate
On the same morning—desolate,—
With scarcely strength enough to grieve:
And now it was a marvellous eve,
The waters at my feet were bright,
And breaking into isles of light:
The misty sunset did enfold
A thousand floating motes of gold;
The red light seemed to penetrate
Through the worn stone, and re-create
The old, to glorify anew;
And steeping all things through and through
A rich dissolving splendour poured
Through rent and fissure, and restored
The fall’n, the falling and decayed,
Filling the rifts which time had made,
Till the rent masses seemed to meet,
The pillar stand upon its feet,
And tower and cornice, roof and stair
Hung self-upheld in the magic air.
Transfigured thus those temples stood
Upon the margin of the flood,
All glorious as they rose of yore,
There standing, as not ever more
They could be harmed by touch of time,
But still, as in that perfect prime,
Must flourish unremoved and free,
Or as they then appeared to me,
A newer and more glorious birth,
A city of that other earth,
That Earth which is to be.