ST. DENYS OF FRANCE (A.D. 272).
N.B.—The following lay was composed in humble imitation of the popular bard of Transatlantica.
WHICH I mean to observe—
And my statement is true—
That for ways that unnerve,
And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I'll explain unto you.
Dionysius his name,
And none will deny
hat Denys the same
Does mean and imply;
And he fell in the hands of the pagans,
Who doom'd him a martyr to die.
'Twas century third,
As the history states,
That Denys incurr'd
This saddest of fates;
With one Eleutherius, deacon,
And Rusticus, priest, for his mates.
Yet the woes that were laid
On those Christians three,
And the pluck they display'd
Were quite frightful to see,
And at first you would scarcely believe it,
But the same is asserted by ME.
'Twas one of their foes'
Diabolical whims,
To the flames to expose
The martyr's bare limbs.
But Denys, for one, didn't mind it,
He lay and sang psalms—likewise hymns.
And then he was placed
In a den of wild beasts
With a preference of taste
For martyrs and priests;
But Denys, by crossing, so tamed them,
They turned from such cannibal feasts.
Next Denys was cast
In a furnace of fire;
All thinking at last
He'd have to expire;
But the flame sank so low in a minute,
No bellows could make it rise higher.
And when he'd been hung
On the cross for a spell,
St. Denys was flung
With his friends in a cell,
As narrow and close as a coffin,
And dark as H E double L.
Said the judge, stern and curt,
"Bring the captives to me."
When he found them unhurt
He cried, "Can this be?
We are ruin'd by Christian endeavor;"
And he meant to destroy the whole three.
On the Saints, who had long
Withstood such attacks,
The foe came out strong
With their tortures and racks.
At last, by the Governor's order,
Their heads were cut off with an axe.
"Do we sleep? do we dream?"
All the witnesses shout;
"Are men what they seem?
Or is witchcraft about?"
For quickly the corpse of St. Denys
Rose up, and began to walk out!
He took up his head,
Tuck'd it under his arm,
And the same, it is said,
Caused surprise and alarm;
Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd
As if by some magical charm.
Cut down to his neck,
Like a flower to its stalk,
The Saint met a check
When he first tried to walk:
But soon he felt stronger than Weston
Or Webb—by a very long chalk.
And angels, we're told,
Led his footsteps along;
While heavenwards rolled
Their chorus of song;
They led him two leagues from the city,
To see that he didn't go wrong.
I hope you'll believe
That this story is fact,
For I scorn to deceive,
And refuse to retract;
For truth I've a great reputation,
And wish to preserve it intact.
Which is why I observe—
And my statement is true—
That for ways that unnerve,
And for deeds that out-do,
St. Denys of France was peculiar,
And the same I have proved unto you.
Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.) London, 1882.