Suddenly, rudely, comes disastrous change.
He starts and gazes, as the glory of the saints
Fades round him and the angel songs are stilled:
A world of hatred hides the throne of love;
Hell opens in the gleam of myriad eyes
Hungry for slaughter, in a hush that tells
How in each heart a tiger pants for blood.
Into the vast arena files a band
Of Goths, the prisoners of Pollentia,—
Freemen, the dread of Rome, but yesterday,
Now doomed as slaves to wield those terrible arms
In mutual murder, kill and die, amid
The exultation of their nation's foes.
Pausing before the throne, with well-taught lips
They utter words they know not; but Rome hears;
"Cæsar, we greet thee who are now to die!"
Then part and line the lists; the trumpet blares
For the onset, sword and javelin gleam, and all
Is clash of smitten shields and glitter of arms.
Without the tumult, one of mighty limb
And towering frame stands moveless; never yet
A nobler captive had made sport for Rome.
Throngs watch that eye of Mars, Apollo's grace,
The thews of Hercules, in cruel hope
That ten may fall before him ere he falls.
They bid him charge; he moves not; shield and sword
Sink to his feet; his eyes are filled with light
That is not of the battle. Three draw near
Whose valor or despair has cut a path
Through the thick mass of combat, and their swords,
Reeking with carnage, seek a victim new
The glory of whose death may win them grace
With that fierce multitude. Telemachus
Gazes, and half the horror turns to joy
As the fair Goth undaunted bares his breast
Before the butchers, and awaits the blow
With peaceful brow, a firm and tender lip
Quivering as with a breath of inward prayer,
And hands that move as mindful of the cross.
And with a mighty cry, "Christ! he is thine!
He is my brother! Help!" The monk leaps forth,
Gathers in hands unarmed the points of steel,
Throws back the startled warriors, and commands,
"In Christ's name, hold! Ye people of Rome give ear!
God will have mercy and not sacrifice.
He who was silent, scourged at Pilate's bar,
And smitten again in those he died to save,
Is silent now in his great oracles.
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair,
Speaks thus through me:—'In Rome, my capital,
Let love be Lord, and close the mouth of hell.
I will have mercy and not sacrifice.'"
The slaughter paused, he ceased, and all was still,
But baffled myriads with their cruel thumbs
Point earthward, and the bloody three advance:
Their swords meet in his heart. Honorius
Cries "Save,"—too late, he is already safe,—
And turns, with tears like Peter's, to proclaim,
The festival dissolved: nor from that hour
Ever again did Rome, Christ's capital,
Make holiday with blood, but hand in hand
The throne of Constantine and Peter's chair
Honored the martyr—Saint Telemachus,
And love was Lord and closed the mouth of hell.
Miss Emma F. R. Campbell.
In our midst is a quiet, gentle woman who passes in and out among us without noise or ostentation. Yet upon her has fallen the great honor of being the author of an immortal hymn.
In the Canada Presbyterian of Feb. 9th, 1887, appeared an article entitled "A Great Modern Hymn." Also, it is said, that in a volume soon to be published on "The Great Hymns of the Church" will appear a paper on "Jesus of Nazareth Passeth By." From the first named, we cannot do better than quote:
"Among all the hymns used in recent revivals of religion, none has been more honored and owned by God, than this—none so often called for, none so inspiring, none bearing so many seals of the divine approval. This is the testimony of the great evangelist of these days, Mr. Moody, and this testimony will surprise no one who has ever heard it sung by his companion in the ministry, Mr. Sankey, who, under God, has done so much to send forth light and truth into dark minds and break up the fountains of the great deep, amid the masses of godless men.
"As to the origin of the hymn—the circumstances of its birth—we have to invite the reader to go back some twenty-three years, to the Spring of 1864—to a great season of religious awakening in the city of Newark, N. J. The streets were crowded from day to day and the largest churches were too small to contain the growing numbers. Among those most deeply moved by the impressive scenes and services was a young girl, a Sabbath School teacher, one who for the first time realized the powers of the world to come, and the grandness of the great salvation. As descriptive of what was passing around her but with no desire for publicity, still, with the great desire of reaching some soul unsaved, especially among her youthful charge, she wrote the lines beginning with, 'What means this eager, anxious throng?'"