So passed they from his presence, but the world
Loves not the men who are unloved of kings.
The silversmiths that made the idol shrines,
Raised, as of old, a tumult, and the youths
Fled secretly, and sought a refuge safe
Among the mountain heights near Ephesus;
And there within a hidden cave they dwelt,
While Malchus (one of them, but lately come
To Ephesus) brought food to them by night.
Ye deem their lives were sad? Oh they were blest,
On wings of prayer the hours went lightly by;
And oft, when day was spent, toward eventide
Came one into their midst, who brake to them
Celestial bread for their deep hungering.
Till, lo! again with martial pomp and pride,
The haughty Decius came to Ephesus,
And by the whisper of a faithless spy,
He learnt the guarded secret of the cave,
'Gainst which a massive wall the tyrant built,
And so the hiding-place became a tomb.
"They are not dead but sleeping," for the Lord
Hath sent His angel who hath touched their eyes,
And sweetly as a child at evening, dreams
Upon his mother's bosom, lulled to rest
By the soft pulsings of her gentle heart,
So rested well the brave Ephesian youths,—
Guarded by angels, while celestial light
Filled the lone cave and made its rocky bounds
Invisible; and thus they might have seen,
(But that their eyes were closed in heavenly sleep)
The bright stars drifting on the ethereal tide,—
The moon at quarter, like a golden boat
Rock onward to its changing destiny—
The great sun, rising from the under-world,
Blanch all the planets with his fiery rays.
Beneath them were the blue Aegean sea,
Miletus, and the proud Ephesus, where
Rose the world's miracle of marble white,
The Temple of the goddess worshiped there.
Day follows night and night the busy day;
The generations come and go apace,
The child hath left his toys, and in the whirl
Of years is now a grandsire by the hearth,
And now hath passed away and is forgot.
Two hundred years are fled, when, lo! one day
A mason finds the moss-grown wall of stone
Built by the cruel Decius, strong and high,
And knowing not it is a sepulchre,
He quarries it to build a palace wall.
And so the light of day beams in again
Upon the youths, who wake to grateful prayer
That blessed day has come so soon again,
(For all their sleep seemed but an hour's delight)
And Malchus, cautiously descends the mount,
To buy their bread in pagan Ephesus.
Yet much he fears the tyrant Decius
And the rough buffets of the Roman Guard.
When, lo! descending to the city's gate,
He sees a golden cross thereon upreared;
And passing through the portals in a daze,
He wanders on in wonder through the ways.
Where are the images of all the gods—
The silver semblance of Diana fair?
He sees them not, but everywhere he views
The sacred symbol of the Savior's death,
And hears the name of Christ on every tongue.
At last he enters in where bread is sold,
And gives in payment there a silver coin.
"It is an ancient coin," the baker said,
"And bears the image of old Decius."
"Nay you but jest," said Malchus, "where is he?"
"Dead these two hundred years," the man replied,
And, deeming that the youth had lost his mind,
He sent him to the Bishop of the town.
The Bishop heard the marvelous story through,
And being deeply learned in history,
Recalled the memory of the noble seven
And their sad fate in days of Decius.
Then coming to the rocky mountain cave,
(Led up by Malchus all the winding way,)
He witnessed all the truth of what was told.
Nor lacked he faith in God, for he believed
All wondrous things with Him were possible.
But ere by letter he could tell the tale
Unto the Christian Emperor, the youths
Sank into blessed dreams again, and waked
Within a crystal city where was peace.
* * * * * *
I think we all are dreamers like the seven;
The morning rises from her silver throne
And smiles upon the hours we call our own.
The minutes brim like drops of golden wine
O'er Life's o'erflowing cup; we see the shine
Of perfect day on every path we scan;
And Fame's fair vaulted Temple on the span
Of rainbow arches is upheld—and gleams
In every future of our boyhood dreams.
But while we follow every promise sweet,
With buoyant hearts and lightly springing feet,
To where some joy untasted yet awaits,—
We hear the solemn sound of closing gates;
And driven by Care, we leave the City bright,
To mount with aching feet some rocky height
Where Time dispels the hopes that Fancy gave,
And all life's prospect narrows to a cave.
Less sweet we sleep than did the sleepers seven,
Our dreams are shadows—theirs were bright with Heaven.
Haply to every soul there comes an hour
When Sorrow's hand smites in the wall with power,
Or Love hath breathed a whisper soft and low,
And wrought the miracle of Jericho.
And thus we come again or soon or late,
To pass once more the mystic City's gate.
Our hearts grow tender as we view again
The dear remembered vistas of the plain,
And as we draw the sun-lit portals near,
The air is sweet to us with vesper prayer;
While o'er the gate our lifted eyes behold
The sacred sign—a cross of shining gold.
A LEGEND OF ST. JOHN.
Inscribed to
C. C. Bonney.