The sun blazed fiercely out of cloudless blue,
And the deep sea flung back the glare again,
As though there were indeed another sun
Within the mimic sky reflected there;
Not steadily and straight, as from above,
But all athwart the little rippling waves
The broken daybeams sparkling leapt aloft
In glittering ruin; scarce a breath of air
To stir the waters or to wave the trees;
The flowers hung drooping, and the leaves lay close
Against their branches, as if sick and faint
With the dull heat and needing strong support.
The city walls, the stones of every street,
The houses glow'd, you would have thought that none
Would venture forth, till that the gracious night
Should come with sable robe and wrap the earth
In softest folds, and shade men from the day.
But see, from every street the seething crowds
Pour out, and all along the way they stand,
And ribald jest and song resound aloud,
And light accost and careless revelry:
What means this, wherefore flock the people forth?
Ceases the hum, a sudden silence falls
On all around, the tramp of armed men
Rings through the air; and hark, what further sound?
A girl's fresh voice, a sad sweet song is heard
Above the clank of arms, men hold their breath;
Yet not all sadness is that wondrous chant,
That hushes the wild crowd with sudden awe.
As when the nightingale's mellifluous tones
Rise in the woodland, ere the other birds [{667}] Have ceased their vesper hymn, that moment drops
Each fluttering songster's wild thanksgiving lay,
So for awhile did silence fall on all
Within the seething crowd at that sweet voice.
She comes, they bring her forth to die, for she
This day must win the martyr's palm, this day
Must witness for her faith, this day must reap
The fruit of all her pains, long rest in heaven!
Long had they spared her, for the governor
Was loth that she should suffer, and her race
Was noble, so they hoped to make her yield,
And waited still and waited; but at length
They grew enraged at her calm steadfastness,
They knew not whence a resolution such
As made a young maid baffle aged men,
So she must die.
Now as she went along
'Midst all her guards, again burst forth the mob
Into such bitter taunts, such foul wild words,
As sent the hot blood mantling to her cheek
For shame that she, a maid, must hear such things;
And yet was no remorse within their hearts,
No light of pity in their savage eyes,
Like hungry wolves that scent the blood from far
They howled with joy, expectant of their prey.
There was one there, he in old days had loved
Her fair young face, but he too now, with scorn
Written in his dark eyes and on his brow,
And in the curl of his short lip, stood by;
It 'seemed not such a face, that bitter smile,
For he was passing fair, in youth's heyday;
But if contemptuous was his mien, his words
Were worse for her to bear, for he cried out—
He, whom her heart yet own'd its only love!
He, whom she held first of all living men!
He, whom she honor'd yet, though left by him
In her distress and danger!—this man cried,
"Ho, Dorothea! doth the bridegroom wait?
And goest thou to his arms? Joy go with thee!
But yet when in his palace courts above,
Whereof thou tellest, fair one, think on us
Who toil in this sad world below; on me
Think thou before all others, thine old love,
And send me somewhat for a token, send
Of that same heavenly fruit and of those flowers
That fade not!"
Then she turn'd and answer'd him,
"As thou hast said, so be it, thy request
Is granted!" and she pass'd on to her death.
She died: her soul was rapt into the skies.
The vulgar horde who watch'd her torture, knew
Nought of the great unfathomable bliss [{668}] Which waited her, and when her spirit fled
None saw the angel bands receive her, none
Heard the long jubilant sweet sound that burst
Through heaven's high gates, swept from ten thousand harps
By seraph choirs, for she had died on earth
Only to enter on the life above.
Night fell upon the earth, the city lay
Slumb'ring in cool repose, the restless sea,
Weary with dancing all day 'neath the sun,
Was hushed to sleep by the faint whisp'ring breeze
That, wanting force to sport, but rose and fell
With soothing murmur, like to pine boughs stirr'd
By the north wind: sleep held men's eyelids close.
And he, that youth, slept, aye, slept peacefully,
Nor reck'd of the vile insult he had pour'd
Upon the head of one whom once he swore
To love beyond all others. As he lay,
Wrapt in the dreamless slumber of young health,
Sudden a light unearthly clear hath fill'd
The chamber, and he starts up from his couch,
Gazing in troubled wonder: by his side
What sees he?
A young boy he deems him first,
But when had mortal such a calm pure smile
Since our first father lost his purity?
A radiant angel, rather, should he be,
Who stands all glorious, bearing in his hands
Such fruit and flowers as surely never grew
On this dull earth; their fragrance fill'd the air,
And smote the senses of Theophilus,
That a sad yearning rose within his heart,
Such as at times a strain of song will raise,
Or some chance word will bring (we know not why),
Flooding the inmost soul with that strange sense,
Half pain, half pleasure, of some bygone time—
Some far off and forgotten happiness,
We know not where nor what.
The stranger spoke,
And thus he said, "Rise up, Theophilus!
And take these gifts which I from heaven bring.
Fair Dorothea, mindful of her words,
Hath sent thee these, and bids thee that henceforth
Thou scoff not, but believe!"
With those same words
Vanish'd the cherub, and the room was dark,
Save where the moonbeams made uncertain light,
And where remain'd those blossoms and that fruit,
For from each leaf and stem there stream'd a ray
As of the morning.
Down upon his couch
Theophilus sank prone, with awe oppress'd; [{669}] But for a moment. Starting wildly up,
He cried, "My love, my Dorothea, list!
If thou canst hear me in those starry halls
Where now thou dwellest, I accept thy gift.
Do thou take mine, for I do give myself
Up to the service of thy Lord; thy faith
Shall from this hour be mine, for I believe!"
Translated from Der Katholik.
THE TWO SIDES OF CATHOLICISM.
[Second Article.]
I. THE PROBLEM.
"Neither," says Jesus Christ, "do they put new wine into old bottles; otherwise the bottles break, and the wine runneth out." The parable teaches that the new spirit of Christianity requires a new form, corresponding to its essence. The essence and the form of Christianity are, therefore, intimately connected.
What is thus generally enunciated in regard to the essential connection of the spirit of Christianity with the forms of its expression, is equally true of the mutual relations subsisting between the substance and the manifestation of the Church. Christianity and the Church are virtually identical. The former, considered as a source of union and brotherhood, constitutes the Church, In a former article we have recognized Catholicism as the type of the Church Founded by Christ. Hence the interdependence of the essence with the form of Christianity in general is not more thorough than that of the spirit of the Church with the historical development of Catholicism.
These remarks will be found to designate the object of the present essay. An inquiry into the fundamental principle of Catholicism must address itself to the elucidation of the cause of the necessary connection between the spirit and the outer shape of the Church just mentioned. The direction in which the light is to be sought appears by the parable cited above.
The new wine requires new bottles, because they only correspond with its nature. By the same induction it is affirmed that if the true Church is realized only in the form of Catholicism, the reason is to be found in the inmost nature of the Church, in the catholicity of her spirit.
This idea of the inherent catholicity of the Church, as well as the foregoing assertion of a necessary inter-dependence of the essence with the image of Catholicism, is to be established on scriptural authority by the following disquisition.
II. THE KINGDOM OF GOD ON EARTH.
The shape and form in which Catholicism appears in history has its root in the papacy. It is certainly deserving of attention, that precisely in the institution of the papacy the Church is designated by a name which affords an insight into her inmost nature.