SAINT LUCY.
The giving of my eyes
In loving sacrifice
Was my appointed way;
No soft decline from the meridian day
Through dusky twilight slowly into dark,
But blackness, bloody, swift, and stark
From hands unkind.
And I was blind.
Thus reads the story, writ on sacred scroll,
Of Lucy, virgin martyr: that sharp dole
Won heaven's eternal brightness for her soul;—
The blotting out of sunshine, the recoil
From utter blackness, the heart's gasp and spasm
Before the unseen void, the imagined chasm
Of untried darkness, was the martyr toil
Whose moment's agony surpasses years—
The love, long years of patience and of tears
Allotted unto others. "All for all;"
Not doling out with a reluctant hand,
But in one holocaustal offering grand,
Will, senses, mind, responding to heaven's call.
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"Bought at whatever price, heaven is not dear,"
Sounds like an echoed chorus full of cheer
From crypts of mangled martyrs, and charred bones,
And blood-stained phials of the catacombs:
And that young Roman girl's adoring eyes,
One moment darkened, opened in surprise
Upon the face of God. The cruel, taunt
Of judges obdurate, the accuser's vaunt,
The mob's wild shout of triumph deep and hoarse,
Might still be heard around the bloody corse
When her sweet soul, in peace, at God's own word
Had tasted its exceeding great reward;
To "see as she was seen," to know as known;
The beatific vision all her own.
Upon the sacred canon's sacred page.
Invoked by vested priest from age to age,
Stand five fair names of virgins, martyrs all,
As if with some peculiar glory crowned
That thus their names should crystallize; "their sound
Is gone through all the earth," and great and small
Upon those five wise virgins sweetly call
With reverent wish: Saint Lucy! Agatha!
Agnes! Cecilia! Anastasia!
And chanted litany chose names enfold
In reliquary more precious than mute gold.
With what a tender awe I heard that name—
A household name, familiar, dear, and kind.
Of gentlest euphony—such honor claim!
Thenceforth that name I speak with lifted mind,
More loved in friend, because revered in saint;
And daily as to heaven I make complaint
Of mortal ills, and sickness, sorrows, woes,
This one petition doth all others close:
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, by thine eyes
Which thou didst give to God in sacrifice,
His mercy and his solace now implore
For darkened eyes and sightless, never more
To gaze on aught created: by that meed
Of choicest graces in that hour of need,
Sweetness of patience and a joyful mind,
And faithful, gentle hands to guide the blind!
But more than this, Saint Lucy; thou didst gain,
By loss of thy young eyes with loving pain.
The vision given to angels; then obtain
The lifting up of blinded orbs to where
God sitteth in his beauty, the All-fair;
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, aid our prayer!
THE GODFREY FAMILY;
OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER V.
IS MERE MATERIAL PROGRESS A REAL BENEFIT, OR A PROGRESS IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION?
I have already stated that Eugene Godfrey was well introduced on his entrance at Cambridge. Scientific professors found pleasure in bringing forward the son of so eminent a patron of literature and science. But they were disappointed at finding little response in Eugene's mind to the boastful glory of scientific improvement. "Cui Bono?" was ever in his heart, and sometimes on his lips, when any new inventions were proposed to him.
"Supposing we should be able to light our streets and our houses with this wonderful combination of gases," he would say, "will the light within be the greater? Supposing we travel without horses at the speed of thirty miles an hour, can we travel nearer to truth? Improvement! Is it an improvement to multiply bodily wants, or (beyond supplying means of actual existence) is it rational to spend so much time in rendering the body comfortable? Is multiplying luxury a good?"
"It employs hands," would be the reply, "and thus diffuses wealth."
"If that is the only object, riches could be easily scattered without compelling those who own them to become effeminate triflers."