The Epic of Paul

by William Cleaver Wilkinson

Forty fanatic Jews were quickly found
To bind themselves by a religious oath
Of dreadful imprecation on their heads
Neither to eat nor drink till Paul was slain.
Prompt chance to slay him Shimei promised them;
He would procure that, on the morrow morn,
The chiliarch should desire to quit his doubt
Concerning his strange prisoner, by one more
Test of his cause before the Sanhedrim.
Then, while from the near tower Antonia, Saul
At leisure to their council-hall was brought,
So large a number of sworn arms in league
Might easily, with rash violence, breach their way
To him amid his guard of soldiery,
And, far too suddenly for these to fend,
Spill his life-blood like water on the ground—
Whence could not all the power of Rome again
Gather it up to store his veins withal.

So Shimei plotted, with the guile of hate;
But, with a wiser guile, the guile of love,
There counterplotted a true heart for Paul.

Rachel that ministry of grace had plied
For Ruth by Saul imprisoned, and for those
Of Bethany bound with her—where, meanwhile,
She for Ruth's children happy kept their home—
Month after month, with inexhaustible
Sweet patience and bright heart of hope and brave,
Until, the soul of persecution slain
In Saul converted, they were all let go
Beneath their wonted roofs at peace to dwell;
Rachel first welcoming Ruth safe home once more,
And Ruth then welcoming Rachel still to bide.

But Lazarus, toward Rachel, to and fro
Daily seen moving, with that punctual truth
To tryst so beautiful, more beautiful
In her who was herself so beautiful,
Whose every step, look, gesture, and least speech,
Or very silence, seemed a benison—
Toward Rachel, such beheld—a crescent dawn
Brightening upon him to the perfect day,
Apocalypse of lovely—Lazarus,
In secret, more and more felt his heart drawn,
Through all the dreaming hours he passed in prison.
Released at last, he told his heart to her,
And Rachel learned to yield him love for love;
So, Saul consenting gladly, they were wed.

The eldest-born of Rachel now was grown
A stripling youth, in face and person fair,
Fair spoken, with a winning gift of grace
In manner, and a conscious innocence,
Becoming conscious virtue, written free
In legend over all his lineaments,
Where beamed likewise a bright intelligence,
Alert, beyond such years, with exercise;
For Rachel's had been long a widow's child,
And long that widow's only, as her first.
Stephen they had named their boy—for memory.

It still was dark, deep dark before the dawn,
When Rachel rose from wrestling sleepless dream
To rouse her son from happy dreamless sleep.
"Stephen," said she, "my son, my heart divines
Danger nigh imminent for one we love."

"But, mother," said the son, "mine uncle Paul,
If him thou meanest, is safe in citadel.
Those Romans, heathen though they be, and void
Of pity as the nether millstone is,
Are yet in their hard way, and heathen, just.
They have the power, as they have shown the will,
To keep thy brother hedged from Hebrew hate."

"From Hebrew hate, but not from hellish guile,"
Rachel replied; "and hellish guile, my son,
Thy mother's heart, quickened with sisterhood,
And, from some sad experience of the world,
Suspicious—nay, perhaps, through deep divine
Persuasion by the Holy Spirit wrought,
Intuitive of the future, and on things
Else hidden, inly privileged to look—
Yea, hellish guile, my heart, somehow advised,
Insists and still insists she knows, she feels,
This hour at work against my brother Saul.
Haste, get thee quickly to Gamaliel—
Brief his sleep is, and he will be awake,
For, with his gathering years, now nigh five score,
Lighter and lighter grow his slumbers, ever
Broken and scattered by the first cockcrow—
Greet him from me with worship as beseems,
And, telling him my fears, entreat to know
If aught that touches his old pupil Saul,
Haply an issue from the brooding brain
Of Shimei to Saul's hurt, have reached his ear.
Be wise, be wary, Stephen, whet thy sense,
Fail not to see or hear whatever sign
Glimpses or whispers, smallest hint that may
Concern the safety of thine uncle Saul.
How knowest thou but thy scouting walk this morn
Shall rescue to the world, in need so deep,
Yet many a year of that apostleship?
Besides, with such a sun quenched from our sky,
What then were day prolonged but night to us?
Go, and thy mother here meanwhile will pray:
'Lord, speed my son, make him discreet and brave!'"

Brave and discreet the boy had need to be;
For, as he went, amid the rear-guard dense
Of darkness undispersed before the dawn,
Steering his flying steps along the street,
And watching wary, with tense eye and ear,
To every quarter of the dim dumb world—
A sudden thwarting ray that disappeared!
He paused on tiptoe, leaning forward, stood
One instant, with his hand behind his ear,
To listen, while his noisy heart he hushed;
And heard, yea, footsteps, with a muffled sound
Of human voices sibilant and hoarse.
What meant it? Nothing, doubtless, yet well were
To be unseen, and see—if see he might—
And hear unheard, until his way were sure.
With supple swift insinuation, he
Slipped him beneath the slack ungathered length
Of a chance-left rolled tent-cloth at his feet.
Two men—one bore a lantern, darkened deep
Behind the outer garment that he wore—
Drew nigh, and Stephen held his breath to hear
The name of Saul hissed out between the twain.
Slow was their gait, and ever and anon,
Halting, they checked their words, and seemed to list,
As if for comrades lingering yet behind.
They against Stephen halted thus, and he
Lay breathlessly awaiting what might fall.
First having paused, as hearkening from afar—
To naught but silence—the two men sat down
Upon that roll of tent-cloth, thus at ease
To rest them, till the waited-for appeared.
At Stephen's very ear, he in duress
And forced to hear them, there those two ill men,
Complotters in the plot to murder Paul,
Unfolded in free converse all their scheme.

Fiercely the listening boy forbade to cry
The aching heart of eagerness in him,
That almost rived with its desire of vent.
Fear for himself could not have held him mute;
Horror and hatred of that wickedness
Swelled swiftly in his breast, so huge and hard,
There must have sprung from out his lips a cry,
Sharp like an arrow cleaving from its string,
Had not great love been instant, stronger yet,
Binding his heart to burst not, and be dumb.
So there he lay as dead, so deathlike still,
Until at length—the waited-for come up—
They all went forward thence their purposed way.
Then Stephen lithely to his feet upsprung
And, sped as with his anguish, his disdain,
His indignation, to be silent—force
Pent up in him from all escape but speed—
Swift, like the roe upon the mountains, ran
To find Gamaliel, where that ancient sage
Sat on his dewy roof expecting morn.