Acquitted thus of all his natural cares,
And joyful in the sense of his reprieve,
And springing toward the work that he would do,
And for that work renewed in strength by hope
And faith and love and zeal unquenchable
And passion for the saving of the souls
Of men, his fellows, perishing in sin—
Much more, by the almighty hand of God
Upon him stayed in an immortal youth—
That spent old man, refusing to be spent
Though spending daily like the river of God,
Set forward, Luke alone companion now,
To send with torch in hand a running fire
Of gospel conflagration round the world.
Go, Paul, forgetful of thyself, make speed!
Thou shalt not be forgotten of thy God!
Go, with that treasure for thy fellows fraught!
Go, with the future of the world in trust!
Nowhere in utmost islands of the sea,
Never till time shall be no more, shall men
Not owe thee debt for blessings manifold—
Crowning the life that now is, frail and fleet,
Crowning the nobler life that is to be—
Blessings theirs but because thou wouldst not shrink
From whatsoever hardship, peril, harm,
Loss, toil, self-sacrifice to martyrdom.
So thou mightst scatter far and wide for us
The deathless seeds of that which we enjoy
In harvest of all good, civility
Of morals and of manners, science, art,
Fair order, freedom, progress, light and life,
And, overvaulting all, the hope of heaven!
While Paul his circuits was accomplishing,
Paul's enemies (and ours) were not remiss,
Whether in Rome or in Jerusalem.
Drusilla, disappointed of her hopes
With Nero to ensnare his heart and be
Assumed to sit beside him on his throne,
Even cheated for the moment of the glut
She thought she had purchased at such cost to pride
Of extreme vengeance visited on Paul,
Was sullenly but more than ever bent
Not to fail yet of at least that desire.
She saw Octavia, sent to exile, way
Make for Poppæa's spousals; heard the shout
Of shallow hollow popular acclaim
That hailed her hated rival conqueror,
Bearing her as on billows of applause
To the high seat herself had hoped for once!
Envy and hatred ulcerous ate her heart—
But not despair; despair was not for her:
Malignity was fuel still to hope.
She despatched Simon to Jerusalem
To blow the embers smouldering there to flame
Of deadly accusation against Paul:
Simon was Shimei risen from the dead,
Shimei in all his pristine force unspent.
The elders of the Jews commissioned him,
With others to whom he was heart and head,
To press at Rome for Paul the doom of death.
Meantime the mouth of common fame began
To whisper that Poppæa, though a wife
To Nero now—perhaps because a wife
And mother of a daughter, Claudia, born
To him—no longer charmed him as of old.
Unholy hope flared up a flicker of flame
Delusive in Drusilla's breast once more.
Octavia, when her husband tired of her,
Went into exile and then went to death
To give Poppæa room; Poppæa's turn
Perhaps was nearing to make room for her,
Drusilla!
'Up, O heart!' she inly cried.
The emperor had indeed with fickle whim,
Dazed by some intercepting lure more nigh,
Forgotten quite his thought of tryst with her—
As her conditions too he had not met.
But her conditions now were well in train,
She trusted, to fulfill themselves on Paul;
And if before, some trace of conscience left
In Nero interfered to make him pause,
Such scruple would no longer be a let
To his desire, should his desire revive,
Of meeting her upon the terms she fixed
To satisfy at once her hate, her pride.
Simon then, from Jerusalem returned
Blithe with his prosperous mission and with hope,
Should go once more to Nero for her cause.
And Simon went, but went not for her cause.
He had a purpose of his own to serve—
Purpose malignant, fatuous—which, fulfilled,
Would swift recoil in ruin on himself.
No worship to Poppæa's setting sun
Paid by him now to win his way at court,
He boldly in Drusilla's name besought
Access to the imperial ear: that name
Procured him instant audience. Discomposed
A little by the sudden way he made
Simon stood faltering, and before his wit
Was ready with apt words the emperor spoke:
"What will thy mistress? She perhaps has thought
The emperor was a trifle slow to claim
His privilege at her court? Bid her take heart;
Things now begin to shape themselves aright."
By this time Simon had recovered himself;
He said: "My mistress is indulgent, Sire.
Knowing my fondness for my art, and wish
That I might entertain the emperor,
She begs thou wilt appoint a time for me—"
"O, aye," the emperor said; "return to her,
And if thou canst bring promptly back to me
Assurance of her grace that she forgives
My tardiness in the past, and will receive
Me yet upon the terms she fixed before—
Somewhat abated, aye, but in the main
Whole; for although the rabble rest she named
Are scattered and not worth regathering, Paul
Is under hand again, duly accused,
And freely may be dealt with to our wish—
Bring, I say, word to me that she consents,
And thou shalt exercise for me thine art
At pleasure here within my palace halls.
Go, and good speed, ambassador of love!"
The sarcasm and the irony took effect
To quicken in the sorcerer his resolve:
For Simon his own doom was teeming now.
He was infatuate with the vain conceit
That he the secret in his art possessed
Of a mock-supernatural power to play
Upon the conscience of the emperor
And fill his conscious breast with guilty fears:
So once he saw Paul play on Felix's,
Making him shudder on his judgment-throne;
Aye, and so he himself in sequel played
On the same kingly culprit with his spells.
Beyond all, Simon was beside himself
With suffocated hatred seeking breath
In freak of demonstration on the man
Who in the wantonness of despotic pride
Had so despised and mocked and flouted him.
Mad thus—judicially, and doubly—he,
Having brought back the word the emperor wished,
And had the promised day appointed him,
Dared an audacious and a fatal thing.
A series of phantasmagories shown
By him, he closed with a presentment, clear
In outline cast upon the palace wall
In shapes of shadow moving like grim life,
Of the dread scene of Agrippina's death:
There hung the vessel on a glassy sea;
The coping timbers causelessly fell down,
But missed the empress-mother figured there;
There followed then the ghastly after-act
Of mother-murder done in pantomime—
More ghastly, that it passed in silence all.
Simon mistook—it was his last mistake!
He had overweened both of the power his own,
And of the emperor's openness to fear.
Nero sat gazing on the spectacle
With heed moveless, and mute, and ominous,
Till the device was acted to the end.
Then still no sign he gave—save summons sent
Bidding two household soldiers straight come in.
To these he coldly, curtly, only said:
"Crucify me this Jew; do it at once!
Be gentle with him; make him last for days,
And every day bring me report of him."