They too whom Cyra’s secret aid
Relieved from pressing cares,
In this her day of wretchedness,
Repaid her with their prayers.
And from many a gentle bosom
Supplications for mercy were sent,
If haply they might aid
The wretched penitent.
Sorely such aid he needed then!
Basil himself, of living men
The powerfullest in prayer,
For pity, rather than in hope,
Had bidden him not despair.
So hard a thing for him it seem’d
To wrest from Satan’s hand
The fatal Bond, which, while retain’d,
Must against him in judgement stand.
“Dost thou believe,” he said, “that Grace
Itself can reach this grief?”
With a feeble voice, and a woeful eye,
“Lord, I believe!” was the sinner’s reply,
“Help thou mine unbelief!”
The Bishop then crost him on the brow,
And crost him on the breast:
And told him if he did his part
With true remorse and faithful heart,
God’s mercy might do the rest.
“Alone in the holy Relic-room
Must thou pass day and night,
And wage with thy ghostly enemies
A more than mortal fight.
“The trial may be long, and the struggle strong,
Yet be not thou dismay’d;
For thou mayest count on Saints in Heaven,
And on earthly prayers for aid.
“And in thy mind this scripture bear
With steadfast faithfulness, whate’er
To appall thee may arrive;
‘When the wicked man turneth away from his sin
He shall save his soul alive!’
“Take courage as thou lookest around
On the relics of the blest;
And night and day, continue to pray,
Until thy tears have wash’d away
The stigma from thy breast!”
“Let me be with him!” Cyra cried;
“If thou mayest not be there,
In this sore trial I at least
My faithful part may bear:
“My presence may some comfort prove,
Yea, haply some defence;
O Father, in myself I feel
The strength of innocence!”
“Nay, Daughter, nay; it must not be!
Tho’ dutiful this desire;
He may, by Heaven’s good grace, be saved,
But only as if by fire;
“‘Sights which should never meet thine eye
Before him may appear;
And fiendish voices proffer words
Which should never assail thy ear;
Alone must he this trance sustain;
Keep thou thy vigils here!”
He led him to the Relic-room;
Alone he left him there;
And Cyra with the Nuns remain’d
To pass her time in prayer.
Alone was Eleëmon left
For mercy on Heaven to call;
Deep and unceasing were his prayers,
But not a tear would fall.
His lips were parch’d, his head was hot,
His eyeballs throbb’d with heat;
And in that utter silence
He could hear his temples beat.
But cold his feet, and cold his hands;
And at his heart there lay
An icy coldness unrelieved,
While he pray’d the livelong day.
A long, long day! It past away
In dreadful expectation;
Yet free throughout the day was he
From outward molestation.
Nor sight appear’d, nor voice was heard,
Tho’ every moment both he fear’d;
The Spirits of the Air
Were busy the while in infusing
Suggestions of despair.
And he in strong endeavour still
Against them strove with earnest will;
Heart-piercing was his cry,
Heart-breathed his groaning; but it seem’d
That the source of tears was dry.
And now had evening closed;
The dim lamp-light alone
On the stone cross, and the marble walls,
And the shrines of the Martyrs, shone.
Before the Cross Eleëmon lay:
His knees were on the ground;
Courage enough to touch the Cross
Itself, he had not found.
But on the steps of the pedestal
His lifted hands were laid;
And in that lowliest attitude
The suffering sinner pray’d.
A strong temptation of the Fiend,
Which bade him despair and die,
He with the aid of Scripture
Had faithfully put by;
And then, as with a dawning hope,
He raised this contrite cry:
“Oh that mine eyes were fountains!
If the good grace of Heaven
Would give me tears, methinks I then
Might hope to be forgiven!”
To that meek prayer a short loud laugh
From fiendish lips replied:
Close at his ear he felt it,
And it sounded on every side.
From the four walls and the vaulted roof
A shout of mockery rung;
And the echoing ground repeated the sound,
Which peal’d above, and below, and around,
From many a fiendish tongue.
The lamps went out at that hideous shout,
But darkness had there no place,
For the room was fill’d with a lurid light
, That came from a Demon’s face.
A dreadful face it was,.. too well
By Eleëmon known!
Alas! he had seen it when he stood
Before the dolorous Throne.
“Eleëmon! Eleëmon!”
Sternly said the Demon,
“How have I merited this?
I kept my covenant with thee,
And placed thee in worldly bliss!
“And still thou mightest have had,
Thine after-days to bless,
Health, wealth, long life, and whatsoe’er
The World calls happiness.
“Fool, to forego thine earthly joys,
Who hast no hope beyond!
For judgement must be given for me,
When I sue thee upon the Bond.
“Remember I deceived thee not;
Nor had I tempted thee;
Thou camest of thine own accord,
And didst act knowingly!
“I told thee thou might’st vainly think
To cheat me by contrition,
When thou wert written down among
The Children of Perdition!
“‘So help me, Satan! ‘ were thy words
When thou didst this allow;
I help’d thee, Eleëmon, then,..
And I will have thee now!”
At the words of the Fiend, from the floor
Eleëmon in agony sprung;
Up the steps of the pedestal he ran,
And to the Cross he clung.
And then it seem’d as if he drew,
While he claspt the senseless stone,
A strength he had not felt till then,
A hope he had not known.
So when the Demon ceased,
He answer’d him not a word;
But looking upward, he
His faithful prayer preferr’d:
“All, all, to Thee, my Lord
And Saviour, I confess!
And I know that Thou canst cleanse me
From all unrighteousness!
“I have turned away from my sin,
In
Thee do I put my trust,
To such Thou hast promised forgiveness,
And Thou art faithful and just!”
With that the Demon disappear’d,
The lamps resumed their light;
Nor voice, nor vision more
Disturb’d him thro’ the night.
He stirr’d not from his station,
But there stood fix’d in prayer;
And when Basil the Bishop enter’d
At morn, he found him there.
VIII.
WELL might the Bishop see what he
Had undergone that night;
Remorse and agony of mind
Had made his dark hair white.
So should the inner change, he ween’d,
With the outward sign accord;
And holy Basil crost himself,
And blest our gracious Lord.
“Well hast thou done,” said he, “my son,
And faithfully fought the fight;
So shall this day complete, I trust,
The victory of the night.
“I fear’d that forty days and nights
Too little all might be;
But great and strange hath been the change
One night hath wrought in thee.”
“O Father, Father!” he replied,
“And hath it been but one?
An endless time it seem’d to me!
I almost thought Eternity
With me had been begun.
“And surely this poor flesh and blood
Such terrors could not have withstood,
If grace had not been given;
But when I claspt the blessed Cross,
I then had help from Heaven.
“The coldness from my heart is gone;
But still the weight is there,
And thoughts which I abhor, will come
And tempt me to despair.
“Those thoughts I constantly repel;
And all, methinks, might yet be well,
Could I but weep once more,
And with true tears of penitence
My dreadful state deplore.
“Tears are denied; their source is dried!
And must it still be so?
O Thou, who from a rock didst make
The living waters flow,
“A broken and a bleeding heart
This hour I offer Thee;
And, when Thou seest good, my tears
Shall then again be free!”
A knocking at the door was heard
As he ended this reply;
Hearing that unexpected sound,
The Bishop turn’d his eye,
And his venerable Mother,
Emmelia the Abbess, drew nigh.
“We have not ceased this mournful night,”
Said she, “on Heaven to call;
And our afflicted Cyra
Hath edified us all.
“More fervent prayers from suffering heart,
I ween, have ne’er been sent;
And now she asks, as some relief,
In this her overwhelming grief,
To see the penitent.
“So earnestly she ask’d, that I
Her wish would not defer;
And I have brought her to the door,
Forgive me, Son, if I err.”
“Hard were I did I not consent
To thy compassionate intent,
O Mother,” he replied;
And raising then his voice, “Come in,
Thou innocent!” he cried.
That welcome word when Cyra heard,
With a sad pace and slow,
Forward she came, like one whose heart
Was overcharged with woe.
Her face was pale,.. long illness would
Have changed those features less;
And long-continued tears had dimm’d
Her eyes with heaviness.
Her husband’s words had reach’d her ear
When at the door she stood;
Thou hast pray’d in vain for tears,” she said,
“While I have pour’d a flood!
“Mine flow, and they will flow; they must;
They cannot be represt!
And oh that they might wash away
The stigma from thy breast!
“Oh that these tears might cleanse that spot,..
Tears which I cannot check!”
Profusely weeping as she spake,
She fell upon his neck.
He clasp’d the mourner close, and in
That passionate embrace,
In grief for her, almost forgot
His own tremendous case.
Warm as they fell he felt her tears,
And in true sympathy,
So gracious Heaven permitted then,
His own to flow were free.
And then the weight was taken off,
Which at his heart had prest;..
O mercy! and the crimson spot
Hath vanish’d from his breast!
At that most happy sight,
The four with one accord
Fell on their knees, and blest
The mercy of the Lord.
What then! before the strife is done
Would ye of victory boast?”
Said a Voice above: “they reckon too soon,
Who reckon without their host!”
“Mine is he by a Bond
Which holds him fast in law:
I drew it myself for certainty,
And sharper than me must the Lawyer be
Who in it can find a flaw!
“Before the Congregation,
And in the face of day,
Whoever may pray, and whoever gainsay,
I will challenge him for my Bondsman,
And carry him quick away!”
“Ha, Satan! dost thou in thy pride,”
With righteous anger Basil cried,
“Defy the force of prayer?
In the face of the Church wilt thou brave it?
Why then we will meet thee there I
“There mayest thou set forth thy right,
With all thy might before the sight
Of all the Congregation:
And they that hour shall see the power
Of the Lord unto salvation!”
“A challenge fair! We meet then there,”
Rejoin’d the Prince of the Powers of the Air;
“The Bondsman is mine by right.
Let the whole city come at thy call:
And great and small, in face of them all,
I will have him in thy despite!”
So having said, he tarried not
To hear the Saint’s reply.
“Beneath the sign which Constantine,”
Said Basil, “beheld in the sky,
We strive, and have our strength therein,
Therein our victory!”
IX.
THE Church is fill’d, so great the faith
That City in its Bishop hath;
And now the Congregation
Are waiting there in trembling prayer
And terrible expectation.
Emmelia and her sisterhood
Have taken there their seat;
And Choristers and Monks and Priests
And Psalmists there, and Exorcists,
Are station’d in order meet.
In sackcloth clad, with ashes strewn
Upon his whiter hair,
Before the steps of the altar,
His feet for penance bare,
Eleëmon stands, a spectacle
For men and Angels there.
Beside him Cyra stood, in weal
Or woe, in good or ill,
Not to be sever’d from his side,
His faithful helpmate still.
Dishevell’d were her raven locks,
As one in mourner’s guise;
And pale she was, but faith and hope
Had now relumed her
eyes.
At the altar Basil took his stand;
He held the Gospel in his hand,
And in his ardent eye
Sure trust was seen, and conscious power,
And strength for victory.
At his command the Chorister
Enounced the Prophet’s song,
“To God our Saviour mercies
And forgivenesses belong.”
Ten thousand voices join’d to raise
The holy hymn on high,
And hearts were thrill’d and eyes were fill’d
By that full harmony.
And when they ceased, and Basil’s hand
A warning signal gave,
The whole huge multitude was hush’d
In a stillness like that of the grave.
The Sun was high in a bright blue sky,
But a chill came over the crowd,
And the Church was suddenly darken’d,
As if by a passing cloud.
A sound as of a tempest rose,
Though the day was calm and clear;
Intrepid must the heart have been
Which did not then feel fear.
In the sound of the storm came the dreadful Form;
The Church then darken’d more,
And He was seen erect on the screen
Over the Holy Door.
Day-light had sicken’d at his sight;
And the gloomy Presence threw
A shade profound over all around,
Like a cheerless twilight hue.
“I come hither,” said the Demon,
“For my Bondsman Eleëmon!
Mine is he, body and soul.
See all men!” and with that on high
He held the open scroll.
The fatal signature appear’d
To all the multitude,
Distinct as when the accursed pen
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 138