| PAGE | Portrait—Henry Martyn | Frontispiece | St. John’s College, Cambridge, in 1797 | 13 | Second Court, St. John’s College, in 1803 | 32 | Trinity Church, Cambridge, in 1803 | 37 | St. Michael’s Mount, at Full Tide | 45 | Pagoda, Aldeen House | 159 | A Brick from Henry Martyn’s Pagoda | 161 | Shiraz | 357 | Tokat in 1812 | 518 | Tomb of Henry Martyn | 531 |
Then came another of priestly garb and mien, A young man still wanting the years of Christ, But long since with the saints.... A poet with the contemplative gaze And listening ear, but quick of force and eye, Who fought the wrong without, the wrong within, And, being a pure saint, like those of old, Abased himself and all the precious gifts God gave him, flinging all before the feet Of Him whose name he bore—a fragile form Upon whose hectic cheek there burned a flush That was not health; who lived as Xavier lived, And died like him upon the burning sands, Untended, yet whose creed was far from his As pole from pole; whom grateful England still Loves. The awakened gaze Turned wholly from the earth, on things of heaven He dwelt both day and night. The thought of God Filled him with infinite joy; his craving soul Dwelt on Him as a feast; as did the soul Of rapt Francesco in his holy cell In blest Assisi; and he knew the pain, The deep despondence of the saint, the doubt, The consciousness of dark offence, the joy Of full assurance last, when heaven itself Stands open to the ecstasy of faith. The relentless lie Of Islam ... he chose to bear, who knew How swift the night should fall on him, and burned To save one soul alive while yet ’twas day. This filled his thoughts, this only, and for this On the pure altar of his soul he heaped A costlier sacrifice, this youth in years, For whom Love called, and loving hands, and hope Of childish lives around him, offering these, Like all the rest, to God. Yet when his hour Was come to leave his England, was it strange His weakling life pined for the parting kiss Of love and kindred, whom his prescient soul Knew he should see no more? ... The woman of his love Feared to leave all and give her life to his, And both to God; his sisters passed away To heaven, nor saw him more. There seemed on earth Nothing for which to live, except the Faith, Only the Faith, the Faith! until his soul Wore thin her prison bars, and he was fain To rest awhile, or work no more the work For which alone he lived. A Vision of Saints. By Lewis Morris.
|
|