  Paul, in preferred alternative to being judged, as was proposed, by his murderous fellow-countrymen, appeals to CÆsar. He is in consequence embarked on a ship for Rome. With him sail certain kindred and friends of his, young Stephen among them. Fellow-voyagers with him are also Felix and Drusilla, fallen now from power and under cloud at Rome. Shimei and Simon the sorcerer are of the company. The voyage is described, together with some of the notable prospects of the coasts along which the vessel sails. Shimei plots against the life of Paul. His plot is thwarted by young Stephen, and the culprit is thrown into dungeon in the hold under chains. "TO CÆSAR." During the years of his captivity Under that wanton hand at CÆsarea, Paul's sister, with her Stephen, brought their home Thither, and there abode, for love of Paul; That they might minister to him, and be Ministered to by him in overflow Of his far more exceeding rich reward. Thither came also others of the Way, Drawn by like love, to serve the same desire. Of these was martyr Stephen's widow, Ruth, A stately lady, with the matron's crown Of glory in her wealth of silver hair, And with the invisible pure aureole Of living saintship radiant round her brow. With her, a daughter, left to Ruth alone Among her children—wedded all beside. Her youngest-born, and fairest, was this one, EunicÉ named; a gift from God to Ruth After her husband's martyrdom bestowed. Softer with girlhood and with yielding youth, Both in her features and her character. The light that in her lovely countenance Shone lovelier, was not playful, did not flash, But sat there tempered to an equal beam, SelenÉ-like, that one might look upon, From far or near, dwelling however long, With sense of rest and healing to the eye; You seemed to gaze upon the evening star In sole possession of a twilight sky. It was as if the father's zeal intense— Which, kindling on his way to martyrdom, Shone into brightness dazzling like the sun— Descended to the daughter, were suffused So, and so qualified, with woman's love, That it undazzling like the moon became. EunicÉ, such in queenly womanhood, Already to young Stephen was betrothed; They waited only till the years should bring Full ripeness, with meet circumstance, to wed. Mary of Magdala kinswoman was To Ruth. She, long afflicted, from before In her of evil spirits vagabond From the abyss, had, then to woman grown, Met Jesus in His rounds of doing good And been by Him delivered from her woe. Seven demons, at His word, went forth from her, Foul inmates of a mansion passing fair. Mary to her Divine Deliverer gave Her life thenceforth one long oblation up. With other women, like herself in love Of Him, she followed that Immanuel Whithersoever He went about the world, And of her treasure lavished on His need. She stood bewailing when they crucified Her Lord, and, after, at His sepulcher The earliest, ere the breaking of the morn, Saw two fair-shining angels clothed in white, One at the head, the other at the feet, Sit where the body of the Lord had lain. These talked with Mary, who then turning saw, But knew not, Jesus, face to face with her. But Jesus to the weeping woman said: "Mary!" and, in the hearing of her name, She forthwith knew the voice that uttered it. His person, to assure still more her mind, Save that again that voice, forestalling, gave Enough assurance for such faith as hers. Mary refrained her hand, but full well knew No fleeting phantom, no dissolving show, No spirit only, angel of the dead, Stood there before her in the form of Him; But her Lord Christ Himself, His flesh and blood. This Mary MagdalenÉ, in such wise First to such joy delivered from such woe, Then witness of so much theophany, Thenceforward lived, unwedded to the end, A life of watching for her Lord's return, True to His promise, in the clouds of heaven; Not idle watching, watching unto prayer And unto almsdeeds to His glory done. In the due sequel of the days, she came, Bidden by her kinswoman Ruth, to share Her widow's home with her and help her peace. Thus then, the much-experienced Mary, meek With wisdom and with holy meekness wise (Her sorrow all to cheerful patience turned) Unconscious, from the Source of strength, of light Daily renewed, for guidance and support To all within her happy neighborhood— She also, Mary MagdalenÉ, came To CÆsarea, yoked in fellowship With Ruth and Rachel, ministrant to Paul. These all, with others, still intent to ease, If but by sharing, what to Paul befell, Were minded to go with him even to Rome— When Festus, following Felix dispossessed, Sent Paul away to CÆsar's judgment-seat, Fulfilling so the wretched Shimei's fear. For—Festus asking Paul (accused afresh Before him from Jerusalem by Jews Afresh to hope reviving with the change From Felix to a different rulership): "Wilt thou hence go unto Jerusalem, And there by thine own countrymen be judged?"— The wary wise apostle, well forewarned Touching the deadly ambush, to waylay Him in the journey thither, set once more By Shimei, desperate and forlorn, had said: Of CÆsar; to my countrymen have I No wrong done, as thou knowest; if any crime Be mine, if I have perpetrated deed Worthy of death, I do not shun to die. But if of such act I be innocent, Then no man may to them deliver me. Roman am I, to CÆsar I appeal." That answer was as word omnipotent, To be unsaid, gainsaid, resisted, never; And Festus was its servant and its thrall. There sailed a ship of Adramyttium (In Mysia of the Asian Province west, From Lesbos in a deep recess withdrawn Of bay in the Ægean, neighboring Troy) Which touched at CÆsarea in its course Coastwise, now northing on the Syrian shore. Festus on board this vessel quartered Paul, With soldiers to convoy him safe to Rome; A maniple, by a centurion Commanded, Julius named, a Roman he Worthy of the imperial name he bore. For he of clement grace was capable, Though of despisÉd race and charged with crime, And, knowing, yield to him his manhood's claim. Julius the profit of his virtue reaped; He, in the issue of that voyage, will Through favoring Paul save his own soul alive. Those kin and lovers of the prisoner, who Had for his name to CÆsarea come, Would not forsake him sailing thence away; They all, in one accord of fellowship, Willed to sail with him on his way to Rome. Besides these, there was Luke, a loyal soul, Well learnÉd in the lore of medicine, Who loved Paul, and with joy his right hand lent, Joining thereto the service of his eyes, To fix for the apostle, at his need, In written record, his thick-coming thoughts— Ease for those weary organs overworn With labors and with watchings; haply, too, Touched with effect from that excess of light! Historian of the voyage likewise Luke, As, guided by the heavenly-guided Paul, Who thus redeemed long prison hours else waste, So many, with a man from Macedon, A faithful, Aristarchus named, made up The little company who loving hearts Linked, shield to shield, in phalanx fencing Paul. If they could serve him little on the sea, At least they could be with him there; and then, Should long delays of law, or of caprice, Hold him still bound in Rome, they would be nigh To bring him, daily, comfort of their love. So, doubting not, not fearing, all for love, These changed their fixÉd gear for portable, And on that ship of Adramyttium, Facing whatever fortune unforeseen, Cheerfully sailed—to tempest and to wreck! Scarce well bestowed within that Asian bark, Riding at anchor in her rock-fenced haven, Those Christian pilgrims felt unwonted stir Rouse round them on the crowded deck, with surge On surge of movement, of expectancy, As when a rising surf beats the sea-beach; While, huddling here, here parting, all made way To let who seemed high passengers of state Forerun and followed by a various train. Felix it was, in sumptuous litter borne, Drusilla with him, looking still the queen: From power they fallen, were fallen not from pride. With them, besides their troop of servitors, Came other two, strange contrasts: Simon one, The conjurer, fast to their joint fortune bound, Beginning to be gray with rime of age, As sinister grown in look through habit of guile; A little lad tripped lightly by the side Of Simon (who his evil genius looked) Leading him by the hand upon the ship. This little lad was little Felix, son Of Felix and Drusilla, and dear to them, Felix Agrippa the lad's double name. Felix went summoned from his province back To give at Rome account of his misrule. Behind the sorcerer, following in that train, Went last, as one who unattached would seem, Shimei, compelled, though prisoner not; he strove To carry lightly a too heavy heart. Felix so much from Festus had obtained, That Shimei should go forward with himself Yet sinister suspicion shadowing him, With information laid against, the while, As the ringleader in a plot of crime. The unhappy legate would at least detach Thus from his own leagued Jewish foes, the Jew, The one Jew, who, best knowing and hating him, With the least scruple the most genius joined To crowd him falling, to the farthest fall. Fairly the lading and unlading done, And all things ready, the good ship puts forth. The oarsmen sat in triple ranks that rose Tier above tier along the vessel's side; With cheer of voice that timed their rhythmic stroke, They, all together, many-handed, bent Over the supple oars, well-hung arow, And beat the waters into yeast and foam. The wieldy trireme answered to their will, And, past the towers and domes of CÆsarea, Along a windless way under the lee Of sea-walls fending from the bluff southwest, Pushed to the north beyond the harbor-mouth. Here the wind took her, freshening from behind, Softly and swiftly, with such favoring gale, They prosper, and, along the storied coast Close cruising, soon discern the headland height, Mount Carmel, with his excellency crowned Of forest, and wide overlooking east The plain outrolled of great Esdraelon Washing with waves of green the mountain's feet— Mountain whereon, in single-handed proof, Elijah those four hundred priests of Baal Gave to contempt; and, whence descending, he, Red with indignant wrath for his Lord God, By the brook Kishon slew them to His name. This Paul remembered, as he passed; and deemed He saw, hallowing the hills of Nazareth, A halo from the childhood of the Lord. From horn to horn across a crescent bay, Embosomed by its arc of shore that curved From Carmel round to Ptolemais north, Faring, they could, well inland gazing, catch A glimpse that vanished of the shapely cone Of Tabor soaring in his Syrian blue. Still onward, they next day the ancient seat Of famous Sidon in Phoenicia reached— Then, paired with her as mistress of the main, Sidon sat leaning on her promontory, Diffused along its northward-sliding slopes, Like a luxurious queen on her divan. Her sailors drove her keels to every haven, And fetched her home the spoil of every clime. To Farthest ThulÉ was the ocean wave White with her sails or spumy to her oars. Felix's hope of splendid bribe from Paul Was brighter, that, of those who brought him cheer In prison, some from wealthy Sidon came. Here the ship touching, Julius, of his grace, Granted to Paul the freedom of the shore. With grateful gladness there, Sidonian friends, Women and men, with children, welcome him. Full in mid-winter, lo, a moment's spring! So did a sudden-blossoming scene of home Smile briefly bright about this homeless man, This prisoner of the Lord—for the Lord's sake, And for his own sake, dear—most human heart! In whom his office of apostle wrought To heighten, not to hurt, the faculty, He went thence clothed upon the more with sense Of love his from so many, like a shield Barring his heart from harm; and in his heart Love buoyant more to bear what harm must fall. From Sidon sailing, they, still northward driven By wind that would not let them as they wished Southwestward to the south of Cyprus isle Win with right way the Mysian port, their aim— So hindered, those Greek seamen warp their wake With zigzag steering over whitening waves, Until they feel that current of the sea, Northwestward with perpetual ocean-stream Washing the Cyprian shore to easternmost, Thence veering toward the mainland, and along The Asian border drawing to the west. There, on such river in the ocean borne Whither they will against a wind adverse, They, wise with much experience of the sea, Yet in the lee of neighboring Cyprus seek A pathway sheltered from that roughening wind. So, forward fairly, the Cilician sea They traverse, with the mountains on their left, Building a sea-wall, to break off the wind. Over against, to be descried, though far— Well by two hearts on board that vessel felt, Paul and his sister Rachel—to the north, Lay the long reach of the Cilician shore. Those (thither strained their homeward-yearning eyes) There, tearful, saw remembered Taurus tower; Whence river Cydnus rushing snow-cold down, Wild from his mountain to the stretched-out plain, Tames him his torrent to a pace more even; And yields to be a navigable stream For Tarsus, cleft two-fold, upon his banks, A seaboard city inland from the sea. Dear places of the playtime of their youth! Gray river, with its everlasting flood, Libation from the mountain to the sea; The wharves, the ships, the sailors, travelled men, Motley in garb and polyglot in speech; The lading landed or to be embarked— Mysterious bales of costly merchandise Tempting to guess what treasures might be there!— Islanded in its sea of heathenism! The sabbath seasons in the synagogue! The reverend Scriptures of the Jewish law, By father and by mother taught to them, So diligently taught, day after day, And talked of in their ears, alike when they Sat in their house and when they walked abroad, And when they laid them down and when they rose; Beheld too for a sign bound on the hand, Likewise for frontlets worn between the eyes!— All these things like a flood-tide of the sea Swelled on those homesick kindred hearts, while they, Brother and sister, distant many years From what they saw, from what much more they felt, Seen or unseen, on that familiar shore, Alien and heathen, yet, being native, sweet, Lapsed into musing of the pensive past. Half they in words, but half in silence, mused. "Far-off by years, yet more by difference far," From what we were in our Cilician home. That dearer is to us to dream of so, Remembering and imagining, than it were To see; it is not what we knew it once, With the child's heart we carried in us then. We should not find the places that we loved; Nay, for we should not know them—with these eyes. They have not so much changed, but we have changed." "Yea, doubtless, changed we are," Rachel replied; "Yet, I at least, O Saul, not so much changed But that it would delight me still to see Those haunts of happy childhood—more endeared To me, as to my brother more, I know, From father's and mother's memory hovering there. I loved my mother and I honored her, But my own motherhood has taught me how I might have better loved and honored her!" "We must not at past failures vainly pine"— So Paul, to Rachel sorrowing tenderly— "But rather let them make us wiser now. How to be children to our Father God. These earthly kinships all are parable Of the enduring kinships of the skies. We are to be to God, as children dear, What parents would their children were to them, So full of love with fear, of trust with heed, And imitators of His heavenly ways." "And is it, brother," Rachel gently asked, "Indeed to thee so easy ever thus To lose the earthly in the heavenly thought, And in the symbol find the symbolized, That only, Saul? It is not so with me. I love the letter, and I cling to it— A little; at least when it is so fair As I have found it in my motherhood. The spirit is far fairer, I suppose, But God has made this letter 'very good'!" Rachel spoke thus with deprecation sweet, The while a little liquid sparkle played Of loving humor in her eyes half turned Toward Stephen sitting nigh them but apart; He and EunicÉ sat together there. "Cling to thy lovely letter," Paul replied, "'A little,' as thou sayest it, not too much— The 'little,' as the 'not too much,' God's will For thee, my sister; and, a paradox! The little will be more when not too much. It is the spirit makes the letter dear, Or dearest, as it is itself more dear. We better love the earthly images Of things in heaven, when we those heavenly things Themselves more than their loveliest shadows love." "O brother," Rachel—suddenly her voice Sunk to a vibrant low intensity Of accent—said, hands clasped and eyes upturned To him, "O brother, when such things thou sayest, I tremble with unspeakable desire To be what one must be to think such things. But it is all too wonderful for me. That inspiration of the Holy Ghost Whereby thou knowest what else thou wouldst not know— Perhaps that helps thee be, as well as know?" "Nay, sister," Paul replied, "it is not so. That inspiration is a gift to me And even my gift to know is not for me, More than for thee, my Rachel, and for all. It is that all may know, God makes me know. I profit by my awful trust from God Of farther vision in His mysteries, Only as I a faithful steward am To part to others what I hold from Him: Freely I have received freely to give. But besides this there is a grace of God In Jesus by the Holy Spirit given, That comes alike to all obedient souls To help them in the life of holiness. The habit of the heavenly mind which thou Attributest to me in what thou askest, This I have learned, if it indeed be mine, By being to the Spirit teachable, Who teaches all as fast as each will learn. He could far faster teach us, and He would, If only we were teachable enough. Alas, we strangely hold the flood-gate down Not to let all the waiting fulness in. But what of holy willingness I have He gives, Who worketh in me both to will "Amen!" breathed Rachel, in devout accord With Paul's ascription of all good to Him. By this, the night had settled on the sea, An interlunar night bereft of stars, For the dark azure of the deep was black To blackness of the overhanging heaven Hung thick with clouds. "See," Rachel added soon, "How the sky lowers! God fend us all from storm! Good night, my brother. David's word for me, 'In peace will I both lay me down and sleep, For Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell In safety.'" "Yea, in safety also here, O sister," Paul said; "for the sea is His, He holds it in the hollow of His hand." Brother and sister parted with a kiss— Kiss from the kindred habit of old time Dear, but far dearer in a dearer love, And, with some sense of reconcilement, sweet. Therewith the sister to her pillow went; But Paul abode to vigil on the deck. He pacing to and fro, the night wore on, Withdrawing left him more and more alone. A sheen of phosphorescence on the sea Kindled along the running vessel's side, And drew a trail of brilliance in her wake, Splendid a moment and then vanishing, Devoured by the immensity of dark Which made it for that moment so intense. Paul saw this, less admiring what he saw, Beautiful though it was and wonderful, Than musing what it seemed to mean for him: 'So my soul on her voyage through the world Lights her own pathway as she moves along; Bright ever where she is she makes her place, And ever plunges on into the dark Before her; but her latter end is light!' Meanwhile, of all the lingerers on the deck Amid that darkness, only two remained. These, as they might, watched him now bending there In wistful gaze over the vessel's side Downward into the waters weird below: Stephen was one; the other, Shimei. When the increasing dark veiled all from view Save what was moving or what stood upright; So he knew not of Stephen now reclined, Motionless in a trance of pleasant dream, There where EunicÉ left him, when she too With Rachel from the open night retired. The youth had lapped him in a happy muse Of memory of the things they twain that eve Had shared in converse; it was like twilight Prolonging softer the full light of day. Shimei thought darkly: 'Could yon leaning form Lean farther, and embrace indeed the wave He yearns toward, this enticing murky night! There were redemption ready-wrought for me— Who might be spared, forsooth, accusing whom His own forestalling conscience had condemned, (So it should look!) and forced him on to die. "Vengeance is mine and recompense," as saith Our Moses, hinting of a moment when "Their foot shall slide." Ha! Ha! It fits the case! "Their foot shall slide!" Feet may be brought to slide! The deck is slippery with the spray; a tip From underneath'—and Shimei acted out In pantomimic gesture his quick thought; 'An accidental movement, were it seen, But it would not be seen. A fine dark night, No moon, no stars, and the whole hollow sky Ink-black with clouds that when ere long they break Will spit ink-rain into an inky sea! Finger of God! It were impiety Not to obey a pointing such as this.' His propense thought plunged him a step toward Paul. Stephen hereon, stretched out upon the deck, Marking the sinister action of the man Shadowed upon the dark, a denser dark, Noiselessly gathered up his members all, Ready to rush at need to rescue, yet Reserved, alert, to watch and to await, Like leopard couchant tense in poise to spring. That instant, a new dimness in the dark, A swimming outline, figure of a man Approaching, with a rustle of approach Hinted, no more, amid the rising wind. Shimei recoiled; he thought, 'Well paused for me! I might have been detected, after all!' Then, gliding toward that shadowy moving form, He met—a Roman soldier, front to front, Nigh Stephen where he lay in ambuscade Unpurposed, but now vigilant all ear For what might pass between those men so met. A sudden shift of phase to Shimei's thought, In altered phase persistent still the same. The desperate fancy seized him to essay Corrupting that custodian of Paul. A helpless fixed fatuity of hate, A dull insistent prodding from despair, Robbed him of reason, while of cunning not: He could warp wisely toward an end unwise. Suspected by the Roman, by the Jew No longer trusted as of old—since seen, Those years at CÆsarea, changed and chilled So from his pristine ardor in pursuit Of Paul—Shimei saw nothing now before Him in the future but the nearing close In a blind alley, opening none beyond, One gleam of light, of possible light, ahead, He now descried. If Paul could somehow be Utterly cancelled from his case, no Paul Anywhere longer in the world, and if, Ah, if, O rapture! Paul could disappear Confessing guilt by seeming suicide— That were the one deliverance left to hope, Hope if forlorn, at least, at least, a hope. Shimei his foot set softly in the snare. With slow and sly ambages of approach, H
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