The Forty Martyrs of Sebaste
A poem by A.H. from "The Legend of St Dismas and other Poems".
The snow lay deep on vale and hill,
The ice had frozen stream and rill
Beneath Armenia's sky:
The deep blue lake now cold and white,
Ice-bound beneath the moonbeams bright;
How still its waters lie!
Breast high in ice that froze their blood,
Against the midnight sky they stood
Those forty soldiers brave.
Shiv'ring with cold, but not with fear,
They looked without a moan or tear
Upon that awful grave.
Their naked limbs already worn
By nights of pain, and cruelly torn
By rack and gyve and chain
And iron hook, are now laid bare
To cold north winds, so bitter there,
Opening their wounds again.
Beside the lake lay in their reach
A bath in readiness for each
To end their agony.
A plunge therein meant faith denied
And Him renounced Who willing died
For them upon the Tree.
The snow lay deep on vale and hill,
The ice had frozen stream and rill
Beneath Armenia's sky:
The deep blue lake now cold and white,
Ice-bound beneath the moonbeams bright;
How still its waters lie!
Breast high in ice that froze their blood,
Against the midnight sky they stood
Those forty soldiers brave.
Shiv'ring with cold, but not with fear,
They looked without a moan or tear
Upon that awful grave.
Their naked limbs already worn
By nights of pain, and cruelly torn
By rack and gyve and chain
And iron hook, are now laid bare
To cold north winds, so bitter there,
Opening their wounds again.
Beside the lake lay in their reach
A bath in readiness for each
To end their agony.
A plunge therein meant faith denied
And Him renounced Who willing died
For them upon the Tree.
And blazing in their tortured sight
Those tempting fires shone clear and bright
Loud crackling in the air;
But louder with their dying breath
The martyrs in the throes of death
Poured forth a burning prayer:
"Lord, hear Thy servants cry
From out this lake
Wherein ice-bound we lie
For Thy dear sake.
Forty soldiers we,
Let us forty be
When we shall stand before Thy great white throne;
Bid Thine angels weave
Forty crowns, nor leave
A single crown unwoven, no, not one,
Crown forty brows before Thy great white throne."
The whole nightlong the martyrs prayed,
Their pains increased, but undismayed
Still rang their voices sweet:
"Let us, O Lord, still forty be
When we shall stand in front of Thee
Before Thy judgment-seat.
"Let not Thy servants vainly cry
Who here in frozen waters lie
So willingly for Thee."
Nor to the throne of God in vain
Was borne that night the strange refrain,
"Oh let us forty be."
God granted them the boon they sought,
Though not in quite the way they thought
When they began to pray.
One, only one there was among
That company who basely flung
His peerless crown away.
The cold he could no longer bear,
The martyr's crown he would not wear,
Alas, so near at hand!
He left his sorrowing comrades' side
To seek the bath-woe, woe betide!
One plunge he took therein and died
In sight of all the band.
A pagan guard stood wondering nigh
And watched the martyrs slowly die,
Marking the smile of ecstasy
Their wasted features wore.
He heard their strange and earnest prayer
Ring out upon the frozen air
And marvelled more and more.
He saw the coward when he fled
Seeking relief, find death instead
And shuddered at the sight.
And when amid the twilight dim
Bright angel bands appeared to him
His soul was filled with light.
"Was Heaven so near? Could he
Like those brave youths a martyr be?
With short-lived pain to buy
One of those crowns the angels bore---
He ne'er had seen such crowns before--
Yes! He would gladly die."
Then woke within his pagan heart
An earnest longing to have part
In brotherhood so blest:
"Be mine the forfeit crown," he cried;
Then stript himself the lake beside,
And leaping in the frozen tide
The Christian Faith professed.
Long were the night hours, but at least
When morning dawned and sunbeams cast
Their light upon the land,
The martyrs stood in endless joy
Before their God, except one boy,
The youngest of the band.
The pagan guards who came to take
The lifeless bodies from the lake
Into the fire to cast,
Forebore to take him with the rest
In hopes that now if duly pressed
The faith he had so long confessed
He would deny at last.
But lo! his mother stood beside
Watching his martyrdom with pride;
Unmoved, like her who stood
Beside the Cross so silently,
And saw her Son in agony
For sinners shed His Blood.
"Go, go, my boy," she cried, and pressed
His frozen body to her breast
Where joy had stifled pain.
"The God Who gave thee to my heart
Now calls thee back, now bids us part,
But we shall meet again.
"Son of my heart, my widowed years
In they bright presence knew no tears,
Thou wert my joy and stay;
But never to thy mother's heart
Didst thou such radiant joy impart
As that it knows to-day.
"Go quickly, boy, and overtake
Thy brave companions of the lake
Who've all gone on before.
Lag not behind one moment's space.
To stand with them before His Face
Upon the eternal shore."
And running with that precious weight,
All fearful lest he should be late,
Upon the bloody bier
She laid him down with tender care
Beside his dear dead comrades there,
Nor shed a single tear.
One holy parting kiss she pressed
On his young brow where soon should rest
The crown that martyrs wear;
The dews of death were on it now,
And three long nights of pain, I trow,
Had quenched youth's radiance there.
But never in days of happiness
Did htose fond lips so proudly press
Her darling's brow in fond caress;
Or that true heart with joy
Beat higher, hearing praise or fame
Combined with that beloved name
By which she knew her boy.
The cart moved on, she watched it go,
But still her tears refused to flow
Though all alone on earth.
She smiled and whispered: "Happy boy,
And happy mother! oh, what joy,
To give a martyr birth!"
And now their agony is o'er
And crowned upon the Eternal Shore
The forty martyrs stand.
Not one is missing there, not one,
And Jesus smiles, and says, "Well done,
My dear, My gallant band."
Those tempting fires shone clear and bright
Loud crackling in the air;
But louder with their dying breath
The martyrs in the throes of death
Poured forth a burning prayer:
"Lord, hear Thy servants cry
From out this lake
Wherein ice-bound we lie
For Thy dear sake.
Forty soldiers we,
Let us forty be
When we shall stand before Thy great white throne;
Bid Thine angels weave
Forty crowns, nor leave
A single crown unwoven, no, not one,
Crown forty brows before Thy great white throne."
The whole nightlong the martyrs prayed,
Their pains increased, but undismayed
Still rang their voices sweet:
"Let us, O Lord, still forty be
When we shall stand in front of Thee
Before Thy judgment-seat.
"Let not Thy servants vainly cry
Who here in frozen waters lie
So willingly for Thee."
Nor to the throne of God in vain
Was borne that night the strange refrain,
"Oh let us forty be."
God granted them the boon they sought,
Though not in quite the way they thought
When they began to pray.
One, only one there was among
That company who basely flung
His peerless crown away.
The cold he could no longer bear,
The martyr's crown he would not wear,
Alas, so near at hand!
He left his sorrowing comrades' side
To seek the bath-woe, woe betide!
One plunge he took therein and died
In sight of all the band.
A pagan guard stood wondering nigh
And watched the martyrs slowly die,
Marking the smile of ecstasy
Their wasted features wore.
He heard their strange and earnest prayer
Ring out upon the frozen air
And marvelled more and more.
He saw the coward when he fled
Seeking relief, find death instead
And shuddered at the sight.
And when amid the twilight dim
Bright angel bands appeared to him
His soul was filled with light.
"Was Heaven so near? Could he
Like those brave youths a martyr be?
With short-lived pain to buy
One of those crowns the angels bore---
He ne'er had seen such crowns before--
Yes! He would gladly die."
Then woke within his pagan heart
An earnest longing to have part
In brotherhood so blest:
"Be mine the forfeit crown," he cried;
Then stript himself the lake beside,
And leaping in the frozen tide
The Christian Faith professed.
Long were the night hours, but at least
When morning dawned and sunbeams cast
Their light upon the land,
The martyrs stood in endless joy
Before their God, except one boy,
The youngest of the band.
The pagan guards who came to take
The lifeless bodies from the lake
Into the fire to cast,
Forebore to take him with the rest
In hopes that now if duly pressed
The faith he had so long confessed
He would deny at last.
But lo! his mother stood beside
Watching his martyrdom with pride;
Unmoved, like her who stood
Beside the Cross so silently,
And saw her Son in agony
For sinners shed His Blood.
"Go, go, my boy," she cried, and pressed
His frozen body to her breast
Where joy had stifled pain.
"The God Who gave thee to my heart
Now calls thee back, now bids us part,
But we shall meet again.
"Son of my heart, my widowed years
In they bright presence knew no tears,
Thou wert my joy and stay;
But never to thy mother's heart
Didst thou such radiant joy impart
As that it knows to-day.
"Go quickly, boy, and overtake
Thy brave companions of the lake
Who've all gone on before.
Lag not behind one moment's space.
To stand with them before His Face
Upon the eternal shore."
And running with that precious weight,
All fearful lest he should be late,
Upon the bloody bier
She laid him down with tender care
Beside his dear dead comrades there,
Nor shed a single tear.
One holy parting kiss she pressed
On his young brow where soon should rest
The crown that martyrs wear;
The dews of death were on it now,
And three long nights of pain, I trow,
Had quenched youth's radiance there.
But never in days of happiness
Did htose fond lips so proudly press
Her darling's brow in fond caress;
Or that true heart with joy
Beat higher, hearing praise or fame
Combined with that beloved name
By which she knew her boy.
The cart moved on, she watched it go,
But still her tears refused to flow
Though all alone on earth.
She smiled and whispered: "Happy boy,
And happy mother! oh, what joy,
To give a martyr birth!"
And now their agony is o'er
And crowned upon the Eternal Shore
The forty martyrs stand.
Not one is missing there, not one,
And Jesus smiles, and says, "Well done,
My dear, My gallant band."
