Poems (Ford)/Saint Agnes

For works with similar titles, see Saint Agnes.

SAINT AGNES.

The morning's rosy fingers
Unbar the gates of day,
And bid the light-winged hours
Speed swiftly on their way;
The breath of coming blossoms
Floats on the wind's light wing:
It is the opening glory
Of fair Italia's Spring;
Though Rome sits robed in beauty,
And sunshine gilds her domes,
A fearful tempest rages
Around her hearths and homes.

Within the crowded Forum
A slight and childish form,
With fearless heart, serenely
Awaits the coming storm;
The gazing crowd she sees not,
Nor heeds the judge's frown;
Her 'raptured eye can only
Behold the martyr's crown,
And see the glorious victims
Whose steps have gone before,
And traced in blood a pathway
To the eternal shore.

The guileless grace of childhood
Yet lingers on her brow;
Unbound her glossy tresses
In sunny wavelets flow,
Shrouding the frail, slight figure,
As with a golden veil,
And with a halo framing
The face so calm and pale;
The crowd look on in silence,
And seem to hold their breath
To see the fair child-martyr
Stand face to face with death.

The judge on the young victim
Looks down with pitying eye:
"It grieves us, Lady Agnes,
To sentence thee to die;
Forsake this Christ who leaves thee
To such a dreadful doom,
And bow in adoration
Before the gods of Rome;
One single act of worship,
And we will loose thy bands,
And give thee life and freedom
With all thy wealth and lands."

"One only Lord and Saviour
I know and worship now;
To blind and senseless idols
My soul can never bow.
To Thee, O blessed Jesus,
Who canst redeem and save,
Who oped the gates of glory,
And triumphed o'er the grave,—
To Thee my life I offer,
In steadfast faith I come;
Accept my humble tribute,
And call Thy servant home."

With clear eyes raised to Heaven,
She kneels in silent prayer;
She hears the songs of angels
Resounding through the air,
And sees the heavenly city,
Whose gold gates open stand,
Revealing to her vision
The glorious martyr band
That she is soon to follow,
While radiant spirits come
Down from the gates of glory
To bear her safely home.

Upon the blood-stained marble
She meekly bows her head;
To her the spot is holy—
There countless saints have bled;
She thinks how Jesus suffered,
Mocked, scourged, and crucified;
How, loving and forgiving,
Blessing His foes, He died;
To die for Him is heaven,
No terror can she feel:
A moment more, above her
Bright gleams the flashing steel.

One quick, convulsive quiver—
The golden head lies low,
And o'er the snowy raiment
The crimson life-drops flow;
A lamb upon the altar,
Untouched by sinful stain,
Such seems the gentle victim.
Her death is mot in vain;
The warm, bright currents gushing
From her heart's ebbing tide
Baptize a thousand Christians
Where she for Christ has died.

Oh, Christ, how great, how mighty
That deathless faith must be
That strengthens tender childhood
To cast down life for Thee!
Oh, beautiful child-martyr,
Among the blest on high,
When our weak spirits waver,
Look down with pitying eye,
And pray we may inherit
Thy earnest love and faith,
And walk through life as blameless
As thou didst walk to death.