Saint Pudentiana.
When noble old Caractacus was dying—1
’Twas in a villa near the city Rome,2
Upon a purple couch resplendent lying,3
Altho’ on rushes he’d have slept at home,4
And his afflicted relatives were crying,5
And priests stood round with many a ponderous tome,6
He, utterly refusing Holy Water,7
Called for his eldest daughter’s little daughter.8
“ My child,” with stately emphasis, he said,9
That stout old chieftain of the wild Silures,10
“ You’ll be a pretty girl when I am dead,11
And down among the Manes and Lemures.12
Take my advice—a British soldier wed—13
Don’t heed their stories about fates and furies :14
Marry a man that’s skilled in swords and gunnery,15
And never enter a confounded nunnery !”16
The monarch said, and died : and little Phœbe,17
Who was about thirteen, declared she’d do it ;18
She was as fresh and round and red as Hebe,19
Had very pretty ankles too—and knew it :20
Assailed by many a suitor bold would she be,21
And many a tie she’d break, and then renew it :22
A charming young coquette, as was the fashion at23
Rome in those days, with dark eyes, proud and passionate.24
I won’t describe her—no, I won’t describe her ;25
But many a Roman youngster loved her well,26
And quoted Ovid’s sweet ‘ Amoris Liber,’27
And sent her billets with a pleasant smell,28
And vowed he’d drown himself in yellow Tiber,29
If in her heart of hearts he might not dwell :30
But vain were all their amorous attacks on a31
Heart that had left its own true love in Saxony.32
Hengist, her Saxon cousin, was a Viking,33
Which means a pirate stern and valiant, very :34
He had a love for shattering and striking,35
His visage was much browner than a berry,36
For all malt liquors he’d a wondrous liking,37
And mighty foaming tankards made him merry :38
In those old stormy days all warriors hankered39
For potent draughts from a prodigious tankard.40
He was the fellow Phœbe loved, it seems,41
(Her mother’s brother’s son—the Church objected),42
And oft she saw him in her midnight dreams43
On board his fiery shallop, steel-protected,44
When the warm blood was drawn in plenteous streams,45
And many a thick-skulled corsair was dissected,46
And there was such fierce clattering of iron47
As would have charmed Sir Walter or Lord Byron.48
Sweet were the visions of that haunted room49
Where, in her innocence, fair Phœbe slept ;50
Faint odorous lamps shone softly thro’ the gloom—51
The murmur of the yellow river crept52
Up thro’ the casements : o’er her silent bloom53
Her guardian spirit nightly vigil kept,54
And brought her dreams of the wide Northern Seas,55
And Hengist’s dark flag dancing to the breeze.56
*****
Alas, poor Phœbe ! many a scented lay pest57
Had plagued thee hitherto with amorous toil ;58
But now has bothered thee the priestly Papist,59
Worrying thy simple ear with puzzling coil60
Of pious words. Alas ! thou ne’er escapest61
That polisht sophistry, as smooth as oil,62
Or as the ripest of autumnal peaches,63
Or Mr. William Ewart Gladstone’s speeches.64
And they have cut poor Phœbe’s golden hair,65
And they have shut her in a convent cell,66
And they have made her earthly joys forswear,67
And her sweet voice, that outdid Philomel,68
Part in the service of the choir must bear,69
And with much tedium the Te Deum swell ;70
And worst of all, the wily Gens Romana71
Have called the little girl Pudentiana !72
But Hengist came to Rome and found her out,73
Hearing her sweet voice in that service choral,74
And swore fierce oaths at every priestly lout75
Which I could ne’er repeat, they’re so immoral.76
He would have liked a downright fighting bout,77
He would have liked with all the priests to quarrel78
Who stood ’mid reliques lit by monstrous tapers—79
Paul’s toothpick and the Virgin’s curling-papers.80
However, Hengist uttered not a word,81
Save to his trusty comrades ; and at night82
Straight to the cage which held his pretty bird83
Went the bold Viking, like a faithful knight.84
When not a single wretch fanatic stirred,85
And in Rome’s lustrous sky the stars were bright,86
Up to the convent window went a ladder,87
And her own lover made poor Phœbe gladder.88
He killed a sentinel or two for fun—89
His swiftest shallop waited in the river—90
And before midnight all the priests were done,91
For pretty Phœbe came not back for ever.92
Henceforward the involuntary nun93
Asked not if Mother Church would please forgive her,94
But grew in Saxony portly dame,95
And shared her husband’s fortune and his fame.96
And when the priests found out that she was off,97
They said, an angel carried her away
!98
Their logic would have puzzled any Soph,99
And so the people gave them their own way,100
Save one or two, who could afford to scoff :101
However, with most gorgeous pageants, they102
Canonized Phœbe !— gave the credulous train a103
Saint with the title of Pudentiana !104