POETRY.
THE CONVERT.
HERE in the dark I lie alone : And how I love the silence! You, I think, would love it, had you known,
As I, the howling of that crew That bade me sca.pe the lictor's rod By owning Ctesar for a god.
Thanks be to God, who locked my lips.
But they, their patience soon at end, Cried, "Justice slumbers in eclipse, Best that we settle with our friend!" Blows followed : then—a shout., a clasp That tore me, living, from their grasp. For Justice swooped upon the fray : Alert and armed, she drove them back, Smarting and snarling for their prey, Like huntsman when he schools his pack, And threw me here—'twas CEesar's will— Where all is dark and damp and still.
So still, so calm, no breath of air : On quiet fleas I seem to ride After the storm : I hardly care To lift a hand and brush aside, Such languor all my spirit wraps, What trickles downward—blood, perhaps.
Blurred phantoms of departed days Are thronging round me—thoughts or dreams ? When sudden from the misty haze, As lightning through the darkness gleams, With every facet clear defined A vision flashes on my mind.
The ranks are crowded, tier on tier, And midst them in my place am I, As oft before; we talk and jeer.
Waiting to see you captive die Who in the arena stands alone : He turns his face—I see my own !
'Tis I that wait the roar and rush When bars are raised ; 'tis I that fall Upon my knees, amid the hush Of cruel tongues, on Christ to call: Upon whose parted lips the while There breaks a glad, triumphant smile.
H. C. MINCHIN,
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