LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. BY THE LONDON HERMIT. AUTHOR OF SONGS OF SINGULARITY," "PEEPS AT LIFE," &c. No. 13.-ST. JANUARIUS. Or relics and of holy charms, and such celestial treasures, The "one original True Cross," as many Christians thought it, Was cut, and chipped, and pared away to nothing, one would think; A piece was carried off by every devotee that sought it, And yet from primal shape and size it never seemed to shrink. Just so no monster gender'd in the mighty brain of Dante, Had half as many bones and heads as Saints, 'twould seem, possessed; And tho' of their identity the evidence was scanty, In wearing such, believers thought themselves supremely blessed. Yet how could any Saint have had two sets of human members? Of tongues alone 'tis possible a multitude to own. Besides, it's hard that Saints deceased, however much respected, Fair Italy in martyrs' blood's particularly wealthy, She keeps a bottle full in every monast'ry and church, Saints Ursula, Bartholomew, St. Vitus and St. Lawrence, St. Eustace, John the Baptist, and some half a hundred more, Have left their blood in Naples, Rome, and Sicily, and Florence, To liquify when holy men come thither to adore. But 'mid the sacred relics for their virtues highly rated, St. Januarius's blood is famous far and near, In May and in September is his festa celebrated, And once again repeated at the closing of the year. Sweet Naples! "City of the Waves," as Mrs. Hemans named thee, Oh, would I could do justice to thy beauty in my song, And prove thee "Queen of Summer Seas," as poets have proclaim'd thee, But that would make the present lay inordinately long. The subject of my melody's exclusively religious, I hope my treatment of it will be reverent to match; For one who ventures on a theme so sacred and prodigious, Should do his very best a strain devotional to catch. Obliging Muse, come, gift me with an eloquence ecstatic, Would'st learn the Saint's biography?-'tis little that is told of him, Of all the Christian prelates the position was precarious, 'Tis said it was Timotheus who, suffering from blindness, The Saint was to the lions cast, to meet the fate of Daniel, The lookers on attributed this miracle to magic, And charged St. J. with sorcery, whose punishment was death, Determined that his exit should in any case be tragic, By amputation of his head they robb'd him of his breath. 'Tis strange, as I've remark'd before, that martyrs brought to slaughter, Tradition says, a Roman dame, his loss devoutly rueing, Sponged up the precious drops of blood, and put them in a phial; A bit of straw by chance fell in the bottle, while so doing, That straw's still there!-a fact enough to silence all denial. The Saint's remains have often, since the day he went to heaven, Been moved from grave to grave until at last they were transferr'd To Naples' grand basilica, in fourteen-ninety-seven, And there with pomp and circumstance most solemnly interr'd. The splendid tomb and chapel form a suitable memorial, It is behind the altar that the relics are deposited, And guarded safely with a double-duplicate of keys, Till on the days of festival they're carefully uncloseted, The pious Neapolitans to edify and please. The head of "San Gennaro," now as hard and brown as leather, Is placed upon the altar, near the sacrificial blood; The marvel is that when these holy relics meet together, The vital stream will flow anew, tho' dried as thick as mud. But first the guardians of the shrine, by fervency in praying, A bust of Naples' patron, large, and hollow'd out, and burnished, The blood is kept in bottles, one is small and reddish yellow, The blood when first reveal'd to view is very dark and cloggy, 'Tis sweet to mark the faithful in the grand cathedral gather, That "fixes it," as Yankees say, as we should say, un-fixes; " Then when the process is complete, the keeper or "Thesaurer," With joyous tears, as one who has a priceless treasure found. It certainly must be a scene religiously inspiring To see the pious multitude with pleasure so elate, To hear the organ pealing, and the city guns a-firing, (But that was discontinued, it appears, in '68). On special days the relics through the city streets are carried, A clerical procession as magnificent and bright As Monarch's when he's crown'd, or princely couples' when they're married, A "cynosure" all "neigh'bring eyes" to fasten and delight. When melts the blood a kerchief's waved, and birds are set a-flying, No doubt 'tis most imposing, but suggestive, to my fancy, Oh, for the eye of childish faith, whose seeing is believing! The festa when he witness'd it took place in January, And doubted not the Hand Divine had caused the blood to melt. 'Twas only after many hours of penitential kneeling On cold, hard stones, the devotees beheld, with tears of bliss, The blessed saint's death-frozen stream to fluid uncongealing: The Scottish lord the bottle hugg'd with oft-repeated kiss. Ah me! this nineteenth century of scepticism and science, More cold and hard than any stones impress'd by pilgrim's knees, Has taught that men, by bringing Nature's laws to due appliance, Objective miracles like this can imitate with ease. 'Tis hard to have to question such a sacred "Institution," But Truth will stand, however close a scrutiny be made, Applying to the mystery a chemical solution We find there is no need at all for superhuman aid. Thrice happy he whose calm belief declines the task of struggling With pros and cons, objections, doubts, all difficult to meet, Suspecting holy ministrants of systematic juggling, And joining in a pious fraud the ignorant to cheat! When once such possibilities have won from us admission, We find our doubts increasing while our faith is growing s nall, Until their culmination is the terrible suspicion That Januarius's "blood" may not be blood at all. And after all cui bono? asks the soulless and prosaic; It keeps alive the ancient faith which Italy, possessing, Is far more favour'd than ourselves, the godless tho' the free, A faith that thro' the centuries has ever proved a blessing, Besides, when dread Vesuvius shows ugly signs of grumbling, For fourteen centuries or more the blood has now existed, For nearly half a thousand years its virtues have been proved; How many Roman converts in that time it has enlisted ! How many souls from heresy to orthodoxy moved! Then hail to Januarius, and may his feast tri-annual In fame and might miraculous grow yearly more and more; Teetotallers alone may well avoid it, since it teaches |