ONESIMUS

How standest thou, Onesimus? The glare
Of Rome behind thee; on thy face
The mark of Rome's worst hours: there,
Are imprinted all the signs thou dread'st,—
Thou art a slave!...Th' untamed desires
Thou cherishest, fed upon their own
Starvation, these we see: fires upon fires
That feed, nor ever gain release.
Behind thee, heedless, does the curtain fall,
To blot out—nothing? Then to thee, amidst
The twilight coolness, does the face of Paul
Shine forth, illumined by the light of God?
Speaks then, perchance, the well-remembered voice
More gently than when in Philemon's house
Thou heard'st his words of peace, and, or from choice
Or servitude, remained within his ken?
"Greetings, my son Onesimus, 'tis well!"
So much we hear; and then perhaps to thee
With those words come the vision: who can tell
Which moment marks the deluge of the world
To each of us? The sordid mantle, clasped
So tightly round us, slippeth from our hand:
The burdens we so plaintively have asked
To bear with us, fall with our false desires
To earth. And thou, Onesimus, a slave
As ever, bound with bonds of tenderness
Where duty answers Love, dost hear the grave,
Sweet accents once again—and turn'st to God?
"Part of myself," writes Paul; yet, even he
Is bound, a servant to the will of Love:
So to Philemon's house he sendeth thee—
Onesimus—the slave, the conqueror.