It
was very much a part of older Southern life to read about and imitate the lives
of virtuous men and women. Plutarch’s Parallel Lives was an especial
favorite. The deep Protestantism of the
South, however, kept her from a better source of lives: the lives of the Orthodox saints. Other than the Holy Scriptures, one will not
find a better handbook for obtaining Christian perfection.
Since
we have just written of the decline of the Southern woman, this is how she can
begin her ascent once again to the surpassing heights attained by her
foremothers in Africa and Western Europe - Sts Mary of Egypt, Audrey of Ely,
Brigid of Kildare, and many, many others - by imitating the saints. For today let us consider the life of one of the
greatest martyrs of Spain, St Eulalia (10 Dec., +304). Though a girl of only 12 or 13, her virtues far
surpassed most women of mature age. The poet
Prudentius wrote this poem in honor of her martyrdom:
Noble of parentage
Eulalia,
More noble still in the
style of her death;
Holy young maiden her own
Merida,
Town from whose
fruitfulness she was brought forth,
Crowns with her bones and
protects with her love. (5)
Far away off in the West
is the place
Which this illustrious
honour has won,
Great as a city, in
populace rich;
Yet greater still by her
martyrdom's blood
And by the tombstone
inscribed for the maid. (10)
Three and nine cycles of
suns going by,
Three times four winters
the girl had attained
When, by the crackle of
pyre undismayed,
She made alarmed
executioners quake,
Counting her torture a
boon to herself. (15)
Already she had provided
a sign
That she was set for the
Father's high throne
And that her limbs were
not destined for love:
She had rejected her
rattles herself,
Stranger to play as a
dear little girl. (20)
Amber she spurned, had
but scorn for the rose,
Gold-yellow necklaces
held in contempt.
Facially grave,
self-possessed in her gait,
Even while showing the
traits of a child
She played the part of
old age's grey hairs. (25)
But when the scourge in
an access of rage
Flared up against the
Lord's servants, and all
Lusting for blood, bade
the foll'wers of Christ
Burn up their incense,
their livers of beasts,
Offered to gods who were
dealers in death, (30)
Loud did Eulalia's spirit
complain,
Holy and mettlesome in
its intent,
Ready to shatter the
upset of war.
And, youthful heart
simply panting for God,
Challenged as woman the
weapons of men. (35)
But the fond care of a
mother contrived
That the high-spirited
maid stay at home,
Kept in the country and
far from the town,
Lest the girl, wild for
the outlay of blood,
Rush to her doom in a
passion for death. (40)
Hating to bear a resort
to repose
By hanging back in a
cowardly way,
Furtive she opened the
door in the night,
Made her escape through
the yard where enclosed.
Thence seized her way
across land without tracks. (45)
Onward she sallied with
hurt to her feet
Through places rough with
their squalor and briers,
With choir of angels
accompanying her;
And though the night was
all silent and grim,
Yet she had light as a
guide on her way. (50)
Thus did the high-minded
patriarch band
Have a bright beam in the
pillar of light
Which, in its power to
cut through the dark,
Offered a way in the
night with its flame,
So that the darkness all
perished away. (55)
So was the dutiful maid
in the night
Worthy of daylight as she
went her way;
And wasn't cloaked in
enveloping dark
As she escaped from the
realms of the Nile
And won a way to the
starry abodes. (60)
Speedily plying her steps
through the night,
Many a mile had she
covered, before
Zone of the East made a
door in the sky;
Morning's light saw her,
come proud to the court,
Take up her stand among
symbols of power (65)
Raising her voice: 'Pray,
what madness is this
Sending your souls to
destruction hell-bent,
And laying hearts so
expensive of selves
Down, to do worship
before polished stones,
While you deny God, the Father
of all? (70)
Are you in search, O you
miserable band,
Of the Christ-following
folk? Here am I,
Foe to the rites that the
devil receives;
Idols I trample in scorn
underfoot,
I confess God with my
heart and my lips. (75)
Isis, Apollo, and Venus
are naught,
Maximianus himself naught
as well:
They naught, because they
are fashioned by hand,
He, because he worships
men's handiwork;
Vanities both of them,
both of them naught. (80)
Maximianus, the lord of
all might,
And yet himself a
dependent of stones,
Though he displays and
devotes to his own
Godheads his own very
life by himself,
Why is he harassing
high-minded hearts? (85)
Chieftain so goodly, so
excellent a judge,
He sates his hunger on
innocent blood;
Gaping his mouth for the
bodies of saints
He's bent on tearing
their virtuous flesh,
And takes delight in
tormenting the Faith. (90)
Come on then, torturer,
kindle and slash,
Cut up my limbs put
together of clay.
Breaking so frail a
thing's easy indeed:
But there will not be a
deep reaching-in
Right to my soul by the
torment and pain'. (95)
Roused to a fury by words
of the kind,
Praetor exclaimed: 'Take
her quickly away,
Lictor, and torture on
torture apply.
See that she knows that
our sires' gods exist,
And that the emperor's
command isn't slight. (100)
Yet how I'd like, just
the same, ere you die,
If it may be, to revoke
all of your
Naughty behaviour, you
stern-faced girleen.
Just think how great are
the joys you mow down,
Which your estate as a
bride has in store. (105)
Your household tearfully
reels at the blow,
Searching for you; and
the anguish of your
Family so noble has
caused it to mourn
That in the bloom of your
youth you now die
Ripe for a dowry and ripe
to be wed. (110)
Doesn't the rich pomp of
marriage move you,
Nor your respect for the
love of the old
Whom in your rashness
you're so casting down?
See here the instruments
fully prepared,
Things of unbearable
torture and death: (115)
Either your head will be
lopped by a sword,
Or will your limbs be
dismembered by beasts,
Or, given over to
smoke-reeking brands,
Object for weeping and
wailing of kin,
You'll be destroyed and
reduced into ash. (120)
What, pray, the toil to
escape from all this?
If a small portion of
salt, my dear maid,
And tiny grain of the
incense with your
Fingertips you'd be so
kind as to touch,
Penalties grievous would
be far away'. (125)
Nothing said martyr to
this; but in fact
Bellowed with rage and in
potentate's eye
Spittle she flung, then
the images she
Scattered; the meal that
was there to comprise
Thuribles full, she upset
with her foot. (130)
Straight away then,
executioners twain
Tore at the flesh of her
rush-slender breasts.
Then did the claw at her
maidenly flanks
Strike on both sides as
it cut to the bone.
Meanwhile Eulalia counted
the marks. (135)
'See how your name's
written on me, O Lord.
How it delights me these
letters to read,
Which are the mark of
your victories, O Christ!
And to speak your holy
name for itself
Here is the red of my
blood that's been drawn'. (140)
These words, with never a
tear or a groan,
Joyful and all unafraid
did she sing;
Torment so dreadful did
not reach her soul.
Coloured by fresh flow of
blood too, her limbs
Bathed her fair skin in
its warm-running stream. (145)
Final refinement of
torture came now.
No longer wounds for the
tearing of flesh,
Nor skin that's ploughed
to the depth of the ribs,
But there is flame from
the lampstands all round
Raging against her at
stomach and flanks. (150)
Sweet-smelling tresses
all over her neck
Fell to her shoulders as
light as a veil,
So that her modesty,
bashful and shy,
Might be concealed with
her maidenhood's grace
Under the cover of screen
from her poll. (155)
Flame with a roar made a
rush for her face
And, brought to life by
her hair, to her head
Transferred its hold,
rearing over its top.
Maid, in her wish for a
swift end to life,
Swallowed and drank from
the fire with her mouth. (160)
Thereupon suddenly
flashed forth a dove
Whiter than snow, from
the martyred girl's mouth
Seen to depart and to
make for for the stars:
This was the spirit of
Eulalia,
Milky-white
swift-darting, quite without sin. (165)
Drooped was her neck as
her soul sped away;
Down died the fiery blaze
of the pyre.
Peace was imparted to
those lifeless limbs,
While in the sky flapped
triumphant applause
Soul, as it winged to the
regions on high. (170)
Even the minion himself
saw the bird
Openly pass from the
mouth of the girl;
Thoroughly stunned and
amazed at the sight,
He leaped and fled from
the deeds he had done.
Even the lictor fled off
in alarm. (175)
She how the icy-cold
winter poured snow
Down on the forum and
covered it all;
Covered as well poor
Eulalia's limbs
Lying exposed to the cold
of the sky,
Taking the place of a
small linen cloak. (180)
Let yield the love of the
men shedding tears
Who are accustomed to
practise last rites,
And let their office of
mourning yield too:
Nature's own elements at
God's command
Render the obsequies,
maiden, for you. (185)
Merida now is the site
for her tomb,
Town of Vettonia, well
known to fame,
Past which the notable
Ana's stream still
Passes and, as its green
waters rush by,
Washes the beautiful
walls in its flood. (190)
Here, where with marble
reflecting the light
Lustre illumines the
motherly church
(Both foreign lustre and
native as well),
Relics and holy remains
of the saint
Reverent earth has
preserved in its breast. (195)
Glittering roof overhead
flashes light
Down from its panels all
covered in gold;
Mosaic stonework has
coloured the floor
So that you'd think that,
all rosy with flowers,
Here blushed a meadow of
manifold hues. (200)
Gather ye all of the
violets blue,
Harvest the
blood-coloured crocus as well.
Genial winter has no lack
of these;
Cold at the thaw is
releasing the fields
So as to pile up our
baskets with flowers. (205)
Offerings of yours from
the tendrils and leaves
Give as a gift, every
maiden and boy.
I, in the midst of your
company's song,
Garlands in dactylic
measure will bring,
Worthless and wilted, but
joyous no less. (210)
So does it please us to
honour her bones,
Also the altar above the
bones raised:
She from her place at the
feet of her God
Looks on these doings;
and on her own folk
Sheds gracious favour,
appeased by our song. (215)
Source: http://scholar.lib.vt.edu/ejournals/ElAnt/V1N4/baker.html, Electronic Antiquity journal, Robert Baker, trans., opened 22 Dec. 2017
Holy
Martyr Eulalia, pray for us sinners!
--
Holy
Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema
to the Union!
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