Hymn 11

11. To Bishop Valerianus, on the Passion of Hippolytus, Most Blessed Martyr.

Countless ashes of the saints in the city of Romulus

we have seen, O Valerianus, hallowed to Christ,

and you ask for the inscriptions cut on the tombs and each

name: it is hard that I should be able to unfold them all,

such great peoples of the just did impious fury swallow up,

when Troy-born Rome worshipped her ancestral gods.

Very many tombs, marked with little letters, tell

either the martyr’s name or some epigram,

and yet there are mute marbles too, closing silent

graves, which signify only the number.

How many bodies of men lie in the heaped-up mounds

one may know, whose names you could read none,

sixty there, buried beneath a single mass,

I remember I learned, the relics of men,

whose names Christ alone holds ascertained,

inasmuch as he has joined them to his own friendship.

While I survey these with my eyes, and somewhere perchance

follow the hidden letters of ancient matters through the monuments,

I find that Hippolytus, who once had touched the schism

of Novatus as a presbyter, denying that our ways should be followed,

was advanced even to the glory of martyrdom and bore

the bright rewards of a bloody punishment,

and do not wonder that the old man, once of a perverse dogma,

was enriched with the gift of the catholic faith,

when, a conqueror, he was now snatched away by the frenzied foe,

his soul exulting at the destruction of the flesh,

he went, with many accompanying him, in the love of his people.

Consulted as to which sect were the better,

he answered: “Flee, O wretched ones, the accursed schisms

of Novatus, give yourselves back to the catholic peoples.

Let one faith flourish, founded in the ancient temple,

which Paul holds and which the chair of Peter holds,

what I taught, I am ashamed to have taught: a venerable martyr

I discern, which I thought was far from the worship of God.”

When with these words he had turned the people from the left path

and shown them to follow where the right way calls,

and offered himself as a guide of the right, the windings spurned—

he who before had been the author of error—

he is then set before the mad governor who was harassing

the worshippers of Christ at the mouths of the Tiber.

For on that day he had withdrawn from Rome, that he might shake

the suburban peoples themselves with the plague,

not content to stain the ground within the walls of lofty Rome

with the unceasing slaughters of the just.

When he now saw the Janiculum drenched, the forums, the rostra, the Subura

flooded with the overflow of blood,

he had carried his madness to the shore of the Tyrrhenian coast

and the places nearest the seaward harbour.

among the executioners and the crowded officials he sat,

higher upon a built-up throne.

The disciples of the faith, and the rebels against the detestable

idol, he burned to give over to perfidy,

he had ordered the throngs, shaggy with the prison’s grime,

to stand before him, to be tortured in dreadful ways,

on this side the draggings of chains, on that the leathern scourges

to hiss, the crash of rods to clatter,

the claw, fixed in the hollow cages of the ribs, to open

deep recesses and to mangle the liver,

and now, the torturers wearied, the judge fell

into a frenzy, raging at the fruitless examination,

for none of Christ’s servants was found, amid such great

torments, who would dare to defile his soul,

thence the raging inquisitor says: “Now, torturer, from the hook

desist; if the examination is vain, act by death,

cut off this one’s head, let the cross lift that one into the air

and offer his living eyes to the birds,

snatch these headlong and, bound, cast them into the fire,

let there be one pyre that devours many of the accused.

See, here are those whom you may hasten to place on a leaky boat,

and to drive into the deep pools of the mid-sea.

When the ill-joined craft has carried them, taken aboard,

over the raging deep, and, cut, has tottered in the swelling waters,

let the parted planks loosen the rotten keel

and drink in shipwreck from every side,

a scaly beast with muddy belly will furnish a tomb,

raw, when the corpses are consumed.”

As he ranges over these things, suddenly before the lofty tribunal

an old man, entangled in bonds, is offered.

The youths thronging around bore witness with a cry

that he himself was the head of the Christian peoples:

if the head were speedily destroyed, all the hearts

of the crowd would gladly be consecrated to the Roman gods.

They demand an unwonted kind of death and new devices

of punishment, by whose example others might tremble.

He, sitting with his neck thrown back: “Who,” he says,

“is he called?” They affirm he is called Hippolytus.

“Then let him be Hippolytus, let him shake and rout the team

and perish, torn apart by wild horses.”

Scarcely had he said this, when two beasts, knowing nothing

of the bit, set their necks beneath the unaccustomed yoke,

not, in the stables, stroked by the kind hand of a master,

nor before subdued to bear the rider’s command,

but a herd lately caught from a wandering flock in the field,

which a wild terror drives in their untamed hearts.

And now the bonds had coupled the struggling pair,

and had bound their mouths in a discordant compact.

In place of a pole there is a rope, which divides the backs

of the two and, in the middle, touches each flank,

and from the yoke, stretching itself far back behind their tracks,

is drawn, and passes beneath their feet.

To the end of this, where the worn track of the horn-hoofed

follows the fleeing ways in the topmost dust,

a noose binds the man’s legs, and with a tenacious knot

fastens his soles and ties them with the rope,

after the lashes, the bonds, the beasts had equipped enough

with ordered preparation for the martyr’s punishment,

they goad them with sudden shouts and with whips,

and pierce their flanks with hostile prods,

the last word heard of the venerable old man was this:

“Let these snatch my limbs, do you, Christ, snatch my soul.”

They burst forth eagerly and are borne in blind wandering,

where sound and tremor, where fury drives them.

Their wildness kindles them, the rush seizes them and the din urges,

nor does the winged course feel the moving burden.

Through woods, through rocks they rush, no bank delays

them, nor does an opposing torrent of a river check them,

they throw down hedges and break all obstacles,

they seek the steep, the broken places, they will cross the heights,

the bristling field, with thorn-bearing roots, plucks the fragments

torn bit by bit from the dismembered body.

Part hangs on the topmost crags, part clings to the brambles,

in one place the leaves grow red, in another the ground is wet,

a wall, painted over, holds the likeness of the crime, on which

a many-coloured dye sets forth all the wickedness,

a pictured image above the tomb thrives with clear hues,

depicting the bloody limbs of the shattered man.

I have seen the dripping points of the rocks, most excellent father,

and the purple marks set upon the brambles.

A skilled hand, imitating, had fashioned the green thickets,

and had played, with red lead, the reddish gore.

One could see, with the joints torn apart, in no order,

the limbs lie scattered through uncertain places,

he had added the dear ones who followed with step and with tears,

where the byway shows the broken track.

They went, thunderstruck with grief and with searching eyes,

and filled their laps with the mangled flesh.

One embraces the snowy head and cherishes the reverend

grey hair in his soft lap;

this one gathers the shoulders and the severed hands and arms and forearms

and the knees and the bare fragments of the legs.

With little cloaks too the thirsty sands are dried,

lest any dew remain in the stained dust,

and if any blood sits upon the stakes with a still-warm spatter,

a pressed sponge takes up all of it,

and no longer does the dense wood hold back anything

of the holy body or cheat it of full funeral rites,

and when, the parts being reviewed, that number stood complete

which had belonged to the whole body,

and the cleansed wilds owed nothing of the whole

man, the leaves and the crags wiped clean,

a place is chosen, marking out for the tomb: they leave the harbour,

Rome pleases them, to hold the holy ashes,

not far from the outermost rampart, near the cultivated bounds,

a sunken crypt lies open in hidden hollows:

a sloping way, by reflected steps, into its secret

teaches one to go through windings, the light fading,

for the first doors it enters by an opening at the top

and the day lights the threshold of the vestibule,

then, where with easy advance the dark night of the place

seemed to grow black through the doubtful cavern,

openings let into the lofty roofs come to meet you,

which cast bright rays over the caverns,

and however much the doubtful recesses weave, here and there,

narrow halls beneath the shadowy porticoes,

yet beneath, through the hollow bowels of the cut-out mountain,

frequent light penetrates by the bored vault,

so it is granted, through the underground places, to discern

the brightness of the absent sun and to enjoy its light.

To such coverts the body of Hippolytus is committed,

near where an altar is set, dedicated to God.

That table, the giver of the sacrament, and the same

a faithful guard, set beside its own martyr,

keeps the bones in the tomb for the hope of the eternal avenger,

and likewise feeds the dwellers by the Tiber with holy banquets.

The wondrous piety of the place, and the altar ready for those who pray,

helps the hope of men with calm prosperity,

here, sick in the corruptions of soul and body,

as often as I prayed, prostrate, I earned aid,

that I am glad of my return, that you, venerable priest,

it is permitted me to embrace, that I write these very things,

I know I owe to Hippolytus, to whom Christ God

gave the power to grant what each one may ask,

that very shrine which holds within the spoils of his soul

gleams with solid silver,

a rich hand has fixed before it plates bright with a smooth

surface, such as a hollow mirror shines,

and, not content to overlay the entrance with Parian marble,

it added bright talents to adorn the work,

in the morning men gather to greet it: all the youth

adore; they come, they return, even to the setting of the sun.

The love of religion gathers into a wedge the Latin

peoples together with strangers, all mixed.

They press kisses upon the clear metal,

they pour out balsam, they wet their faces with tears.

And when the year renews itself, the months run out,

and the festal passion brings back the birthday,

how great throngs, do you think, are gathered with contending zeal,

or what vows come together to honour God?

The august city pours out and gives forth her Quirites,

and at once, with equal ambition, the plebeian phalanx

confounds the patricians, with shield-bosses level,

the distinction of the nobles overthrown by hastening faith.

No less does a white-clad army unfold itself from the Alban

gates and is led in long ranks,

the roars of the various roads exult on this side and that,

the native and the Picene people and the Etruscan come,

the fierce Samnite gathers, and the Campanian, dweller

of high Capua, and now the Nolan is present,

each one, glad with his wife and with his sweet

children, longs to take the rapid road.

Scarcely do the open fields hold the joys of the peoples,

and the dense host clings even in the great spaces,

that there is too little room in that cavern for such great throngs

is no doubt, though it lies open with a wide mouth,

but there stands beside it another, a temple which such a multitude

then enters, noble in kingly adornment,

lofty with high walls and mighty with proud

majesty and rich in gifts.

A double row of columns sustains the panelling of the roof,

set beneath the gilded beams.

Slender recesses, with a lower roof, are added,

which curve out the series of the sides without break.

But a broader way opens the middle stretches of the lofty

roof, rising with a higher peak.

Under the front facing it, a tribunal is lifted high

by steps, whence the prelate proclaims God.

The full house receives with difficulty the labouring waves,

and, narrow, seethes at the crowded doors,

spreading a mother’s bosom, in which to lay up its nurslings

and to cherish, heaped up, the children of its womb.

If I remember well, most beautiful Rome honours this man

on the Ides of the month of August, as she herself calls

the day by ancient custom, which I would wish you too, holy master,

to number among the annual feasts,

believe me, this man will bring health-bringing dawns to those who venerate him,

restoring the rewards of the honoured light,

among the solemn days of Cyprian or Chelidonius

and Eulalia, let this day too run for you.

So may almighty Christ hear you praying for the people

whose life has been entrusted to you;

so may the wolf be shut out from your full sheepfold,

and may no captured lamb diminish your flock;

so may you, a diligent shepherd, bring back me,

a sick sheep, remaining at last in the grassy field;

so, when you have filled the folds with milk-white lambs,

may you yourself too, caught up, be a companion to holy Hippolytus.