ROMA—AMOR“Strength is none on earth save Love.”—Aubrey de Vere.SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON, APRIL, 1876.I.Uponthe statue’s base I read its name—“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thoughtTo mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oarWhen the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.II.And was this Rome—this shrunken, shivering form,This beggared greatness sitting abject down;Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crownWhose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?—She, the world’s mistress, begging so her breadAt her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!Withered and old, craven in form and face,Yet keeping still some gift from out the pastIn the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.III.And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor loveWrit in the wrinkled story of her face,Where weariness and sad old age had place,For earthly days no cheer, no light above!All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thoughtThe sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunkFor men to mock at in her weak old age?Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?While the strong nations she once triumphed o’erScarce heeded her they served with awe before!IV.Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?Did she lament her cruel dower in truthAs once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?All joy of youth long perished, living onIn dread possession of the pitiless gift,In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!No word immortal on the statue writ,Save the deep bitterness of graven name;No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit—Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er,Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!V.O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thoughtNo vision of another Rome than this?Along the antique border of her dressI sought in vain to see the symbol wroughtThat she has steadfast borne since first its touchDid her, the holy one, e’er consecrateThe tender mother of the desolate,Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much,Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,Inheritor of beauty ever newYet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdueBeneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wideAs lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.VI.O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?Thou banished from possession of thine own,While they who rob thee fling thee mocking downAn ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace,Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gateOf Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day—Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.VII.So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stoodIn Roman purple robed, and none divinedThe holy mystery in those folds enshrined—The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.Such was his portion here; with thee he sharesHis grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprearsHis wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;That faith is thine that has been all the lengthOf centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.VIII.Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.What though thy hands are fettered as they liftThe blessing of the cross? They still can guide,Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide;Still are they warning to lost flocks adriftOn mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they blessThy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er.Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;And still the weary, craving love and home,Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!
ROMA—AMOR“Strength is none on earth save Love.”—Aubrey de Vere.SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON, APRIL, 1876.I.Uponthe statue’s base I read its name—“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thoughtTo mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oarWhen the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.II.And was this Rome—this shrunken, shivering form,This beggared greatness sitting abject down;Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crownWhose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?—She, the world’s mistress, begging so her breadAt her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!Withered and old, craven in form and face,Yet keeping still some gift from out the pastIn the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.III.And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor loveWrit in the wrinkled story of her face,Where weariness and sad old age had place,For earthly days no cheer, no light above!All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thoughtThe sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunkFor men to mock at in her weak old age?Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?While the strong nations she once triumphed o’erScarce heeded her they served with awe before!IV.Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?Did she lament her cruel dower in truthAs once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?All joy of youth long perished, living onIn dread possession of the pitiless gift,In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!No word immortal on the statue writ,Save the deep bitterness of graven name;No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit—Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er,Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!V.O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thoughtNo vision of another Rome than this?Along the antique border of her dressI sought in vain to see the symbol wroughtThat she has steadfast borne since first its touchDid her, the holy one, e’er consecrateThe tender mother of the desolate,Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much,Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,Inheritor of beauty ever newYet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdueBeneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wideAs lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.VI.O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?Thou banished from possession of thine own,While they who rob thee fling thee mocking downAn ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace,Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gateOf Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day—Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.VII.So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stoodIn Roman purple robed, and none divinedThe holy mystery in those folds enshrined—The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.Such was his portion here; with thee he sharesHis grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprearsHis wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;That faith is thine that has been all the lengthOf centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.VIII.Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.What though thy hands are fettered as they liftThe blessing of the cross? They still can guide,Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide;Still are they warning to lost flocks adriftOn mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they blessThy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er.Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;And still the weary, craving love and home,Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!
“Strength is none on earth save Love.”
—Aubrey de Vere.
SUGGESTED BY A STATUE BY MISS A. WHITNEY EXHIBITED IN BOSTON, APRIL, 1876.
Uponthe statue’s base I read its name—“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thoughtTo mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oarWhen the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.
Uponthe statue’s base I read its name—“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thoughtTo mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oarWhen the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.
Uponthe statue’s base I read its name—
“Rome,” nothing more; so leaving to each thought
To mould in mind the form the sculptor wrought,
The living soul within the dead clay’s frame.
And was this Rome, so weak and sad and old,
So crouching down with withered lip and cheek,
With trembling fingers stretched as if to seek,
The thoughtless wanderers’ idly-given gold?—
Some Roman coins loose-lying in her lap,
Some treasure saved from out her ancient wealth,
Or begged with downcast look as if by stealth,
Fearing her end, and wishing still, mayhap,
Enough to hold to pay stern Charon’s oar
When the dead nations o’er the Styx it bore.
And was this Rome—this shrunken, shivering form,This beggared greatness sitting abject down;Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crownWhose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?—She, the world’s mistress, begging so her breadAt her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!Withered and old, craven in form and face,Yet keeping still some gift from out the pastIn the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.
And was this Rome—this shrunken, shivering form,This beggared greatness sitting abject down;Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crownWhose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?—She, the world’s mistress, begging so her breadAt her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!Withered and old, craven in form and face,Yet keeping still some gift from out the pastIn the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.
And was this Rome—this shrunken, shivering form,
This beggared greatness sitting abject down;
Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crown
Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm?
Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride?
The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?—
She, the world’s mistress, begging so her bread
At her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside!
Withered and old, craven in form and face,
Yet keeping still some gift from out the past
In the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast,
Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace—
Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name,
Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.
And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor loveWrit in the wrinkled story of her face,Where weariness and sad old age had place,For earthly days no cheer, no light above!All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thoughtThe sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunkFor men to mock at in her weak old age?Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?While the strong nations she once triumphed o’erScarce heeded her they served with awe before!
And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor loveWrit in the wrinkled story of her face,Where weariness and sad old age had place,For earthly days no cheer, no light above!All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thoughtThe sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunkFor men to mock at in her weak old age?Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?While the strong nations she once triumphed o’erScarce heeded her they served with awe before!
And was this Rome? Nor faith, nor hope, nor love
Writ in the wrinkled story of her face,
Where weariness and sad old age had place,
For earthly days no cheer, no light above!
All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?
With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thought
The sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—
Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunk
For men to mock at in her weak old age?
Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,
That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,
Claiming with outstretched hand her heritage?
While the strong nations she once triumphed o’er
Scarce heeded her they served with awe before!
Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?Did she lament her cruel dower in truthAs once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?All joy of youth long perished, living onIn dread possession of the pitiless gift,In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!No word immortal on the statue writ,Save the deep bitterness of graven name;No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit—Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er,Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!
Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?Did she lament her cruel dower in truthAs once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?All joy of youth long perished, living onIn dread possession of the pitiless gift,In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!No word immortal on the statue writ,Save the deep bitterness of graven name;No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit—Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er,Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!
Where, then, was she that was Eternal called?
Bore she no likeness of immortal youth?
Did she lament her cruel dower in truth
As once Tithonus by that gift enthralled?
All joy of youth long perished, living on
In dread possession of the pitiless gift,
In hopeless age set helplessly adrift,
Her bread the bitter thought of days bygone!
No word immortal on the statue writ,
Save the deep bitterness of graven name;
No trumpet telling dumbly of her fame,
Nor unquenched lamp by vestal virgin lit—
Youth, empire, and her people’s love all o’er,
Unqueened, and still undying, evermore!
O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thoughtNo vision of another Rome than this?Along the antique border of her dressI sought in vain to see the symbol wroughtThat she has steadfast borne since first its touchDid her, the holy one, e’er consecrateThe tender mother of the desolate,Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much,Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,Inheritor of beauty ever newYet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdueBeneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wideAs lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.
O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thoughtNo vision of another Rome than this?Along the antique border of her dressI sought in vain to see the symbol wroughtThat she has steadfast borne since first its touchDid her, the holy one, e’er consecrateThe tender mother of the desolate,Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much,Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,Inheritor of beauty ever newYet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdueBeneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wideAs lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.
O artist! lurks there in your sculptured thought
No vision of another Rome than this?
Along the antique border of her dress
I sought in vain to see the symbol wrought
That she has steadfast borne since first its touch
Did her, the holy one, e’er consecrate
The tender mother of the desolate,
Consoler of poor hearts o’erburdened much,
Pure spouse of Him who is Eternal Life,
Inheritor of beauty ever new
Yet ever ancient, ’missioned to subdue
Beneath love’s yoke the nations lost in strife—
Rome’s eagles shadowed not a realm so wide
As lights the cross, her trust from Him that died.
O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?Thou banished from possession of thine own,While they who rob thee fling thee mocking downAn ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace,Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gateOf Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day—Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.
O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?Thou banished from possession of thine own,While they who rob thee fling thee mocking downAn ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace,Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gateOf Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day—Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.
O Rome! imperial lady, Christian queen!
Art thou discrowned and desolate indeed?
All vainly doth thy smitten greatness plead?
Reads none the sorrow of thy brow serene?
Perished thy eagles, and o’erthrown thy cross?
Thou banished from possession of thine own,
While they who rob thee fling thee mocking down
An ancient Roman robe to hide thy loss,
That the world, seeing thy fair-seeming state,
Shall greet the Cæsar who gives thee such grace,
Nor heed the appealing sorrow in thy face,
Nor hear thy cry like His who at the gate
Of Jericho cried out! Bide thou thy day—
Thy Western children for thee weep and pray.
So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stoodIn Roman purple robed, and none divinedThe holy mystery in those folds enshrined—The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.Such was his portion here; with thee he sharesHis grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprearsHis wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;That faith is thine that has been all the lengthOf centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.
So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stoodIn Roman purple robed, and none divinedThe holy mystery in those folds enshrined—The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.Such was his portion here; with thee he sharesHis grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprearsHis wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;That faith is thine that has been all the lengthOf centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.
So once in Pilate’s hall thy Master stood
In Roman purple robed, and none divined
The holy mystery in those folds enshrined—
The sorrowing God-head lifted on the Rood.
Such was his portion here; with thee he shares
His grief divine. Ah! grandly art thou crowned—
Fair in the light of truth thy brows around—
With thorns like his, while thy strong hand uprears
His wide-armed cross, thou leaning on its strength!
What though thy constant sorrow shade thine eyes?
Undying hope about thy sweet mouth lies;
That faith is thine that has been all the length
Of centuries past, that shall be centuries o’er;
And on thy bosom writ I read—Amor.
Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.What though thy hands are fettered as they liftThe blessing of the cross? They still can guide,Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide;Still are they warning to lost flocks adriftOn mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they blessThy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er.Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;And still the weary, craving love and home,Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!
Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.What though thy hands are fettered as they liftThe blessing of the cross? They still can guide,Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide;Still are they warning to lost flocks adriftOn mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they blessThy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er.Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;And still the weary, craving love and home,Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!
Each letter seeming with a ruddy hue—
Won from His Passion who is Perfect Love—
To glow the whiteness of thy robe above,
Thy own heart staining red thy raiment through.
What though thy hands are fettered as they lift
The blessing of the cross? They still can guide,
Like Israel’s cloud, thy children scattered wide;
Still are they warning to lost flocks adrift
On mist-enshrouded slopes; still can they bless
Thy faithful ones who, weeping, peace implore,
Who, striving, spread thy realm far countries o’er.
Still rulest thou while kings, as shadows, pass;
And still the weary, craving love and home,
Peace in thy bosom seek, Eternal Rome!