A land for joyance made; blest for the blest;Happy in being chosen for their rest;For nowhere greener lawns, more bow’ry gladesInviting into more reposeful shadesOf arched romantic groves, with, ev’rywhere,Steeped in a purple glow, a larger airThan Earth’s; for the lower world owes no debtTo sun or stars with which our skies are set;It has them of its own, as real as ours.Real too its grass, the fragrance of its flow’rs;Real they to Spirit as to them It seems,Though for mortals unsubstantial as are dreams.On turf or yellow sand some test the skill,That earned them fame in life; and is theirs still.The woods are full of revellers, who beatTime to gay dancers and their flying feet;Or banqueting sit, garlanded with bays,Singing in chorus legends of old days;While others proud of battle-fields afarConduct a mimic spectacle of war;Spears waiting to be snatched, and the broad shieldTo be slung, chargers harnessed for the field;—Shadows to terrestrial men, who callEarthly things real, when shadows most of all;—Shadows these of the busy lives they ledOn earth, which pursue them now they are dead;Nought palpable, unless that through a groveEridanus rolls to the world above.Here ignorantly happy dwell in joyPrinces like Dardanus who founded Troy;With Teucer father of a royal race,Gallant as noble, and most fair of face;Ilus, Assaracus, of blood divine,Through whom Æneas proudly traced his line.Here stood showing glorious wounds a bandOf heroes fall’n to save its native land;Though other arts could equal entrance gain,—To give life charm, or steal a pang from pain.Priests too, who as they at the altar stoodOffered pure lives as well as victims’ blood:And seers, who ne’er falsified Heav’n’s truth,But spoke as they heard from Apollo’s mouth:—A various tribe, yet all alike in this,That, having served, they have deserved their bliss.The Maid led where the white-filleted throngWas thickest; for Musæus’s the song,Responsive to the lyre’s seven sweet chords,That vied with all the magic of the words.High he by head and shoulders o’er the ringAround. The Sibyl, when he ceased to sing,Besought him of his courtesy to tellWhere might Anchises in that blest land dwell;Their search for him had many labours cost;Dread sights been seen, perilous rivers crossed;Their grace was brief, they must not longer bide;How, clogged with flesh, find him without a guide?Quick answer made the sage: “We count no homeAs you on earth; wheresoever we roamAt home are we; for our repose at noon,Or eve, no couch can equal with its downA meadow bank, that rills unfailing heapWith flow’rs wooing irresistible sleep.But flesh and blood aye move the heart and will,And ye are here their purpose to fulfil;So, follow me beyond this hanging peak,And I will point your path to him you seek.”Under his lead they climbed the height, and thenceDown into a wide, smiling champaign, whenceOpened a wooded valley: in a gladeAnchises stood, and deep in thought surveyedA host of hurrying Shades. As he gazed,He heard steps, his Son’s!Eagerly he raised,Both hands, while eyes and heart joined in the burstOf love and joy; each struggling to be firstIts welcome to express: “Dearest! at lastI see Thee; at what cost of perils passed!Yet never feared I that the utmost pow’rsOf Earth and Hell could bar a love like oursFrom meeting, as in old times, face to face,In full converse, however brief the space.With trust undoubting traced I to its goalThy devious course; for well I knew thy soul;Each stage I numbered; tempests on what seas;Unfriendly lands; kindnesses worse than these!”“And could’st Thou,” cried Æneas “more repine,Missing my presence than I longed for thine?Thy image warned me on the island shore,To ask thy counsels, as, on earth, of yore,So, I am here! Once more to feel thy heartBeating to my own!—Nay; my Father, why,When I would clasp hands, kiss thy face, denyThe embrace I dared Hell’s alarms to gain?”Of no avail his prayers, tears; all vain;Thrice in his arms the image melted away—As flutter of breeze; dream at break of day.Near where Anchises and Æneas stoodShades swarmed, dense, ever denser, in a woodWhich rustled all its bushes with the press—As of a migrant nation numberless—Of Spirits emulous to be the firstTo reach grey Lethe’s edge, and quench their thirst——Thus, in languorous stillness of noontide,Sudden the slumb’rous calm is swept asideBy an inrush of bees; in wild descent,Like pirates from the main, on nothing bentBut spoil they seem; yet each has its own flow’r,To which sure instinct guides it hour by hour,—Æneas saw the haste, knew not th’ excuse;For him it seemed to be Hell broken loose.Even when he heard the marvellous taleThat the myriads gathered in that valeWere no unwilling, mourning outcasts there,Condemned to breathe once more the upper air,But after their secular repose full fainFlesh to resume, links in an endless chain,The world-worn hero shuddered none the lessIt might be his to count it happinessTo exchange the peace of the myrtle groveFor stark sunshine and gross body above;To be of those whom Lethe should wash clearOf all they once had been, and all they were:—That Elysium’s a waiting-room for life;Life a dust-heap for trials, failures, strifeThat men are Shadows all, expecting doom,Whether flesh, or to shift it in a tomb.“Forbear,” replied Anchises, old and wise,“To measure laws of Fate by earthly eyes.From the beginning of the sky and land,The stars where once the Titans held command,The sun and moon that share the day and night,Air’s liquid fields;—all owe their charm and lightTo eternal Spirit. That feeds the whole,Breathes into bodies, lifeless else, a soul.Mankind and beasts, winged Things, and monster strange,That ’neath the level plains of Ocean range,Draw hence their fire, the instinct of a birthElsewhere;—alas! for the burdensome bulkOf limbs diseased, and joints that creak and sulkFor the foul lusts they stir, the scares, affrights,The cowardly griefs, and as vain delights,The Dark through which flesh stumbles, halt and blindThe dungeon where it keeps shut close the Mind,Lest at one breath of air it should in scornOf earth fly back to Heaven where ’twas born.Meanwhile an evil partnership for both!—Spirit incorporate, however lothTo be associate with sores and blains,Vice’s parasites, must bear fleshly painsTo be cleansed; for death is itself no cure;Body, Soul with it, share in the Impure.Some, carcasses, swing, split open, for breezeTo scour and wring, to bleach, and scorch, or freezeFor some a mill-stream whirls a crime about,Or a furnace roars a rich baseness out.Just the Judgment, every judgment true;Each of us bears no more than is his due;High as the merits of our kith and kin,None but himself can carry his own sin.Blest the sharp ordeal for the few who thencePass, not in sheer spiritual innocence,But in no worse than such affections dressedAs leave the pure celestial spark at rest,And free in these fair fields to dream awayAny chance taint surviving from earth’s clayTo dull the sereneness of the fire giv’nTo infants, that they may remember Heav’n.”“And now behold the final stage:—this rout,Its cycle—a thousand years—being out—Called by God’s Messenger of Life and Death,Descends where Lethe, in the cleft beneath,Will make it, drinking of the troubled flood,Conscious it once was clothed with flesh and blood.And yearn to take them back, and to returnRude air to breathe, and feel a rude sun burn.Nearer now draw with me, that from this bankThou mayest watch the comers rank by rank;Read, as I point, the future in each face;See, as I see, the glory of our race—Great as it was, and greater still to be,Graft on Troy’s stock, the bud of Italy.Mark him who leans upon a bloodless spear;’Tis thy own son; but look upon him here;On earth Thou wilt not; for, when thy long lifeIs all but spent, Lavinia thy WifeShall conceive a child, and in full time bearSilvius in the woods to be thy heir;King of Alba, like many of his line,As Procas and Æneas, namesake thine.And still kings come—I cannot number them,Each adding to old a fresh diadem!But stay! who advances crested like to Mars—For whom Jove keeps a place among the stars?Romulus—City maker? Tenfold more!From him Earth’s arbiter, matchless in war,With no limits to empire but the Pole,And none below Olympus to the soul!——As Joys Cybele to have peopled Heav’n,Rome boasts a breed to which Earth is giv’n!Turn thy eyes; regard this Company; knowWhat a full tide of grandeur is to flowHence of thy name; how from Thyself, and fromIulus, in time shall Julius come,And one as great, long destined to be bornBy Fate’s decree—else were Fate’s self forsworn—That, where King Saturn reigned in days of yore,Augustus shall the Golden Age restore.Marches still; already his edicts swayWhere our day is night, and our night is day;Among the Gætuli; beyond them; farOutside the orbit, light, of any star;Outside track of Sun and dancing Hours, whereAtlas swings the world’s axis, with its gear.Rumours of his approaching overwhelmQuaking Mæotis and the Caspian realm;While sevenfold Nile offers fealty,Trembling for what the Master shall decree.Have we not heard in legends or romanceHow God or Hero has made his advance,Victor throughout Earth?—Of him who laid lowLerna’s fire-breathing Dragon with his bow,Shot the brazen-footed Hind, and stilled the roarIn Arcady of Erymanthian boar!—Of Bacchus in tipsy triumph, a yokeOf spotted tigers in his chariot, brokeTo obey, for reins, tendrils of a vine—His Mænads leaping down the long inclineOf Nysa, wildly singing, their locks curledWith vine leaves, following to win a world?Yet what in tales of Gods and men can matchFor scorn of space, and ardour of despatch,Delight in braving peril, grasp of mind,Our Cæsar’s progress to the verge of Ind!Wilt, Son, in view of all thy future Rome,With her chiefs destined from thyself to come,And while ancestral fire of Troy burns highIn thy own veins, put off the hour to tryValour in act, and hesitate to proveThy right to lordship given Thee by Jove?”“Observe, as they pass by us, one by one,Those who will glorify thy Rome, my Son.Illegible to them, for us the wholeOf their careers is writ as on a scroll,See, the grey-bearded King, the Priest, the Sage,Of many years, though not bowed down with age,Whose laws devised to rule a petty townWill fit it when into an empire grown;Next, Tullus, warrior-prince, and Ancus, near,Boasting his wit to catch the popular ear:Then the proud Tarquins; and, of soul as proud,Brutus, grudging not Freedom his sons’ blood—Careless if fainter hearts, a feebler timeBrand a patriot’s sacrifice as crime!Ah! changes—leaps and bounds—so fast surpriseBrains, toned here to calm, that my aged eyesAre dazzled as forms pass, and then repass,And straight are lost—reflections in a glass.No smoother course for this, thy Rome to be,Than now, my Son, for Thee in Italy.A whirl of arms ere the fair land will deignTo grant thy offspring’s right divine to reign;An age-long wrestle; yet a rope of sandMakes a poor rival of an iron band.—Hide from my sight those lictors, and a Son!But they tell how Latium shall be won.—A will inflexible, a disciplineMaking a religion of a straight line,A consuming, passionate, red-hot forceNever prisoned in its volcanic source—Pride in the City of the Seven Hills—Will merge all other passions, heal all ills.These the fire inspired, that in fateful warGave Cossus and Jove arms of Tuscan Lar.Maligned and banned Camillus their first callBrought as through air to save Rome from the GaulFabricius taught the Epirot KingThus, that Rome wounded rises on the wing.From them Serranus learned the art to guideThe State, and victor o’er the billows rideAs straight as he his furrow erewhile ploughed.Regard these visages serene and proudTo do whate’er is Rome’s behest, contentTo go whithersoever they are sent.See, war’s twin thunderbolts, the Scipios,Their oracle Rome, their one mark her foes.See them to whom Achaia bows the head,With Macedon’s monarch in triumph led;—Avenging on Mycenæ, and the raceOf Atreus, on Achilles, the disgraceThey heaped upon Troy, and the outraged shrineOf Pallas, their own patroness Divine.Nor fail note that old man, heeding no jeer,No hint of blood slow and sluggish, e’en fear:Resolved throughout of one thing—ne’er, from hasteIn clutching popular applause, to wasteA chance on Fortune’s wheel for his Rome’s ShieldTo foil War’s cross-eyed Master in the field;And, near to him, in Britomart’s royal spoils,—Like a brave boar, trapped in a huntsman’s toils,Unconquerable else—the battle’s lord—Confess it, Gaul, Carthage, and Syracuse—Rome’s Sword!But who is this, Thou askest, in the prideOf arms and youth, advancing by his side?Thou mark’st the likeness; well might he be son:From the same stock he springs, a noble one.Strange, in the changeless calm of these blest grovesThe shadow of a brooding sorrow moves....Well might I weep, if Spirit could, the fateOf good as fair, and not more good than great.Earth will have but seen to lose him!Heaven,Wert thou jealous, lest, thinking him givenTo this our mighty Rome, not just on loan,But to live her life, be her very own,She would wax overweening? Yet the woeMust surely wake thy pity, when, below,Thou hear’st the wails numberless for such charmsBorne to their pyre upon the Field of Arms;And Thou, old Tiber, as thou flowest byThe tomb in which the loved One’s ashes lie,Wilt not forget how thou hast seen him playOft on thy banks young, beautiful, and gay.Never will hope be raised so high by boyBlending the blood of Latium and Troy;And, when shall our earth ever find againSuch loyalty and faith in living men—A right hand so approved in every art,On horse, or foot, to do a soldier’s part?I pity, praise, love!Arrest but the chainOf Fate; and lo! Marcellus come again!—Armfuls of lilies bring; for Soul as sweet!Spread crimson flow’rs, fit carpet for his feet!—Grief for a Shadow, from a Shadow grief;Yet Shadows find a Shadow of reliefFor boundless loss in Shadows e’en of grief!”“But now for the near future—I will showHow to surmount, and how to bear with, woe;Faint not, endure, and earn renown! On Earth,What, without store of fame, is living worth!Weigh not the toils and snares, that, I foresee,Impend, ere Thou shalt reign in Italy.Remember thy reward, the noble endTow’rds which thy trials and thy hardships tend.Teach a world-empire how its Founder bearsThe load of war, and, worse, intestine cares;For these must be, though I spare Thee the sightOf brothers against brothers armed for fight—Decii, Drusi, Gracchi—each House movedBy jealous passion for the Rome all loved.And when the All-Conquering shall have hurledHer legions to the confines of the world,Lo! Chiefs—allied by blood, and leagued to shareTwo continents between them—arm to tearTheir country’s entrails piecemeal! Baleful strife!Will not one victim serve—Great Cato’s life?Joy! God grants my prayer! There is brave steelOf double virtue, both to wound and heal;And of that heav’nly temper, Youth, is thine,Second founder of the Julian line!Hail to Olympian Cæsar! Who wouldNot guard dear life at cost of Roman blood;And ere—too soon—he parts, will choose an heirOf skill divine the ship of State to steerClear of the breakers; Kind and keen to knowHis fellow Romans, with the rush and flow,The genius for sovereignty; their fateTo be Earth’s lords, and Earth’s to stand and wait!Let others wile the furnace with its heatTo warm the heart within the bronze to beat,Cunningly lift th’ imprisoning stone away,And lead nymphs forth to blush in rosy day;Dissemble truth with nimble tongues; and callStars by their names; tell when they rise and fall.Others Rome’s Arts;—To speak her mistress will:Fight if it please her; bid the world keep still!See that her vassals nowhere suffer wrong;—Make Pride her Right; be Valiant, and be Strong!”Death, and her brother, Sleep, rule side by sideRealms that shadowy boundaries divide,Yet none can cross but through gates twain; and theseAre in the charge of Death, who keeps the keys.Now and again a Spirit will repairFor love or hate back to the upper air,To commune with Spirit, so far as wholeCan become two parts, Soul be just a Soul.Of dull, dun horn the gate such use; hard byGleams the other, perfect of ivory.Thence from the Under-world Imps float aboveFreaks that in spite or idlesse they have wove,To raid and wilder slumber, let it closeMen’s eyes, and cheat their senses of repose.Anchises, for whom Space and Time were nought,Had through the gate of horn Æneas soughtBy night on the Etruscan sea; he nowWith last words, and many a longing vowOf love, confessed his child was due to part—Though truer no Son, kinder no Sire’s heart—By the ivory door; the horn gate stoodFast locked and sealed against all flesh and blood.Though soul there—a thistle-down Man, wind-tostWith life; a night-mare; less real than a ghost!
A land for joyance made; blest for the blest;Happy in being chosen for their rest;For nowhere greener lawns, more bow’ry gladesInviting into more reposeful shadesOf arched romantic groves, with, ev’rywhere,Steeped in a purple glow, a larger airThan Earth’s; for the lower world owes no debtTo sun or stars with which our skies are set;It has them of its own, as real as ours.Real too its grass, the fragrance of its flow’rs;Real they to Spirit as to them It seems,Though for mortals unsubstantial as are dreams.On turf or yellow sand some test the skill,That earned them fame in life; and is theirs still.The woods are full of revellers, who beatTime to gay dancers and their flying feet;Or banqueting sit, garlanded with bays,Singing in chorus legends of old days;While others proud of battle-fields afarConduct a mimic spectacle of war;Spears waiting to be snatched, and the broad shieldTo be slung, chargers harnessed for the field;—Shadows to terrestrial men, who callEarthly things real, when shadows most of all;—Shadows these of the busy lives they ledOn earth, which pursue them now they are dead;Nought palpable, unless that through a groveEridanus rolls to the world above.Here ignorantly happy dwell in joyPrinces like Dardanus who founded Troy;With Teucer father of a royal race,Gallant as noble, and most fair of face;Ilus, Assaracus, of blood divine,Through whom Æneas proudly traced his line.Here stood showing glorious wounds a bandOf heroes fall’n to save its native land;Though other arts could equal entrance gain,—To give life charm, or steal a pang from pain.Priests too, who as they at the altar stoodOffered pure lives as well as victims’ blood:And seers, who ne’er falsified Heav’n’s truth,But spoke as they heard from Apollo’s mouth:—A various tribe, yet all alike in this,That, having served, they have deserved their bliss.The Maid led where the white-filleted throngWas thickest; for Musæus’s the song,Responsive to the lyre’s seven sweet chords,That vied with all the magic of the words.High he by head and shoulders o’er the ringAround. The Sibyl, when he ceased to sing,Besought him of his courtesy to tellWhere might Anchises in that blest land dwell;Their search for him had many labours cost;Dread sights been seen, perilous rivers crossed;Their grace was brief, they must not longer bide;How, clogged with flesh, find him without a guide?Quick answer made the sage: “We count no homeAs you on earth; wheresoever we roamAt home are we; for our repose at noon,Or eve, no couch can equal with its downA meadow bank, that rills unfailing heapWith flow’rs wooing irresistible sleep.But flesh and blood aye move the heart and will,And ye are here their purpose to fulfil;So, follow me beyond this hanging peak,And I will point your path to him you seek.”Under his lead they climbed the height, and thenceDown into a wide, smiling champaign, whenceOpened a wooded valley: in a gladeAnchises stood, and deep in thought surveyedA host of hurrying Shades. As he gazed,He heard steps, his Son’s!Eagerly he raised,Both hands, while eyes and heart joined in the burstOf love and joy; each struggling to be firstIts welcome to express: “Dearest! at lastI see Thee; at what cost of perils passed!Yet never feared I that the utmost pow’rsOf Earth and Hell could bar a love like oursFrom meeting, as in old times, face to face,In full converse, however brief the space.With trust undoubting traced I to its goalThy devious course; for well I knew thy soul;Each stage I numbered; tempests on what seas;Unfriendly lands; kindnesses worse than these!”“And could’st Thou,” cried Æneas “more repine,Missing my presence than I longed for thine?Thy image warned me on the island shore,To ask thy counsels, as, on earth, of yore,So, I am here! Once more to feel thy heartBeating to my own!—Nay; my Father, why,When I would clasp hands, kiss thy face, denyThe embrace I dared Hell’s alarms to gain?”Of no avail his prayers, tears; all vain;Thrice in his arms the image melted away—As flutter of breeze; dream at break of day.Near where Anchises and Æneas stoodShades swarmed, dense, ever denser, in a woodWhich rustled all its bushes with the press—As of a migrant nation numberless—Of Spirits emulous to be the firstTo reach grey Lethe’s edge, and quench their thirst——Thus, in languorous stillness of noontide,Sudden the slumb’rous calm is swept asideBy an inrush of bees; in wild descent,Like pirates from the main, on nothing bentBut spoil they seem; yet each has its own flow’r,To which sure instinct guides it hour by hour,—Æneas saw the haste, knew not th’ excuse;For him it seemed to be Hell broken loose.Even when he heard the marvellous taleThat the myriads gathered in that valeWere no unwilling, mourning outcasts there,Condemned to breathe once more the upper air,But after their secular repose full fainFlesh to resume, links in an endless chain,The world-worn hero shuddered none the lessIt might be his to count it happinessTo exchange the peace of the myrtle groveFor stark sunshine and gross body above;To be of those whom Lethe should wash clearOf all they once had been, and all they were:—That Elysium’s a waiting-room for life;Life a dust-heap for trials, failures, strifeThat men are Shadows all, expecting doom,Whether flesh, or to shift it in a tomb.“Forbear,” replied Anchises, old and wise,“To measure laws of Fate by earthly eyes.From the beginning of the sky and land,The stars where once the Titans held command,The sun and moon that share the day and night,Air’s liquid fields;—all owe their charm and lightTo eternal Spirit. That feeds the whole,Breathes into bodies, lifeless else, a soul.Mankind and beasts, winged Things, and monster strange,That ’neath the level plains of Ocean range,Draw hence their fire, the instinct of a birthElsewhere;—alas! for the burdensome bulkOf limbs diseased, and joints that creak and sulkFor the foul lusts they stir, the scares, affrights,The cowardly griefs, and as vain delights,The Dark through which flesh stumbles, halt and blindThe dungeon where it keeps shut close the Mind,Lest at one breath of air it should in scornOf earth fly back to Heaven where ’twas born.Meanwhile an evil partnership for both!—Spirit incorporate, however lothTo be associate with sores and blains,Vice’s parasites, must bear fleshly painsTo be cleansed; for death is itself no cure;Body, Soul with it, share in the Impure.Some, carcasses, swing, split open, for breezeTo scour and wring, to bleach, and scorch, or freezeFor some a mill-stream whirls a crime about,Or a furnace roars a rich baseness out.Just the Judgment, every judgment true;Each of us bears no more than is his due;High as the merits of our kith and kin,None but himself can carry his own sin.Blest the sharp ordeal for the few who thencePass, not in sheer spiritual innocence,But in no worse than such affections dressedAs leave the pure celestial spark at rest,And free in these fair fields to dream awayAny chance taint surviving from earth’s clayTo dull the sereneness of the fire giv’nTo infants, that they may remember Heav’n.”“And now behold the final stage:—this rout,Its cycle—a thousand years—being out—Called by God’s Messenger of Life and Death,Descends where Lethe, in the cleft beneath,Will make it, drinking of the troubled flood,Conscious it once was clothed with flesh and blood.And yearn to take them back, and to returnRude air to breathe, and feel a rude sun burn.Nearer now draw with me, that from this bankThou mayest watch the comers rank by rank;Read, as I point, the future in each face;See, as I see, the glory of our race—Great as it was, and greater still to be,Graft on Troy’s stock, the bud of Italy.Mark him who leans upon a bloodless spear;’Tis thy own son; but look upon him here;On earth Thou wilt not; for, when thy long lifeIs all but spent, Lavinia thy WifeShall conceive a child, and in full time bearSilvius in the woods to be thy heir;King of Alba, like many of his line,As Procas and Æneas, namesake thine.And still kings come—I cannot number them,Each adding to old a fresh diadem!But stay! who advances crested like to Mars—For whom Jove keeps a place among the stars?Romulus—City maker? Tenfold more!From him Earth’s arbiter, matchless in war,With no limits to empire but the Pole,And none below Olympus to the soul!——As Joys Cybele to have peopled Heav’n,Rome boasts a breed to which Earth is giv’n!Turn thy eyes; regard this Company; knowWhat a full tide of grandeur is to flowHence of thy name; how from Thyself, and fromIulus, in time shall Julius come,And one as great, long destined to be bornBy Fate’s decree—else were Fate’s self forsworn—That, where King Saturn reigned in days of yore,Augustus shall the Golden Age restore.Marches still; already his edicts swayWhere our day is night, and our night is day;Among the Gætuli; beyond them; farOutside the orbit, light, of any star;Outside track of Sun and dancing Hours, whereAtlas swings the world’s axis, with its gear.Rumours of his approaching overwhelmQuaking Mæotis and the Caspian realm;While sevenfold Nile offers fealty,Trembling for what the Master shall decree.Have we not heard in legends or romanceHow God or Hero has made his advance,Victor throughout Earth?—Of him who laid lowLerna’s fire-breathing Dragon with his bow,Shot the brazen-footed Hind, and stilled the roarIn Arcady of Erymanthian boar!—Of Bacchus in tipsy triumph, a yokeOf spotted tigers in his chariot, brokeTo obey, for reins, tendrils of a vine—His Mænads leaping down the long inclineOf Nysa, wildly singing, their locks curledWith vine leaves, following to win a world?Yet what in tales of Gods and men can matchFor scorn of space, and ardour of despatch,Delight in braving peril, grasp of mind,Our Cæsar’s progress to the verge of Ind!Wilt, Son, in view of all thy future Rome,With her chiefs destined from thyself to come,And while ancestral fire of Troy burns highIn thy own veins, put off the hour to tryValour in act, and hesitate to proveThy right to lordship given Thee by Jove?”“Observe, as they pass by us, one by one,Those who will glorify thy Rome, my Son.Illegible to them, for us the wholeOf their careers is writ as on a scroll,See, the grey-bearded King, the Priest, the Sage,Of many years, though not bowed down with age,Whose laws devised to rule a petty townWill fit it when into an empire grown;Next, Tullus, warrior-prince, and Ancus, near,Boasting his wit to catch the popular ear:Then the proud Tarquins; and, of soul as proud,Brutus, grudging not Freedom his sons’ blood—Careless if fainter hearts, a feebler timeBrand a patriot’s sacrifice as crime!Ah! changes—leaps and bounds—so fast surpriseBrains, toned here to calm, that my aged eyesAre dazzled as forms pass, and then repass,And straight are lost—reflections in a glass.No smoother course for this, thy Rome to be,Than now, my Son, for Thee in Italy.A whirl of arms ere the fair land will deignTo grant thy offspring’s right divine to reign;An age-long wrestle; yet a rope of sandMakes a poor rival of an iron band.—Hide from my sight those lictors, and a Son!But they tell how Latium shall be won.—A will inflexible, a disciplineMaking a religion of a straight line,A consuming, passionate, red-hot forceNever prisoned in its volcanic source—Pride in the City of the Seven Hills—Will merge all other passions, heal all ills.These the fire inspired, that in fateful warGave Cossus and Jove arms of Tuscan Lar.Maligned and banned Camillus their first callBrought as through air to save Rome from the GaulFabricius taught the Epirot KingThus, that Rome wounded rises on the wing.From them Serranus learned the art to guideThe State, and victor o’er the billows rideAs straight as he his furrow erewhile ploughed.Regard these visages serene and proudTo do whate’er is Rome’s behest, contentTo go whithersoever they are sent.See, war’s twin thunderbolts, the Scipios,Their oracle Rome, their one mark her foes.See them to whom Achaia bows the head,With Macedon’s monarch in triumph led;—Avenging on Mycenæ, and the raceOf Atreus, on Achilles, the disgraceThey heaped upon Troy, and the outraged shrineOf Pallas, their own patroness Divine.Nor fail note that old man, heeding no jeer,No hint of blood slow and sluggish, e’en fear:Resolved throughout of one thing—ne’er, from hasteIn clutching popular applause, to wasteA chance on Fortune’s wheel for his Rome’s ShieldTo foil War’s cross-eyed Master in the field;And, near to him, in Britomart’s royal spoils,—Like a brave boar, trapped in a huntsman’s toils,Unconquerable else—the battle’s lord—Confess it, Gaul, Carthage, and Syracuse—Rome’s Sword!But who is this, Thou askest, in the prideOf arms and youth, advancing by his side?Thou mark’st the likeness; well might he be son:From the same stock he springs, a noble one.Strange, in the changeless calm of these blest grovesThe shadow of a brooding sorrow moves....Well might I weep, if Spirit could, the fateOf good as fair, and not more good than great.Earth will have but seen to lose him!Heaven,Wert thou jealous, lest, thinking him givenTo this our mighty Rome, not just on loan,But to live her life, be her very own,She would wax overweening? Yet the woeMust surely wake thy pity, when, below,Thou hear’st the wails numberless for such charmsBorne to their pyre upon the Field of Arms;And Thou, old Tiber, as thou flowest byThe tomb in which the loved One’s ashes lie,Wilt not forget how thou hast seen him playOft on thy banks young, beautiful, and gay.Never will hope be raised so high by boyBlending the blood of Latium and Troy;And, when shall our earth ever find againSuch loyalty and faith in living men—A right hand so approved in every art,On horse, or foot, to do a soldier’s part?I pity, praise, love!Arrest but the chainOf Fate; and lo! Marcellus come again!—Armfuls of lilies bring; for Soul as sweet!Spread crimson flow’rs, fit carpet for his feet!—Grief for a Shadow, from a Shadow grief;Yet Shadows find a Shadow of reliefFor boundless loss in Shadows e’en of grief!”“But now for the near future—I will showHow to surmount, and how to bear with, woe;Faint not, endure, and earn renown! On Earth,What, without store of fame, is living worth!Weigh not the toils and snares, that, I foresee,Impend, ere Thou shalt reign in Italy.Remember thy reward, the noble endTow’rds which thy trials and thy hardships tend.Teach a world-empire how its Founder bearsThe load of war, and, worse, intestine cares;For these must be, though I spare Thee the sightOf brothers against brothers armed for fight—Decii, Drusi, Gracchi—each House movedBy jealous passion for the Rome all loved.And when the All-Conquering shall have hurledHer legions to the confines of the world,Lo! Chiefs—allied by blood, and leagued to shareTwo continents between them—arm to tearTheir country’s entrails piecemeal! Baleful strife!Will not one victim serve—Great Cato’s life?Joy! God grants my prayer! There is brave steelOf double virtue, both to wound and heal;And of that heav’nly temper, Youth, is thine,Second founder of the Julian line!Hail to Olympian Cæsar! Who wouldNot guard dear life at cost of Roman blood;And ere—too soon—he parts, will choose an heirOf skill divine the ship of State to steerClear of the breakers; Kind and keen to knowHis fellow Romans, with the rush and flow,The genius for sovereignty; their fateTo be Earth’s lords, and Earth’s to stand and wait!Let others wile the furnace with its heatTo warm the heart within the bronze to beat,Cunningly lift th’ imprisoning stone away,And lead nymphs forth to blush in rosy day;Dissemble truth with nimble tongues; and callStars by their names; tell when they rise and fall.Others Rome’s Arts;—To speak her mistress will:Fight if it please her; bid the world keep still!See that her vassals nowhere suffer wrong;—Make Pride her Right; be Valiant, and be Strong!”Death, and her brother, Sleep, rule side by sideRealms that shadowy boundaries divide,Yet none can cross but through gates twain; and theseAre in the charge of Death, who keeps the keys.Now and again a Spirit will repairFor love or hate back to the upper air,To commune with Spirit, so far as wholeCan become two parts, Soul be just a Soul.Of dull, dun horn the gate such use; hard byGleams the other, perfect of ivory.Thence from the Under-world Imps float aboveFreaks that in spite or idlesse they have wove,To raid and wilder slumber, let it closeMen’s eyes, and cheat their senses of repose.Anchises, for whom Space and Time were nought,Had through the gate of horn Æneas soughtBy night on the Etruscan sea; he nowWith last words, and many a longing vowOf love, confessed his child was due to part—Though truer no Son, kinder no Sire’s heart—By the ivory door; the horn gate stoodFast locked and sealed against all flesh and blood.Though soul there—a thistle-down Man, wind-tostWith life; a night-mare; less real than a ghost!
A land for joyance made; blest for the blest;Happy in being chosen for their rest;For nowhere greener lawns, more bow’ry gladesInviting into more reposeful shadesOf arched romantic groves, with, ev’rywhere,Steeped in a purple glow, a larger airThan Earth’s; for the lower world owes no debtTo sun or stars with which our skies are set;It has them of its own, as real as ours.Real too its grass, the fragrance of its flow’rs;Real they to Spirit as to them It seems,Though for mortals unsubstantial as are dreams.On turf or yellow sand some test the skill,That earned them fame in life; and is theirs still.The woods are full of revellers, who beatTime to gay dancers and their flying feet;Or banqueting sit, garlanded with bays,Singing in chorus legends of old days;While others proud of battle-fields afarConduct a mimic spectacle of war;Spears waiting to be snatched, and the broad shieldTo be slung, chargers harnessed for the field;—Shadows to terrestrial men, who callEarthly things real, when shadows most of all;—Shadows these of the busy lives they ledOn earth, which pursue them now they are dead;Nought palpable, unless that through a groveEridanus rolls to the world above.Here ignorantly happy dwell in joyPrinces like Dardanus who founded Troy;With Teucer father of a royal race,Gallant as noble, and most fair of face;Ilus, Assaracus, of blood divine,Through whom Æneas proudly traced his line.Here stood showing glorious wounds a bandOf heroes fall’n to save its native land;Though other arts could equal entrance gain,—To give life charm, or steal a pang from pain.Priests too, who as they at the altar stoodOffered pure lives as well as victims’ blood:And seers, who ne’er falsified Heav’n’s truth,But spoke as they heard from Apollo’s mouth:—A various tribe, yet all alike in this,That, having served, they have deserved their bliss.The Maid led where the white-filleted throngWas thickest; for Musæus’s the song,Responsive to the lyre’s seven sweet chords,That vied with all the magic of the words.High he by head and shoulders o’er the ringAround. The Sibyl, when he ceased to sing,Besought him of his courtesy to tellWhere might Anchises in that blest land dwell;Their search for him had many labours cost;Dread sights been seen, perilous rivers crossed;Their grace was brief, they must not longer bide;How, clogged with flesh, find him without a guide?Quick answer made the sage: “We count no homeAs you on earth; wheresoever we roamAt home are we; for our repose at noon,Or eve, no couch can equal with its downA meadow bank, that rills unfailing heapWith flow’rs wooing irresistible sleep.But flesh and blood aye move the heart and will,And ye are here their purpose to fulfil;So, follow me beyond this hanging peak,And I will point your path to him you seek.”
A land for joyance made; blest for the blest;
Happy in being chosen for their rest;
For nowhere greener lawns, more bow’ry glades
Inviting into more reposeful shades
Of arched romantic groves, with, ev’rywhere,
Steeped in a purple glow, a larger air
Than Earth’s; for the lower world owes no debt
To sun or stars with which our skies are set;
It has them of its own, as real as ours.
Real too its grass, the fragrance of its flow’rs;
Real they to Spirit as to them It seems,
Though for mortals unsubstantial as are dreams.
On turf or yellow sand some test the skill,
That earned them fame in life; and is theirs still.
The woods are full of revellers, who beat
Time to gay dancers and their flying feet;
Or banqueting sit, garlanded with bays,
Singing in chorus legends of old days;
While others proud of battle-fields afar
Conduct a mimic spectacle of war;
Spears waiting to be snatched, and the broad shield
To be slung, chargers harnessed for the field;—
Shadows to terrestrial men, who call
Earthly things real, when shadows most of all;—
Shadows these of the busy lives they led
On earth, which pursue them now they are dead;
Nought palpable, unless that through a grove
Eridanus rolls to the world above.
Here ignorantly happy dwell in joy
Princes like Dardanus who founded Troy;
With Teucer father of a royal race,
Gallant as noble, and most fair of face;
Ilus, Assaracus, of blood divine,
Through whom Æneas proudly traced his line.
Here stood showing glorious wounds a band
Of heroes fall’n to save its native land;
Though other arts could equal entrance gain,—
To give life charm, or steal a pang from pain.
Priests too, who as they at the altar stood
Offered pure lives as well as victims’ blood:
And seers, who ne’er falsified Heav’n’s truth,
But spoke as they heard from Apollo’s mouth:—
A various tribe, yet all alike in this,
That, having served, they have deserved their bliss.
The Maid led where the white-filleted throng
Was thickest; for Musæus’s the song,
Responsive to the lyre’s seven sweet chords,
That vied with all the magic of the words.
High he by head and shoulders o’er the ring
Around. The Sibyl, when he ceased to sing,
Besought him of his courtesy to tell
Where might Anchises in that blest land dwell;
Their search for him had many labours cost;
Dread sights been seen, perilous rivers crossed;
Their grace was brief, they must not longer bide;
How, clogged with flesh, find him without a guide?
Quick answer made the sage: “We count no home
As you on earth; wheresoever we roam
At home are we; for our repose at noon,
Or eve, no couch can equal with its down
A meadow bank, that rills unfailing heap
With flow’rs wooing irresistible sleep.
But flesh and blood aye move the heart and will,
And ye are here their purpose to fulfil;
So, follow me beyond this hanging peak,
And I will point your path to him you seek.”
Under his lead they climbed the height, and thenceDown into a wide, smiling champaign, whenceOpened a wooded valley: in a gladeAnchises stood, and deep in thought surveyedA host of hurrying Shades. As he gazed,He heard steps, his Son’s!Eagerly he raised,Both hands, while eyes and heart joined in the burstOf love and joy; each struggling to be firstIts welcome to express: “Dearest! at lastI see Thee; at what cost of perils passed!Yet never feared I that the utmost pow’rsOf Earth and Hell could bar a love like oursFrom meeting, as in old times, face to face,In full converse, however brief the space.With trust undoubting traced I to its goalThy devious course; for well I knew thy soul;Each stage I numbered; tempests on what seas;Unfriendly lands; kindnesses worse than these!”“And could’st Thou,” cried Æneas “more repine,Missing my presence than I longed for thine?Thy image warned me on the island shore,To ask thy counsels, as, on earth, of yore,So, I am here! Once more to feel thy heartBeating to my own!—Nay; my Father, why,When I would clasp hands, kiss thy face, denyThe embrace I dared Hell’s alarms to gain?”Of no avail his prayers, tears; all vain;Thrice in his arms the image melted away—As flutter of breeze; dream at break of day.
Under his lead they climbed the height, and thence
Down into a wide, smiling champaign, whence
Opened a wooded valley: in a glade
Anchises stood, and deep in thought surveyed
A host of hurrying Shades. As he gazed,
He heard steps, his Son’s!
Eagerly he raised,
Both hands, while eyes and heart joined in the burst
Of love and joy; each struggling to be first
Its welcome to express: “Dearest! at last
I see Thee; at what cost of perils passed!
Yet never feared I that the utmost pow’rs
Of Earth and Hell could bar a love like ours
From meeting, as in old times, face to face,
In full converse, however brief the space.
With trust undoubting traced I to its goal
Thy devious course; for well I knew thy soul;
Each stage I numbered; tempests on what seas;
Unfriendly lands; kindnesses worse than these!”
“And could’st Thou,” cried Æneas “more repine,
Missing my presence than I longed for thine?
Thy image warned me on the island shore,
To ask thy counsels, as, on earth, of yore,
So, I am here! Once more to feel thy heart
Beating to my own!—
Nay; my Father, why,
When I would clasp hands, kiss thy face, deny
The embrace I dared Hell’s alarms to gain?”
Of no avail his prayers, tears; all vain;
Thrice in his arms the image melted away—
As flutter of breeze; dream at break of day.
Near where Anchises and Æneas stoodShades swarmed, dense, ever denser, in a woodWhich rustled all its bushes with the press—As of a migrant nation numberless—Of Spirits emulous to be the firstTo reach grey Lethe’s edge, and quench their thirst——Thus, in languorous stillness of noontide,Sudden the slumb’rous calm is swept asideBy an inrush of bees; in wild descent,Like pirates from the main, on nothing bentBut spoil they seem; yet each has its own flow’r,To which sure instinct guides it hour by hour,—Æneas saw the haste, knew not th’ excuse;For him it seemed to be Hell broken loose.Even when he heard the marvellous taleThat the myriads gathered in that valeWere no unwilling, mourning outcasts there,Condemned to breathe once more the upper air,But after their secular repose full fainFlesh to resume, links in an endless chain,The world-worn hero shuddered none the lessIt might be his to count it happinessTo exchange the peace of the myrtle groveFor stark sunshine and gross body above;To be of those whom Lethe should wash clearOf all they once had been, and all they were:—That Elysium’s a waiting-room for life;Life a dust-heap for trials, failures, strifeThat men are Shadows all, expecting doom,Whether flesh, or to shift it in a tomb.“Forbear,” replied Anchises, old and wise,“To measure laws of Fate by earthly eyes.From the beginning of the sky and land,The stars where once the Titans held command,The sun and moon that share the day and night,Air’s liquid fields;—all owe their charm and lightTo eternal Spirit. That feeds the whole,Breathes into bodies, lifeless else, a soul.Mankind and beasts, winged Things, and monster strange,That ’neath the level plains of Ocean range,Draw hence their fire, the instinct of a birthElsewhere;—alas! for the burdensome bulkOf limbs diseased, and joints that creak and sulkFor the foul lusts they stir, the scares, affrights,The cowardly griefs, and as vain delights,The Dark through which flesh stumbles, halt and blindThe dungeon where it keeps shut close the Mind,Lest at one breath of air it should in scornOf earth fly back to Heaven where ’twas born.Meanwhile an evil partnership for both!—Spirit incorporate, however lothTo be associate with sores and blains,Vice’s parasites, must bear fleshly painsTo be cleansed; for death is itself no cure;Body, Soul with it, share in the Impure.Some, carcasses, swing, split open, for breezeTo scour and wring, to bleach, and scorch, or freezeFor some a mill-stream whirls a crime about,Or a furnace roars a rich baseness out.Just the Judgment, every judgment true;Each of us bears no more than is his due;High as the merits of our kith and kin,None but himself can carry his own sin.Blest the sharp ordeal for the few who thencePass, not in sheer spiritual innocence,But in no worse than such affections dressedAs leave the pure celestial spark at rest,And free in these fair fields to dream awayAny chance taint surviving from earth’s clayTo dull the sereneness of the fire giv’nTo infants, that they may remember Heav’n.”
Near where Anchises and Æneas stood
Shades swarmed, dense, ever denser, in a wood
Which rustled all its bushes with the press—
As of a migrant nation numberless—
Of Spirits emulous to be the first
To reach grey Lethe’s edge, and quench their thirst—
—Thus, in languorous stillness of noontide,
Sudden the slumb’rous calm is swept aside
By an inrush of bees; in wild descent,
Like pirates from the main, on nothing bent
But spoil they seem; yet each has its own flow’r,
To which sure instinct guides it hour by hour,—
Æneas saw the haste, knew not th’ excuse;
For him it seemed to be Hell broken loose.
Even when he heard the marvellous tale
That the myriads gathered in that vale
Were no unwilling, mourning outcasts there,
Condemned to breathe once more the upper air,
But after their secular repose full fain
Flesh to resume, links in an endless chain,
The world-worn hero shuddered none the less
It might be his to count it happiness
To exchange the peace of the myrtle grove
For stark sunshine and gross body above;
To be of those whom Lethe should wash clear
Of all they once had been, and all they were:—
That Elysium’s a waiting-room for life;
Life a dust-heap for trials, failures, strife
That men are Shadows all, expecting doom,
Whether flesh, or to shift it in a tomb.
“Forbear,” replied Anchises, old and wise,
“To measure laws of Fate by earthly eyes.
From the beginning of the sky and land,
The stars where once the Titans held command,
The sun and moon that share the day and night,
Air’s liquid fields;—all owe their charm and light
To eternal Spirit. That feeds the whole,
Breathes into bodies, lifeless else, a soul.
Mankind and beasts, winged Things, and monster strange,
That ’neath the level plains of Ocean range,
Draw hence their fire, the instinct of a birth
Elsewhere;—alas! for the burdensome bulk
Of limbs diseased, and joints that creak and sulk
For the foul lusts they stir, the scares, affrights,
The cowardly griefs, and as vain delights,
The Dark through which flesh stumbles, halt and blind
The dungeon where it keeps shut close the Mind,
Lest at one breath of air it should in scorn
Of earth fly back to Heaven where ’twas born.
Meanwhile an evil partnership for both!—
Spirit incorporate, however loth
To be associate with sores and blains,
Vice’s parasites, must bear fleshly pains
To be cleansed; for death is itself no cure;
Body, Soul with it, share in the Impure.
Some, carcasses, swing, split open, for breeze
To scour and wring, to bleach, and scorch, or freeze
For some a mill-stream whirls a crime about,
Or a furnace roars a rich baseness out.
Just the Judgment, every judgment true;
Each of us bears no more than is his due;
High as the merits of our kith and kin,
None but himself can carry his own sin.
Blest the sharp ordeal for the few who thence
Pass, not in sheer spiritual innocence,
But in no worse than such affections dressed
As leave the pure celestial spark at rest,
And free in these fair fields to dream away
Any chance taint surviving from earth’s clay
To dull the sereneness of the fire giv’n
To infants, that they may remember Heav’n.”
“And now behold the final stage:—this rout,Its cycle—a thousand years—being out—Called by God’s Messenger of Life and Death,Descends where Lethe, in the cleft beneath,Will make it, drinking of the troubled flood,Conscious it once was clothed with flesh and blood.And yearn to take them back, and to returnRude air to breathe, and feel a rude sun burn.Nearer now draw with me, that from this bankThou mayest watch the comers rank by rank;Read, as I point, the future in each face;See, as I see, the glory of our race—Great as it was, and greater still to be,Graft on Troy’s stock, the bud of Italy.Mark him who leans upon a bloodless spear;’Tis thy own son; but look upon him here;On earth Thou wilt not; for, when thy long lifeIs all but spent, Lavinia thy WifeShall conceive a child, and in full time bearSilvius in the woods to be thy heir;King of Alba, like many of his line,As Procas and Æneas, namesake thine.And still kings come—I cannot number them,Each adding to old a fresh diadem!But stay! who advances crested like to Mars—For whom Jove keeps a place among the stars?Romulus—City maker? Tenfold more!From him Earth’s arbiter, matchless in war,With no limits to empire but the Pole,And none below Olympus to the soul!——As Joys Cybele to have peopled Heav’n,Rome boasts a breed to which Earth is giv’n!Turn thy eyes; regard this Company; knowWhat a full tide of grandeur is to flowHence of thy name; how from Thyself, and fromIulus, in time shall Julius come,And one as great, long destined to be bornBy Fate’s decree—else were Fate’s self forsworn—That, where King Saturn reigned in days of yore,Augustus shall the Golden Age restore.Marches still; already his edicts swayWhere our day is night, and our night is day;Among the Gætuli; beyond them; farOutside the orbit, light, of any star;Outside track of Sun and dancing Hours, whereAtlas swings the world’s axis, with its gear.Rumours of his approaching overwhelmQuaking Mæotis and the Caspian realm;While sevenfold Nile offers fealty,Trembling for what the Master shall decree.Have we not heard in legends or romanceHow God or Hero has made his advance,Victor throughout Earth?—Of him who laid lowLerna’s fire-breathing Dragon with his bow,Shot the brazen-footed Hind, and stilled the roarIn Arcady of Erymanthian boar!—Of Bacchus in tipsy triumph, a yokeOf spotted tigers in his chariot, brokeTo obey, for reins, tendrils of a vine—His Mænads leaping down the long inclineOf Nysa, wildly singing, their locks curledWith vine leaves, following to win a world?Yet what in tales of Gods and men can matchFor scorn of space, and ardour of despatch,Delight in braving peril, grasp of mind,Our Cæsar’s progress to the verge of Ind!Wilt, Son, in view of all thy future Rome,With her chiefs destined from thyself to come,And while ancestral fire of Troy burns highIn thy own veins, put off the hour to tryValour in act, and hesitate to proveThy right to lordship given Thee by Jove?”
“And now behold the final stage:—
this rout,
Its cycle—a thousand years—being out—
Called by God’s Messenger of Life and Death,
Descends where Lethe, in the cleft beneath,
Will make it, drinking of the troubled flood,
Conscious it once was clothed with flesh and blood.
And yearn to take them back, and to return
Rude air to breathe, and feel a rude sun burn.
Nearer now draw with me, that from this bank
Thou mayest watch the comers rank by rank;
Read, as I point, the future in each face;
See, as I see, the glory of our race—
Great as it was, and greater still to be,
Graft on Troy’s stock, the bud of Italy.
Mark him who leans upon a bloodless spear;
’Tis thy own son; but look upon him here;
On earth Thou wilt not; for, when thy long life
Is all but spent, Lavinia thy Wife
Shall conceive a child, and in full time bear
Silvius in the woods to be thy heir;
King of Alba, like many of his line,
As Procas and Æneas, namesake thine.
And still kings come—I cannot number them,
Each adding to old a fresh diadem!
But stay! who advances crested like to Mars—
For whom Jove keeps a place among the stars?
Romulus—City maker? Tenfold more!
From him Earth’s arbiter, matchless in war,
With no limits to empire but the Pole,
And none below Olympus to the soul!—
—As Joys Cybele to have peopled Heav’n,
Rome boasts a breed to which Earth is giv’n!
Turn thy eyes; regard this Company; know
What a full tide of grandeur is to flow
Hence of thy name; how from Thyself, and from
Iulus, in time shall Julius come,
And one as great, long destined to be born
By Fate’s decree—else were Fate’s self forsworn—
That, where King Saturn reigned in days of yore,
Augustus shall the Golden Age restore.
Marches still; already his edicts sway
Where our day is night, and our night is day;
Among the Gætuli; beyond them; far
Outside the orbit, light, of any star;
Outside track of Sun and dancing Hours, where
Atlas swings the world’s axis, with its gear.
Rumours of his approaching overwhelm
Quaking Mæotis and the Caspian realm;
While sevenfold Nile offers fealty,
Trembling for what the Master shall decree.
Have we not heard in legends or romance
How God or Hero has made his advance,
Victor throughout Earth?—
Of him who laid low
Lerna’s fire-breathing Dragon with his bow,
Shot the brazen-footed Hind, and stilled the roar
In Arcady of Erymanthian boar!—
Of Bacchus in tipsy triumph, a yoke
Of spotted tigers in his chariot, broke
To obey, for reins, tendrils of a vine—
His Mænads leaping down the long incline
Of Nysa, wildly singing, their locks curled
With vine leaves, following to win a world?
Yet what in tales of Gods and men can match
For scorn of space, and ardour of despatch,
Delight in braving peril, grasp of mind,
Our Cæsar’s progress to the verge of Ind!
Wilt, Son, in view of all thy future Rome,
With her chiefs destined from thyself to come,
And while ancestral fire of Troy burns high
In thy own veins, put off the hour to try
Valour in act, and hesitate to prove
Thy right to lordship given Thee by Jove?”
“Observe, as they pass by us, one by one,Those who will glorify thy Rome, my Son.Illegible to them, for us the wholeOf their careers is writ as on a scroll,See, the grey-bearded King, the Priest, the Sage,Of many years, though not bowed down with age,Whose laws devised to rule a petty townWill fit it when into an empire grown;Next, Tullus, warrior-prince, and Ancus, near,Boasting his wit to catch the popular ear:Then the proud Tarquins; and, of soul as proud,Brutus, grudging not Freedom his sons’ blood—Careless if fainter hearts, a feebler timeBrand a patriot’s sacrifice as crime!Ah! changes—leaps and bounds—so fast surpriseBrains, toned here to calm, that my aged eyesAre dazzled as forms pass, and then repass,And straight are lost—reflections in a glass.No smoother course for this, thy Rome to be,Than now, my Son, for Thee in Italy.A whirl of arms ere the fair land will deignTo grant thy offspring’s right divine to reign;An age-long wrestle; yet a rope of sandMakes a poor rival of an iron band.—Hide from my sight those lictors, and a Son!But they tell how Latium shall be won.—A will inflexible, a disciplineMaking a religion of a straight line,A consuming, passionate, red-hot forceNever prisoned in its volcanic source—Pride in the City of the Seven Hills—Will merge all other passions, heal all ills.These the fire inspired, that in fateful warGave Cossus and Jove arms of Tuscan Lar.Maligned and banned Camillus their first callBrought as through air to save Rome from the GaulFabricius taught the Epirot KingThus, that Rome wounded rises on the wing.From them Serranus learned the art to guideThe State, and victor o’er the billows rideAs straight as he his furrow erewhile ploughed.Regard these visages serene and proudTo do whate’er is Rome’s behest, contentTo go whithersoever they are sent.See, war’s twin thunderbolts, the Scipios,Their oracle Rome, their one mark her foes.See them to whom Achaia bows the head,With Macedon’s monarch in triumph led;—Avenging on Mycenæ, and the raceOf Atreus, on Achilles, the disgraceThey heaped upon Troy, and the outraged shrineOf Pallas, their own patroness Divine.Nor fail note that old man, heeding no jeer,No hint of blood slow and sluggish, e’en fear:Resolved throughout of one thing—ne’er, from hasteIn clutching popular applause, to wasteA chance on Fortune’s wheel for his Rome’s ShieldTo foil War’s cross-eyed Master in the field;And, near to him, in Britomart’s royal spoils,—Like a brave boar, trapped in a huntsman’s toils,Unconquerable else—the battle’s lord—Confess it, Gaul, Carthage, and Syracuse—Rome’s Sword!But who is this, Thou askest, in the prideOf arms and youth, advancing by his side?Thou mark’st the likeness; well might he be son:From the same stock he springs, a noble one.Strange, in the changeless calm of these blest grovesThe shadow of a brooding sorrow moves....Well might I weep, if Spirit could, the fateOf good as fair, and not more good than great.Earth will have but seen to lose him!Heaven,Wert thou jealous, lest, thinking him givenTo this our mighty Rome, not just on loan,But to live her life, be her very own,She would wax overweening? Yet the woeMust surely wake thy pity, when, below,Thou hear’st the wails numberless for such charmsBorne to their pyre upon the Field of Arms;And Thou, old Tiber, as thou flowest byThe tomb in which the loved One’s ashes lie,Wilt not forget how thou hast seen him playOft on thy banks young, beautiful, and gay.Never will hope be raised so high by boyBlending the blood of Latium and Troy;And, when shall our earth ever find againSuch loyalty and faith in living men—A right hand so approved in every art,On horse, or foot, to do a soldier’s part?I pity, praise, love!Arrest but the chainOf Fate; and lo! Marcellus come again!—Armfuls of lilies bring; for Soul as sweet!Spread crimson flow’rs, fit carpet for his feet!—Grief for a Shadow, from a Shadow grief;Yet Shadows find a Shadow of reliefFor boundless loss in Shadows e’en of grief!”
“Observe, as they pass by us, one by one,
Those who will glorify thy Rome, my Son.
Illegible to them, for us the whole
Of their careers is writ as on a scroll,
See, the grey-bearded King, the Priest, the Sage,
Of many years, though not bowed down with age,
Whose laws devised to rule a petty town
Will fit it when into an empire grown;
Next, Tullus, warrior-prince, and Ancus, near,
Boasting his wit to catch the popular ear:
Then the proud Tarquins; and, of soul as proud,
Brutus, grudging not Freedom his sons’ blood—
Careless if fainter hearts, a feebler time
Brand a patriot’s sacrifice as crime!
Ah! changes—leaps and bounds—so fast surprise
Brains, toned here to calm, that my aged eyes
Are dazzled as forms pass, and then repass,
And straight are lost—reflections in a glass.
No smoother course for this, thy Rome to be,
Than now, my Son, for Thee in Italy.
A whirl of arms ere the fair land will deign
To grant thy offspring’s right divine to reign;
An age-long wrestle; yet a rope of sand
Makes a poor rival of an iron band.—
Hide from my sight those lictors, and a Son!
But they tell how Latium shall be won.—
A will inflexible, a discipline
Making a religion of a straight line,
A consuming, passionate, red-hot force
Never prisoned in its volcanic source—
Pride in the City of the Seven Hills—
Will merge all other passions, heal all ills.
These the fire inspired, that in fateful war
Gave Cossus and Jove arms of Tuscan Lar.
Maligned and banned Camillus their first call
Brought as through air to save Rome from the Gaul
Fabricius taught the Epirot King
Thus, that Rome wounded rises on the wing.
From them Serranus learned the art to guide
The State, and victor o’er the billows ride
As straight as he his furrow erewhile ploughed.
Regard these visages serene and proud
To do whate’er is Rome’s behest, content
To go whithersoever they are sent.
See, war’s twin thunderbolts, the Scipios,
Their oracle Rome, their one mark her foes.
See them to whom Achaia bows the head,
With Macedon’s monarch in triumph led;—
Avenging on Mycenæ, and the race
Of Atreus, on Achilles, the disgrace
They heaped upon Troy, and the outraged shrine
Of Pallas, their own patroness Divine.
Nor fail note that old man, heeding no jeer,
No hint of blood slow and sluggish, e’en fear:
Resolved throughout of one thing—ne’er, from haste
In clutching popular applause, to waste
A chance on Fortune’s wheel for his Rome’s Shield
To foil War’s cross-eyed Master in the field;
And, near to him, in Britomart’s royal spoils,—
Like a brave boar, trapped in a huntsman’s toils,
Unconquerable else—the battle’s lord—
Confess it, Gaul, Carthage, and Syracuse—Rome’s Sword!
But who is this, Thou askest, in the pride
Of arms and youth, advancing by his side?
Thou mark’st the likeness; well might he be son:
From the same stock he springs, a noble one.
Strange, in the changeless calm of these blest groves
The shadow of a brooding sorrow moves....
Well might I weep, if Spirit could, the fate
Of good as fair, and not more good than great.
Earth will have but seen to lose him!
Heaven,
Wert thou jealous, lest, thinking him given
To this our mighty Rome, not just on loan,
But to live her life, be her very own,
She would wax overweening? Yet the woe
Must surely wake thy pity, when, below,
Thou hear’st the wails numberless for such charms
Borne to their pyre upon the Field of Arms;
And Thou, old Tiber, as thou flowest by
The tomb in which the loved One’s ashes lie,
Wilt not forget how thou hast seen him play
Oft on thy banks young, beautiful, and gay.
Never will hope be raised so high by boy
Blending the blood of Latium and Troy;
And, when shall our earth ever find again
Such loyalty and faith in living men—
A right hand so approved in every art,
On horse, or foot, to do a soldier’s part?
I pity, praise, love!
Arrest but the chain
Of Fate; and lo! Marcellus come again!
—Armfuls of lilies bring; for Soul as sweet!
Spread crimson flow’rs, fit carpet for his feet!
—Grief for a Shadow, from a Shadow grief;
Yet Shadows find a Shadow of relief
For boundless loss in Shadows e’en of grief!”
“But now for the near future—I will showHow to surmount, and how to bear with, woe;Faint not, endure, and earn renown! On Earth,What, without store of fame, is living worth!Weigh not the toils and snares, that, I foresee,Impend, ere Thou shalt reign in Italy.Remember thy reward, the noble endTow’rds which thy trials and thy hardships tend.Teach a world-empire how its Founder bearsThe load of war, and, worse, intestine cares;For these must be, though I spare Thee the sightOf brothers against brothers armed for fight—Decii, Drusi, Gracchi—each House movedBy jealous passion for the Rome all loved.And when the All-Conquering shall have hurledHer legions to the confines of the world,Lo! Chiefs—allied by blood, and leagued to shareTwo continents between them—arm to tearTheir country’s entrails piecemeal! Baleful strife!Will not one victim serve—Great Cato’s life?Joy! God grants my prayer! There is brave steelOf double virtue, both to wound and heal;And of that heav’nly temper, Youth, is thine,Second founder of the Julian line!Hail to Olympian Cæsar! Who wouldNot guard dear life at cost of Roman blood;And ere—too soon—he parts, will choose an heirOf skill divine the ship of State to steerClear of the breakers; Kind and keen to knowHis fellow Romans, with the rush and flow,The genius for sovereignty; their fateTo be Earth’s lords, and Earth’s to stand and wait!Let others wile the furnace with its heatTo warm the heart within the bronze to beat,Cunningly lift th’ imprisoning stone away,And lead nymphs forth to blush in rosy day;Dissemble truth with nimble tongues; and callStars by their names; tell when they rise and fall.Others Rome’s Arts;—To speak her mistress will:Fight if it please her; bid the world keep still!See that her vassals nowhere suffer wrong;—Make Pride her Right; be Valiant, and be Strong!”
“But now for the near future—I will show
How to surmount, and how to bear with, woe;
Faint not, endure, and earn renown! On Earth,
What, without store of fame, is living worth!
Weigh not the toils and snares, that, I foresee,
Impend, ere Thou shalt reign in Italy.
Remember thy reward, the noble end
Tow’rds which thy trials and thy hardships tend.
Teach a world-empire how its Founder bears
The load of war, and, worse, intestine cares;
For these must be, though I spare Thee the sight
Of brothers against brothers armed for fight—
Decii, Drusi, Gracchi—each House moved
By jealous passion for the Rome all loved.
And when the All-Conquering shall have hurled
Her legions to the confines of the world,
Lo! Chiefs—allied by blood, and leagued to share
Two continents between them—arm to tear
Their country’s entrails piecemeal! Baleful strife!
Will not one victim serve—Great Cato’s life?
Joy! God grants my prayer! There is brave steel
Of double virtue, both to wound and heal;
And of that heav’nly temper, Youth, is thine,
Second founder of the Julian line!
Hail to Olympian Cæsar! Who would
Not guard dear life at cost of Roman blood;
And ere—too soon—he parts, will choose an heir
Of skill divine the ship of State to steer
Clear of the breakers; Kind and keen to know
His fellow Romans, with the rush and flow,
The genius for sovereignty; their fate
To be Earth’s lords, and Earth’s to stand and wait!
Let others wile the furnace with its heat
To warm the heart within the bronze to beat,
Cunningly lift th’ imprisoning stone away,
And lead nymphs forth to blush in rosy day;
Dissemble truth with nimble tongues; and call
Stars by their names; tell when they rise and fall.
Others Rome’s Arts;—
To speak her mistress will:
Fight if it please her; bid the world keep still!
See that her vassals nowhere suffer wrong;
—Make Pride her Right; be Valiant, and be Strong!”
Death, and her brother, Sleep, rule side by sideRealms that shadowy boundaries divide,Yet none can cross but through gates twain; and theseAre in the charge of Death, who keeps the keys.Now and again a Spirit will repairFor love or hate back to the upper air,To commune with Spirit, so far as wholeCan become two parts, Soul be just a Soul.Of dull, dun horn the gate such use; hard byGleams the other, perfect of ivory.Thence from the Under-world Imps float aboveFreaks that in spite or idlesse they have wove,To raid and wilder slumber, let it closeMen’s eyes, and cheat their senses of repose.Anchises, for whom Space and Time were nought,Had through the gate of horn Æneas soughtBy night on the Etruscan sea; he nowWith last words, and many a longing vowOf love, confessed his child was due to part—Though truer no Son, kinder no Sire’s heart—By the ivory door; the horn gate stoodFast locked and sealed against all flesh and blood.Though soul there—a thistle-down Man, wind-tostWith life; a night-mare; less real than a ghost!
Death, and her brother, Sleep, rule side by side
Realms that shadowy boundaries divide,
Yet none can cross but through gates twain; and these
Are in the charge of Death, who keeps the keys.
Now and again a Spirit will repair
For love or hate back to the upper air,
To commune with Spirit, so far as whole
Can become two parts, Soul be just a Soul.
Of dull, dun horn the gate such use; hard by
Gleams the other, perfect of ivory.
Thence from the Under-world Imps float above
Freaks that in spite or idlesse they have wove,
To raid and wilder slumber, let it close
Men’s eyes, and cheat their senses of repose.
Anchises, for whom Space and Time were nought,
Had through the gate of horn Æneas sought
By night on the Etruscan sea; he now
With last words, and many a longing vow
Of love, confessed his child was due to part—
Though truer no Son, kinder no Sire’s heart—
By the ivory door; the horn gate stood
Fast locked and sealed against all flesh and blood.
Though soul there—a thistle-down Man, wind-tost
With life; a night-mare; less real than a ghost!