The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Saint Pancratius was born in Phrygia, and after the death of his parents abode with his grandfather in an ancient house outside Rome. The Diocletian persecution raging at that time, Pope Cornelius with many of the Faithful lay concealed in a catacomb, and converted to the Faith first the youth, and afterwards his grandfather. Pancratius, then fourteen years of age, was dragged before Diocletian, who required him to sacrifice to the gods. The youth scorned that command, denouncing the pagan gods. He died with great gladness outside the city wall, and Concavilla, the wife of a Roman senator, interred his body honourably nigh to the Aurelian Gate, which, having been later dedicated to the Saint, is still called the Gate of Saint Pancratius.

The child Pancratius, blithesome as a bird,
Glorious of countenance and of heart undaunted
Abode in Phrygia. He had never heard
His ancient race by friend or minstrel vaunted:
How 'scaped he flattery?—thus: though great at Rome,
His sire had lived since youth remote from home.

That sire, Cledonius, had no heart for things
Whereof the dull and brainless make their boast,
Huge halls with tapestries hung, the gift of kings,
The unceasing revel and the menial host:
‘Here,’ said he, ‘all is base: I seek some clime
By genius graced, or hallowed by old time.’

He sailed to Athens; beauteous as a dream
Her fortress-steep and temples met his eye,
Ilyssus, and Colonos, Academe:
Eastward he passed; great Sunium's sea-cliff nigh,
He hailed that fane world-famous; from its steep
Revered its reflex in the violet deep.

In turn he visited the Cyclades;
At Delos slumbered 'neath the laurel shade;
Coasted the Asian shores; where'er the breeze
At random wafted him his dwelling made,
Headed the natives both in sports and jars;
Now judged the prize; now led them in their wars.

His was a soaring yet a careless nature,
Winged with high impulse, scant in self-control:
Nature he loved in every form and feature,
And Art, when Art expressed or strength or soul;
Loved battles most, and still, whate'er betide,
Sustained the juster, spurned the ignobler side.

One morn, sole wandering in a Phrygian wood,
He met the loveliest lady of that land
With maidens girt. At once her grace he sued
And from the King, her father, won her hand,
Quelling his foes. Within that realm in joy
They dwelt; and there she bore her lord a boy.

The years went by, and each endeared yet more
The growing youth to those who knew him well;
He joyed to tame the horse, to chase the boar;
Foremost he raced o'er Taurus, crag and fell,
Farthest his arrow launched, spake truth, and clave
Swiftliest, where Iris seaward swept, the wave.

One morn his father took him by the hand:
‘My son,’ he said, ‘should ill befall thy sire,
Weep not o'er-long, but reverence his command:
Thy mother guard; with her to Rome retire:
There dwells thy grandsire, now grown old and grey;
I owe to him a debt which thou must pay.

‘I left him though I loved: not anywhere
Found I that prize I sought o'er all the earth:
What if I lost it, leaving Rome? When there
Seek it thou too! In fanes—by home or hearth—
It dwells no more. Perhaps deep underground
With Rome's old Sibyl it may yet be found!

‘Rome is thy place of duty: work her good!
Toil for her future, mindful of her past:
I left her, seeking Truth. O son, I would
Some God would make it man's; for Truth will last.
I sought her for her freedom, brightness, beauty:
Perchance they find her best who seek but in duty.

‘I sought her long: not less myself I sought—
Well, well! It needs more leisure to repent
Than war-fields grant. Meantime, as parents ought,
I tag with counsel my last testament:
Fear none: the true man help: the false man fight;
And keep the old house, not proud, yet weather-tight.’

A trumpet-blast rang out: upon his horse
The brave man vaulted: from a trivial fray
Ere two hours passed they bore him back a corse:
The wife, the mother, met them on their way:
She raised her hand: they laid him down: wide-eyed
She gazed; upon his breast she sank, and died.

A month went by; three miles from Rome, and more,
A stately mansion shrouded in a wood
Caught on its roofs the sunset. At its door
Beauteous but weather-worn a stripling stood:
His form showed fourteen years at most: his mien
The bravest was, yet gentlest, ever seen.

A crowd of slaves in raiment rich but old
Led him through galleries long and many a room
Spacious yet dim with walls of rusty gold
To where his grandsire sat in twofold gloom,
Within, of velvet hangings stifling sound,
Of ilex woods without, and miles around.

The boy in reverence sank upon his knees
Craving a blessing. Soon was told his tale:
The old man listened mute; by slow degrees
He brightened like some hillside wan with hail
When sudden sunbeams flash from wintry skies:
And fires of days long dead were in his eyes.

‘'Tis well! A missive from my son late sent
Announced your coming. You are welcome, boy!
I had my wrongs, but now in part repent:
Your face is like your sire's; that gives me joy:
He might have lived the chiefest man in Rome:
Here you shall fill his place and find your home.

‘I was too silent once in grief; in wrath
Too loud. Your Father, boy, and I had words:
I held my own: the young man chose his path:
He passed o'er seas and lands like passage birds:
I mused in this old chair nor told my pain;
Yon terrace paced: the footprints still remain.’

Next morn the old man called from far and near
The slaves that served his house or delved his lands
And bade them in that youthful guest revere
Their future master. They with lifted hands
Shouted applause; then bowed their necks, and sware
True service to their lord and to his heir.

Day after day his grandsire gladdened more
Gazing upon that boy: with honest pride
He clothed him in the garb young nobles wore
When he himself was young, and bade him ride
His stubborn'st steed. ‘Who rules his horse,’ he said,
‘Shall find the rule of man an art inbred.’

He gave him best instructors, Romans each:
‘Read Varro, boy, read Ennius: these were ours;
Those gaudy scrolls from Hellas filched but teach
That fancy-lore which saps the manlier powers:
Our younger nobles scarcely know to speak:
They mar Rome's tongue with babblings from the Greek.’

That grandsire to the boy was teacher best,
For still his speech was not from books, but life,
Life of old days in liveliest pictures dressed,
Huge dangers, rapturous victories, ceaseless strife:
At times his speech dealt warning, seemed to chide
Some latent weakness in the boy descried.

‘A man must choose his friends; not less his foes;
Welcome rough truths; abhor a flatterer's praise:
He must not sail with every wind that blows,
Nor, vowed to virtue, walk in fortune's ways;
Nor seek contrarient Good. The knave that sues
God's lesser gifts His greater doth refuse.’

Oft of old days he spake: ‘The Gracchi first
Let loose dissension's plague; that plague to bind
The Empire rose: it laid a hand accursed
On high and low, the keen-eyed and the blind.
There History ends: Ixion's wheel rolls round—
So ours.’ Once more he spake with sigh profound!

‘That plague came earlier! Then when Carthage died
Her Conqueror, corse on corse, above her fell;
Scipio was prophet: loud and oft he cried,
“Your rival slain, your vices will rebel;
First pride; then civil strife; then sloth and greed:
Compared with such worst foe were friend at need.”

‘It proved so! Till that hour, survived that awe
True patriots feel, which, like the thought of death,
Confirms laws civil by religious law:
Carthage consumed, Rome breathed the emasculate breath
Of Eastern climes; Capuan she lived since then:
Cornelia was the last of Roman men.

‘The Gracchi too were men, scorned all things base,
Pitied the poor, the slave: they erred through zeal:
In time they might have won the conscript race:
They to the popular passions made appeal:
They ranged 'gainst Rome the nobles’ wrath and pride:
The last they might have lured to virtue's side.

‘The nobles with Pompeius fell; with them
Fell that republic theirs through virtuous might:
The Gods placed next the imperial diadem
On Cæsar's forehead. I deny their right!

My sentence here is Cato's —With the Gods,
Albeit religious, here I stand at odds.’

Pancratius fixed in silent trance of thought
Full on his grandsire's face those lustrous eyes
Which beamed as if they ne'er had gazed on aught
Less splendid than the splendour of clear skies
When throned within them sits the noontide day:
He spake: ‘The Gods—my grandsire, what are they?’

His grandsire then: ‘The old teaching saith that Jove
Exists, and they, the rest. Our Cynics new
Flout that old faith, yet never can disprove:
Our Gods live ill; not less they may be true:
Till speaks that greater God, the All-Wise, All-Blest,
Let man await His voice, and be at rest.’

The old man never from his wood emerged;
In his great Roman home refused to dwell;
Yet oft of Rome he spake, and ever urged
The boy he loved to learn her annals well.
‘All History there,’ he said, ‘is summed; yet all
Her greatness past but aggravates her fall.

‘Son, walk in Rome, but wisely choose thy way;
Seek first great Vesta's fane by Numa built:
Unnoted pass those trophies of the day,
Pillar or arch, that fawn on prosperous guilt:
The Augustan and the Adrian Tombs to thee
Be what crowned upstarts, when they die, must be.

‘Hold thou no commerce with Mount Palatine;
Revere the Hill Saturnian's templed crest;
Still to Tarpeia's Rock thy brows incline,
Ambition's latest leap and earliest rest:
Seek last that hallowed spot where regal pride
A second Brutus met, and Cæsar died.

‘Turn from that huge Pantheon's godless boast
Where all Gods met became, not one, but none;
That Coliseum by a captive host
Ill-raised, the ill-omened vaunt of deeds ill-done.
Trample such memories! To thy bosom fold—
In them high mysteries lurk—our records old.

‘Romulus, that Sword of Mars, as warrior reigned;
Numa as priest. He served the Unnamed, the Unknown:
If lesser Powers be honoured, he ordained
They should have image none in hue or stone.
He built the “Fecials' House:” until they swore
“This Cause is just,” Rome dared not march to war.

‘Like Indian sage he lived: his thoughts were tuned—
His laws—to mystic strains beyond the skies;
One law was this: “Vintage of vine unpruned
Use not, 'twere sacrilege, in sacrifice:”
That meant, Religion shorn of Self-restraint
Insults the God; not worship, but a feint.

‘The great Republic honoured still the Kings:
Long stood their statues on the Capitol:
From Kings our noblest Houses came: great things
Thus live though dead, while centuries onward roll.
Boy! he who for the present spurns the past
Shall reap no future while the world doth last.

‘True men were honoured then, or poor or rich:
Peace made, the conqueror tilled anew his farm:
Order was friend to Freedom: each in each
They lived; and each its rival kept from harm:
Sages gave counsel: heroes held command:—
What now? The hard heart, and the silken hand!

‘Strong thinkers ruled—not chosen for bribe or boast;
Far-seeing, serious men of silent power;
Those who the Senate's pride denounced the most
Invoked that Senate still in danger's hour;
They knew the old tree anchors on deepest root;
Swings safest in the gale; bears amplest fruit.

‘Rome had her poets, too: their work is done:
Her earlier history lives alone in verse:
The perils gladly braved, the triumphs won,
The songs alone were worthy to rehearse:
Not much the songs loved us; but them we prized:
In them the people's voice grew harmonized.

‘Those songs were sung the banquet-hall to charm:
Coriolanus lived once more in them;
In them Virginius raised that conquering arm;
In them King Tarquin's starry diadem
Fell to the earth; Camillus spurned the Gaul;
Attilius passed to death at duty's call.

‘To these we owe our best. Livius from these
Flung fire upon his many-coloured page:
From them, the Aphroditè of new seas,
Rome's Latïan Muse had risen some later age:
Our Civil Wars trampled that hope in blood:
The Empire came, and choked the old blood in mud.

‘Then Maro piped, and Flaccus: Rome turned Greek:
Barbaric now she turns, gloom lost in gloom:
My buried Rome if any care to seek,
Boy! let him seek it in the Scipios' Tomb!
Enough! My song is sung, and said my say:—
Numa his best Muse named his “Tacita.”’

He rose: he gazed on that long cloud which barred,
Its crest alone still red, that dusking west:
At last he turned; with breath all thick and hard
He spake, his white head drooping t'ward his breast,
‘'Twas not her pangs, her shames, that tried me most;
I thought of all Rome might have been—and lost.’

That night beside a cabinet he stood
Musing; unlocked it next with carefulness;
Last, from a perfumed box of citron-wood
Drew slowly forth a lithe and golden tress;
Slowly he placed it in his grandson's hold:
Your father's hair—cut off at three years old.’

Scipio of Nasica.

Causa victrix Diis placuit: Causa victa Catoni.

The Capitoline Hill.

University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

ARGUMENT.