The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE VISION OF THE FLAMAN. |
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 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
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THE VISION OF THE FLAMAN.
Call in thy cohorts Rome! from every land
Thy power hath deluged with unsinning blood!
Call in thy legions from Iberia's strand,
From Albion's rocks, and Rhætia's mountain wood!
The foe, like glaciers hurled
Through darkness on the trembling world,
Springs from his forest in the wildest north,
Scenting his prey afar:
And, like the samiel, from the waste comes forth
To steep your glories in the gore of war.
Hark! the whole earth rejoices!
Sea shouts to isle and mountain unto main,
And ocean to the heaven, with myriad voices—
Rome's sepulchre shall be amid her slain,
And as she spared not, none shall spare her now,
But Hun, Goth, Vandal, Alemanne and Frank
Shall lift the poison cup all earth hath drank,
And steep her shuddering lips, and on her brow
Pour blood for ointment, and upon her head,
Till thousand ages have in darkness fled,
Mocking, press down
The accursed crown
Which shall not cease to bleed as conquered men have bled!
Thy power hath deluged with unsinning blood!
Call in thy legions from Iberia's strand,
From Albion's rocks, and Rhætia's mountain wood!
The foe, like glaciers hurled
Through darkness on the trembling world,
Springs from his forest in the wildest north,
Scenting his prey afar:
And, like the samiel, from the waste comes forth
To steep your glories in the gore of war.
Hark! the whole earth rejoices!
Sea shouts to isle and mountain unto main,
And ocean to the heaven, with myriad voices—
Rome's sepulchre shall be amid her slain,
And as she spared not, none shall spare her now,
But Hun, Goth, Vandal, Alemanne and Frank
Shall lift the poison cup all earth hath drank,
And steep her shuddering lips, and on her brow
Pour blood for ointment, and upon her head,
Till thousand ages have in darkness fled,
Mocking, press down
The accursed crown
Which shall not cease to bleed as conquered men have bled!
Thy monarchs, slaves to every lust and crime,
Shall fall, as they have fallen, by the sword,
Or Colchian chalice, and unweeping time
O'erthrow the deities by dust adored,
And leave but ruin to lament
O'er pillar, shrine and battlement,
And solitude o'er desert realms to moan,
Where warriors mocked chained kings and called the world their own!
The coalblack petrel and the grey curlew
Shall wing thy waters and see not thy sail;
From trembling towers the stork shall watch the blue
Of the lone heavens and hear no human hail:
For in the vales that bask in bloom,
The Pontine's flowers, the bright Maremma's green.
Shall dwell the shadow of the tomb,
In Love's voluptuous arms, the tyrant death unseen!
And Nero's golden house shall be
The pallid serf's abode,
And tombs imperial, soaring from the sea,
Shall guide the corsair through his night of blood.
Despair with folded wings,
Where the Eagle's pinions hung,
Shall cower beneath the throne of kings,
Who o'er the Alps the curse of hell have flung.
Shall fall, as they have fallen, by the sword,
Or Colchian chalice, and unweeping time
O'erthrow the deities by dust adored,
And leave but ruin to lament
O'er pillar, shrine and battlement,
And solitude o'er desert realms to moan,
Where warriors mocked chained kings and called the world their own!
The coalblack petrel and the grey curlew
Shall wing thy waters and see not thy sail;
From trembling towers the stork shall watch the blue
Of the lone heavens and hear no human hail:
For in the vales that bask in bloom,
The Pontine's flowers, the bright Maremma's green.
152
In Love's voluptuous arms, the tyrant death unseen!
And Nero's golden house shall be
The pallid serf's abode,
And tombs imperial, soaring from the sea,
Shall guide the corsair through his night of blood.
Despair with folded wings,
Where the Eagle's pinions hung,
Shall cower beneath the throne of kings,
Who o'er the Alps the curse of hell have flung.
Woe to the beautiful! the barbarian comes!
Woe to the proud! the peasant lays thee low!
Woe to the mighty! o'er your kingly domes
The savage banner soars—the watchfires glow;
Triumph and terror through the Forum rush,
Art's trophies vanish—learning's holy lore,—
Alaric banquets while red torrents gush,
Attila slumbers on his couch of gore!
And there the eye of ruin roams
O'er guilt and grief and desolation;
And there above a thousand homes
The voice of Ruin mourns a buried nation.
Buried, O Rome! not like Campania's cities,
To wake in beauty when the centuries flee,
But in the guilt and grief and shame none pities,
The living grave of guilt and agony!
Alas! for Glory that must close in gloom!
Alas! for Pride that loves the tyrant's scorn!
Alas! for Fame that from the Scipio's tomb
Rises to look on infamy and mourn!
But Vengeance, wandering long,
With many a battle hymn and funeral song,
Shakes Fear's pale slumber from earth's awestruck eyes,
And bids Sarmatia's hordes redeem her agonies!
Woe to the proud! the peasant lays thee low!
Woe to the mighty! o'er your kingly domes
The savage banner soars—the watchfires glow;
Triumph and terror through the Forum rush,
Art's trophies vanish—learning's holy lore,—
Alaric banquets while red torrents gush,
Attila slumbers on his couch of gore!
And there the eye of ruin roams
O'er guilt and grief and desolation;
And there above a thousand homes
The voice of Ruin mourns a buried nation.
Buried, O Rome! not like Campania's cities,
To wake in beauty when the centuries flee,
But in the guilt and grief and shame none pities,
The living grave of guilt and agony!
Alas! for Glory that must close in gloom!
Alas! for Pride that loves the tyrant's scorn!
Alas! for Fame that from the Scipio's tomb
Rises to look on infamy and mourn!
But Vengeance, wandering long,
With many a battle hymn and funeral song,
Shakes Fear's pale slumber from earth's awestruck eyes,
And bids Sarmatia's hordes redeem her agonies!
Yet not alone the civic wreath,
The conqueror's laurel, the triumpher's pride,
Shall wither 'neath the samiel eye of Death;
On Rome's old mount of glory shall abide,
Tiar'd and robed like the Orient's vainest kings,
The hoar devoter of earth's diadems;
His glance shall haunt the heart's imaginings—
His footfall shall be felt where misers hoard their gems!
And from the palace of the Sacred Hill
The thrice crown'd pontiff shall to earth dispense
The awful edict of his mighty will,
And reign o'er mind in Fear's magnificence.
Prince, peasant, bandit, slave shall bow
Beneath his throne in voiceless adoration,
And years of crime redeem by one wrung vow;
And age on age shall die—and many a nation
Sink in the shadow of the tyrant's frown
And disappear,
Without a song or tear,
While clarion'd conquerors tread
In hymned triumph o'er the dead;
And wild barbarian hordes,
Whose faith and fealty hang upon their swords,
Shall feel the mellowing breath of human love,
And dwell entranced amid romance and lore;
Yet from the awful Vatican no dove
Shall bear freewill to any earthly shore!
But he, the Rock amid the ruins old
Of mythologic temples, shall o'ersway
The very earth, till thrones and kingdoms sold—
And empires blasted in the blaze of day—
Awake the world—and from the human heart
The crushing mountain of Oppression cast;
Then man shall bid all tyrannies depart,
And from the blue blest heavens elysium dawn at last!”
The conqueror's laurel, the triumpher's pride,
Shall wither 'neath the samiel eye of Death;
On Rome's old mount of glory shall abide,
153
The hoar devoter of earth's diadems;
His glance shall haunt the heart's imaginings—
His footfall shall be felt where misers hoard their gems!
And from the palace of the Sacred Hill
The thrice crown'd pontiff shall to earth dispense
The awful edict of his mighty will,
And reign o'er mind in Fear's magnificence.
Prince, peasant, bandit, slave shall bow
Beneath his throne in voiceless adoration,
And years of crime redeem by one wrung vow;
And age on age shall die—and many a nation
Sink in the shadow of the tyrant's frown
And disappear,
Without a song or tear,
While clarion'd conquerors tread
In hymned triumph o'er the dead;
And wild barbarian hordes,
Whose faith and fealty hang upon their swords,
Shall feel the mellowing breath of human love,
And dwell entranced amid romance and lore;
Yet from the awful Vatican no dove
Shall bear freewill to any earthly shore!
But he, the Rock amid the ruins old
Of mythologic temples, shall o'ersway
The very earth, till thrones and kingdoms sold—
And empires blasted in the blaze of day—
Awake the world—and from the human heart
The crushing mountain of Oppression cast;
Then man shall bid all tyrannies depart,
And from the blue blest heavens elysium dawn at last!”
The allusion throughout is to what was, for a long time, an almost omnipotent sovereignty—the Popedom; and even the very strictest disciple of papal supremacy must lament the desecration of almost unlimited power in the hands of many who better understood the law of might, the pageantries of the tournament, the forms of the duello, the intrigues of diplomacy, and the dominion of the castle, than the edicts and ceremonies and devotions of the pontificate. The “Rock amid the ruins” alludes to Peter,—in the Greek, Πετρος.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |