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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
O holy, sweet, and gracious Company!
O Household dear to God! Their feet to us
Who trod this vale of tears were beautiful
Upon the mountains: for where'er they moved
'Twas mountain land, God's Gospel lit their brows
And flashed it thence to men. I had dwelt five years
Alone in deserts lodged 'mid ravening beasts;
And when I saw man's face once more therein
Ferine was mixed with human, though in some
There lived a wild rude beauty. Back to Rome
I passed: I found not in her what my youth
Half-spurned, yet half-admired. The Prince of Peace
Held there a place that feared to claim its own:
The spoils and trophies of a thousand wars
Bade it defiance. Palsy-stricken long
The old Pagan Rite lifted a brow still crowned,
A sceptred hand, though shaking. Proud in death
Like Rome's old emperor it ‘stood up to die:’
Well-nigh two hundred temples laughed in scorn
From summits seven. The Imperial name survived,
But trod as men in cities earthquake-jarred;
Authority, Tradition still survived:
The dignity of these things was gone by:
To shameless spectacles the people rushed:
The gloom of wearied lusts was in their eyes:
The Coliseum's blood-stained sports, though dead
Left dark their foreheads.
O Household dear to God! Their feet to us
Who trod this vale of tears were beautiful
Upon the mountains: for where'er they moved
'Twas mountain land, God's Gospel lit their brows
And flashed it thence to men. I had dwelt five years
Alone in deserts lodged 'mid ravening beasts;
And when I saw man's face once more therein
Ferine was mixed with human, though in some
There lived a wild rude beauty. Back to Rome
I passed: I found not in her what my youth
Half-spurned, yet half-admired. The Prince of Peace
Held there a place that feared to claim its own:
The spoils and trophies of a thousand wars
Bade it defiance. Palsy-stricken long
The old Pagan Rite lifted a brow still crowned,
A sceptred hand, though shaking. Proud in death
Like Rome's old emperor it ‘stood up to die:’
Well-nigh two hundred temples laughed in scorn
From summits seven. The Imperial name survived,
177
Authority, Tradition still survived:
The dignity of these things was gone by:
To shameless spectacles the people rushed:
The gloom of wearied lusts was in their eyes:
The Coliseum's blood-stained sports, though dead
Left dark their foreheads.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |