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| VI. |
 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
Late that night the Goths
Assailed him in his tent: they slew his guards:
He rose not from his desk; those Goths departed.
Next morning Stilicho rode forth alone,
Rode to Ravenna 'twixt the pines and sea.
He slept that night in the Basilica,
Sanctuary inviolate. At earliest dawn
A royal herald at its portals stood
With soldiers girt. He held a Rescript high
Signed by your Emperor. Stilicho went forth:
In vain the old Bishop cried, ‘Keep sanctuary!’
The gates fell back: the heralds read that scroll,
‘To Stilicho, a rebel 'gainst the State,
Immediate death.’ Some few, that hour arrived,
Advanced to shield him. Haughtily he stood:
He waved us back: he willed to live no longer:
He faced the soldiers. In a moment more
He sank upon that fane's ensanguined step:
His strong white head propped on this breast he died.
Assailed him in his tent: they slew his guards:
He rose not from his desk; those Goths departed.
Next morning Stilicho rode forth alone,
Rode to Ravenna 'twixt the pines and sea.
He slept that night in the Basilica,
Sanctuary inviolate. At earliest dawn
A royal herald at its portals stood
With soldiers girt. He held a Rescript high
Signed by your Emperor. Stilicho went forth:
In vain the old Bishop cried, ‘Keep sanctuary!’
The gates fell back: the heralds read that scroll,
‘To Stilicho, a rebel 'gainst the State,
Immediate death.’ Some few, that hour arrived,
Advanced to shield him. Haughtily he stood:
He waved us back: he willed to live no longer:
He faced the soldiers. In a moment more
He sank upon that fane's ensanguined step:
His strong white head propped on this breast he died.
His boy escaped to Rome; your Emperor slew him:
His daughter, to that Emperor wedded late,
That Emperor drave forth. His wife, Serena,
The stateliest offshoot of the imperial stem,
Saved by the savagery of Roman mercy,
Exiled in solitude laments her lord;
These things to you are nothing. Be it so.
His daughter, to that Emperor wedded late,
198
The stateliest offshoot of the imperial stem,
Saved by the savagery of Roman mercy,
Exiled in solitude laments her lord;
These things to you are nothing. Be it so.
He died: Rome lives: how long ye Roman nobles?
This matter touches you. Alaric draws nigh:
Alaric and Stilicho were veracious men:
Stilicho kept his word: Alaric will keep it.
Alaric stood pledged to march with Rome to Gaul
But found no Romans at the trysting-place.
Alaric has changed his name: the title sole
He claims to-day is this, ‘The Scourge of God.’
No death-cry from the lips of Stilicho
Made way to Alaric's ear. Not less thereon
A cry there rings, a cry of babes barbaric
And bleeding mothers on whose breasts they died:
These were your hostages: your legions slew them
Mad with their triumph o'er that great one dead.
That day full thirty thousand of the race
Barbaric, to the Roman service vowed
Their standards broke and marched to Alaric's camp:
I march to meet him by to-morrow's dawn:
I think that none of you will bar my way.
Sleep well to-night: In three days Alaric greets you:
Near him who harbours sleeps not well, men say.
This matter touches you. Alaric draws nigh:
Alaric and Stilicho were veracious men:
Stilicho kept his word: Alaric will keep it.
Alaric stood pledged to march with Rome to Gaul
But found no Romans at the trysting-place.
Alaric has changed his name: the title sole
He claims to-day is this, ‘The Scourge of God.’
No death-cry from the lips of Stilicho
Made way to Alaric's ear. Not less thereon
A cry there rings, a cry of babes barbaric
And bleeding mothers on whose breasts they died:
These were your hostages: your legions slew them
Mad with their triumph o'er that great one dead.
That day full thirty thousand of the race
Barbaric, to the Roman service vowed
Their standards broke and marched to Alaric's camp:
I march to meet him by to-morrow's dawn:
I think that none of you will bar my way.
Sleep well to-night: In three days Alaric greets you:
Near him who harbours sleeps not well, men say.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |