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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
AMALASUNTA.
(DIED A.D. 535.)
ARGUMENT.
Amalasunta was the daughter of Theodoric the Great, the Gothic King of Italy, and a woman of extraordinary beauty, learning and accomplishments. On her father's death she became Regent, the King, her son, being a child. Through the violence of the Gothic Chiefs, whose oppressions she had held in check, she was sent a prisoner to an island in the lake of Bolsena, to perish among its pestilential marshes. In that island she was murdered.
In this Legend she revolves the career of her father—the spell which the greatness of Rome, though past, had exercised over his mind in youth; his desire that her Empire should be enlarged and perpetuated by including within itself the Barbaric races; his equal treatment of Goth and Italian, the restoration of Italian prosperity and letters. Lastly, she remembers in anguish the crimes which stained the close as well as the initiation of his reign; the judicial murder of Boethius and Symmachus whose children she had restored, and the persecution of the Catholic Faith, which, till then, though an Arian, Theodoric had treated with respect; his remorse, and unhappy death.
210
A morning peacefuller than the calmest eve—
Some meaning there must lurk in such a calm.
Tells it of death, or something after death?
The grey lake hath its gleam and naught beside:
If it had wrong last night, to-day it plains not;
No ripple prints its sands; no sailing cloud
Is imaged in its bosom; not a bird
Flutes 'mid the reeds or streaks the level mere.
The autumn-reddened copses lose their red
In vapoury distance. Nature's latest sigh
Is breathed—like mine—and now for both is stillness.
Lasts it for aye, that stillness? Lo! I drop
A pebble o'er the water. Hark, a sound!
The pebble sinks: some petty bubbles rise:
Twinkle; then break. When this, our Gothic realm
Built by my Sire, Theodoric, meets its term
Like yonder pebble it will sink, send up
That bubble from the waters of oblivion
Which men call Fame, and in a moment more
Be gathered to the dark.
How strangely now
That buried past returns to me! My Sire!
With what a puissant hand and mastering brain
Didst thou build up that kingdom! With what high joy
I, then a child, my hand upon thy knee,
Mine eyes upon thy face, listened the tale!
Thy youth in Constantine's more beauteous Rome
Washed by Propontic waves; thy sedulous study
Of that once-splendid polity then grey-grown;
Thine early vow—how like to Stilicho's—
To prop that ruined realm, our foe of old—
Sustain her, not destroy. I hear thee speak:
‘The Empire's power survived the Empire's self:
211
I roamed amid her wrecks of greatness dead
Kingly, Republican, Imperial greatness;
In them the history of the world was writ:
All men saw that;
Alone I marked a cradle 'mid the tombs,
The cradle of whatever greatness God
Reserves for future earth. A sin it seemed
To snatch the sceptre from that wrinkled hand
Now feebler than a babe's.’ He ended thus;
‘Only when long experience painfully proved
That Rome, old Rome, lay choked in her own ashes,
I said, “A Gothic kingdom I will rear
Cast in the Roman mould.”’ I heard him speak it
With that deep voice and lion-like! My tears
Fell heavy on his hand.
His rival dead,
He too of race barbaric—Odoacer—
Ah me! How dead? whose hand? I feared to ask!
I would, I would, I ne'er had heard that name!
My Father filled a throne. He stole it not;
Nor styled himself the Emperor of the West:
His race he deemed the noblest of the North:
He strove to blend it with the Roman, strove
In vain, alas, to breathe its manly vigour
Through that dead Empire. Equal laws to both
He gave, the Italian Lands portioned betwixt them.
Dead learning lived again; new letters flourished;
In them he trained me. ‘I,’ thus spake he once,
‘Can rule a host, evoke from nought a kingdom,
Yet scarce can write my name. But thou, my child,
Purer than northern Odin's coldest daughters
Shalt pass in learning Egypt's amorous queen,
(Mark Antony's Fate) in beauty Grecian Helen.’
212
Who led her blind old exiled Sire through Greece,
His living staff.’ My Father smiled. Alone
On face so rough can rest a smile so sweet!
That smile went slowly by: again he mused:
‘Thank Heaven, the father dies before the child!
Girl! I have chosen even now thy future husband,
The noblest of our royal race, the Amali:
See that your child and his be fit for rule—
If hot his blood, as mine, he'll need much training—
To him, that child, the crown of Earth shall pass,
My work on Earth completed!’
O my Sire,
Much, much of that high vision was fulfilled!
To dwell upon that thought is still my peace.
This Italy was but thine Empire's core,
Rhætia, Dalmatia, Norieum, Pannonia,
The West was thine. Iberia, southern Gaul,
Earth from Danubius to the Atlantic pillars!
The Italians held the civil offices,
The Goths the warlike. Peace returned—then gold;
In desolate cities glorious structures rose;
Fair villas smiled above the Larian lake;
The waves Lucanian: classic song revived:
Philosophy looked up once more to heaven:
Hope ruled again the world.
These things I learned
Less from my Father than from Cassiodorus:—
How writes he now? ‘The realm I served is doomed,
Thy Father's thirty years and three of greatness
Make dismal end. Thou knowest Calabria bore me:
There will I build to God a monastery;
There 'mid the ocean thunders find my rest;
There on Boethius muse. Pray that my life,
213
May there make holy end.’
But thou, my Sire,
What end was thine? 'Twas not a happy one
'Twas penitent at least;—and yet not peaceful?
Ah, had that end but earlier come! With most
Age shows in weakening brain. In thee the omen
Was wrath more fiery; lessened self-control.
Diversities of Faith began the woe,
Diversities whereof thou said'st so oft,
‘Battles are these of fools!’ That Eastern Empire
Warred on our Arian Faith. Then rang thy shout,
‘I on its Western Faith will war in turn!
I never loved that Apostolic Throne.’
Thy people which had loved thee learned to hate:
Thenceforth suspicions gnawed thee; and thy sword
Smote that great twain, Boethius, Symmachus.
Informal death may yet be righteous death,
But these high victims died without a trial:
They loved thee though they scorned to fawn on power.
Then came that dread remorse: that sudden madness.
I see thee spurn that board; confront that Spectre
That bent on thee Boethius's placid eye;
Again I hear thee make distraught demand,
‘Who sent thee hither? Was it Odoacer?’—
Again I see thee hurl from thee thy crown,
Hear thy last word; ‘The Frank shall have the Empire.’
My Father, what to thee are Empires now?
What end was thine? 'Twas not a happy one
'Twas penitent at least;—and yet not peaceful?
Ah, had that end but earlier come! With most
Age shows in weakening brain. In thee the omen
Was wrath more fiery; lessened self-control.
Diversities of Faith began the woe,
Diversities whereof thou said'st so oft,
‘Battles are these of fools!’ That Eastern Empire
Warred on our Arian Faith. Then rang thy shout,
‘I on its Western Faith will war in turn!
I never loved that Apostolic Throne.’
Thy people which had loved thee learned to hate:
Thenceforth suspicions gnawed thee; and thy sword
Smote that great twain, Boethius, Symmachus.
Informal death may yet be righteous death,
But these high victims died without a trial:
They loved thee though they scorned to fawn on power.
Then came that dread remorse: that sudden madness.
I see thee spurn that board; confront that Spectre
That bent on thee Boethius's placid eye;
Again I hear thee make distraught demand,
‘Who sent thee hither? Was it Odoacer?’—
Again I see thee hurl from thee thy crown,
Hear thy last word; ‘The Frank shall have the Empire.’
My Father, what to thee are Empires now?
I built his Tomb: that was my first of cares,
My care as daughter and as Regent both:
The gold it cost had fee'd a body-guard
And lopped betimes treason's unnumbered hands.
'Twas better spent. That Tomb o'erlooks Ravenna,
Its harbours, and the pine-woods far away:—
Above it hangs that dome, one granite block:
Inurned o'er all repose my Father's bones:—
So long as Adrian billows lash Ravenna
Pilgrims shall stand before that Tomb and cry,
‘There lies Theodoric, King of Goths: he ruled
Half earth; yet scorned to bear the Imperial name.’
My care as daughter and as Regent both:
The gold it cost had fee'd a body-guard
And lopped betimes treason's unnumbered hands.
'Twas better spent. That Tomb o'erlooks Ravenna,
214
Above it hangs that dome, one granite block:
Inurned o'er all repose my Father's bones:—
So long as Adrian billows lash Ravenna
Pilgrims shall stand before that Tomb and cry,
‘There lies Theodoric, King of Goths: he ruled
Half earth; yet scorned to bear the Imperial name.’
Are there not those who say that Love is gladness?
I never found it such. Love for my Sire
To me, a motherless child, meant ceaseless fears
Of swords barbaric or Byzantine poisons;
How oft in the wan dawn behind his door
I listened for his breath! That year of marriage—
Thank God, my Husband lived to see his son!
Had he survived, that son had lived this hour!
How beautiful he was! How like a fawn
He bounded through the woods! And yet—and yet—
How suddenly that fawn would change to pard!
Wayward to most, to me he still was loving,
Save once when some rough Chief that passed us growled,
‘Warrior he'll never prove.’
I never found it such. Love for my Sire
To me, a motherless child, meant ceaseless fears
Of swords barbaric or Byzantine poisons;
How oft in the wan dawn behind his door
I listened for his breath! That year of marriage—
Thank God, my Husband lived to see his son!
Had he survived, that son had lived this hour!
How beautiful he was! How like a fawn
He bounded through the woods! And yet—and yet—
How suddenly that fawn would change to pard!
Wayward to most, to me he still was loving,
Save once when some rough Chief that passed us growled,
‘Warrior he'll never prove.’
A casual saying!
And yet it cost a life! They change the Guard!
I never hear that tramp of armed heels
But that black hour returns! Once more as then
The palace courts grow dark with frowning brows;
Around me stand the steel-clad mutinous Chiefs,
Each with drawn sword. Again I hear them cry,
‘We brook no more this female government:
Thy son shall rule; not thou!’ They hated me:—
A woman reigns not in a Gothic realm:
I stood too near thy throne. They hated me
Because I stayed their ravage on the poor.
That day the boy had struck his grey-haired tutor;
To the feasting chiefs herushed: denounced his wrongs:
The chiefs! 'Twas they who turned him 'gainst his Mother!
Thus to their insolent speech I made reply;
‘It is the strong rule, not the weakling rule,
Sirs, which ye hate. Theodoric, late your King,
Governs his grandson through his daughter's hand.’
They passed me with the boy. That hour mine eye
Fell on three daggers which beside me lay
Bought for my ladies from a Merchant Mede:
I held them up and spake: ‘Sirs, I impeach you
This day of treason 'gainst my son and me!
Your sins will taint my son: his own will slay him:
When that day comes, albeit I stand this hour
A queen deposed, those daggers there shall find you,
Lawfully sentenced by these lips this day,
Sentenced, though now the execution halts.’
They led him forth: he passed me without word:
They gave him foul ensample and he fell:
The wine-cup was his teacher, not his Mother.
His sixteenth birthday came: a step approached:
It was not his: a man drew near and spake:
‘The king's physicians say all hope is o'er!
Even now he dies.’ I rose from where I sat:
Rushed to his chamber. It was locked—their wont!
I took those daggers three. Three faithful men
I sent to where upon the kingdom's bound
Those three the foremost in that murder ruled:
On the third day they cumbered earth no longer.
And yet it cost a life! They change the Guard!
I never hear that tramp of armed heels
But that black hour returns! Once more as then
The palace courts grow dark with frowning brows;
Around me stand the steel-clad mutinous Chiefs,
Each with drawn sword. Again I hear them cry,
‘We brook no more this female government:
Thy son shall rule; not thou!’ They hated me:—
A woman reigns not in a Gothic realm:
I stood too near thy throne. They hated me
Because I stayed their ravage on the poor.
215
To the feasting chiefs herushed: denounced his wrongs:
The chiefs! 'Twas they who turned him 'gainst his Mother!
Thus to their insolent speech I made reply;
‘It is the strong rule, not the weakling rule,
Sirs, which ye hate. Theodoric, late your King,
Governs his grandson through his daughter's hand.’
They passed me with the boy. That hour mine eye
Fell on three daggers which beside me lay
Bought for my ladies from a Merchant Mede:
I held them up and spake: ‘Sirs, I impeach you
This day of treason 'gainst my son and me!
Your sins will taint my son: his own will slay him:
When that day comes, albeit I stand this hour
A queen deposed, those daggers there shall find you,
Lawfully sentenced by these lips this day,
Sentenced, though now the execution halts.’
They led him forth: he passed me without word:
They gave him foul ensample and he fell:
The wine-cup was his teacher, not his Mother.
His sixteenth birthday came: a step approached:
It was not his: a man drew near and spake:
‘The king's physicians say all hope is o'er!
Even now he dies.’ I rose from where I sat:
Rushed to his chamber. It was locked—their wont!
I took those daggers three. Three faithful men
I sent to where upon the kingdom's bound
Those three the foremost in that murder ruled:
On the third day they cumbered earth no longer.
Another day is past! Hail, evening breeze!
How strange a weight of sighs must load thy wings
Travelling man's world! They stifle not thy freshness!
Cool, cool this burning heart! They sent me here
Fearing my people would avenge my wrong,
They kept me here not stabbing me to kill,
Choked by yon mist. Its work is sure yet slow:
Unmannerly it seems to task their patience.
Justinian spake me fair yet will not aid me,
Much less that Emperor's Empress. Cassiodorus
Writes thus: ‘The men of death are on thy track.’
That sentence I forgot. I like it well:
Not these slow mists;—their daggers will restore me
Those whom I ne'er forget. A Christian true
Would say, ‘Will earlier give me to my God.’
How strange a weight of sighs must load thy wings
Travelling man's world! They stifle not thy freshness!
Cool, cool this burning heart! They sent me here
216
They kept me here not stabbing me to kill,
Choked by yon mist. Its work is sure yet slow:
Unmannerly it seems to task their patience.
Justinian spake me fair yet will not aid me,
Much less that Emperor's Empress. Cassiodorus
Writes thus: ‘The men of death are on thy track.’
That sentence I forgot. I like it well:
Not these slow mists;—their daggers will restore me
Those whom I ne'er forget. A Christian true
Would say, ‘Will earlier give me to my God.’
I fear our Gothic Faith hath lacked a something;
Have thought at times those Catholics with their creed
Transcendant more than ours, their mystic rites
That seem to lift our earth so nigh to heaven,
Their friendly ways with Mary and God's Saints,
Were born beneath a happier star than we,
And on a soul of sweeter, silkier grain
Take the celestial impress. Arians we:
They that baptized our nation stamped it Arian:
That suits rough hearts. The ignorant cannot choose
'Twixt creeds: the faithful scarce can quit old friends—
My father failed. The imperial reign o'er earth
It may be is reserved for one who holds
His crown from Christ; believes He reigns in heaven.
I fear I never had a full devotion:
Yet this I sought; to live as God commands,
Bear bravely what He sends: and this I hope,
Death past, to meet my Sire—my Son—my Husband,
Meet them unstained. If my own blood should stain me
I pardon—'tis God's Law—my murderers.
—‘The Frank shall have the Empire, not the Goth:’
In death he spake it; and his word is true.
Have thought at times those Catholics with their creed
Transcendant more than ours, their mystic rites
That seem to lift our earth so nigh to heaven,
Their friendly ways with Mary and God's Saints,
Were born beneath a happier star than we,
And on a soul of sweeter, silkier grain
Take the celestial impress. Arians we:
They that baptized our nation stamped it Arian:
That suits rough hearts. The ignorant cannot choose
'Twixt creeds: the faithful scarce can quit old friends—
My father failed. The imperial reign o'er earth
It may be is reserved for one who holds
His crown from Christ; believes He reigns in heaven.
I fear I never had a full devotion:
Yet this I sought; to live as God commands,
Bear bravely what He sends: and this I hope,
Death past, to meet my Sire—my Son—my Husband,
Meet them unstained. If my own blood should stain me
I pardon—'tis God's Law—my murderers.
—‘The Frank shall have the Empire, not the Goth:’
In death he spake it; and his word is true.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |