The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

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?

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,

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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.’

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.’

University of Virginia Library