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66
CÆSAR SALUTED.
[JULY, 1870.]
Cæsar, morituri te salutant.”
[From the German of Albert Traeger.]
Is it enough, now? Nations into strife
To goad, your cloudy soul has ponder'd long;
The Slaughterers you have bidden whet the knife.
The Cæsar nods, and rages his wild throng.
But while they nod to you with their hot cries,
The Dying, to the arena who move fast,
Look you, and see the pallid Ghosts arise,
That stern and solemn gather, hurrying past!
Do you not know them—feel no sting at last?—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
To goad, your cloudy soul has ponder'd long;
The Slaughterers you have bidden whet the knife.
The Cæsar nods, and rages his wild throng.
But while they nod to you with their hot cries,
The Dying, to the arena who move fast,
Look you, and see the pallid Ghosts arise,
That stern and solemn gather, hurrying past!
Do you not know them—feel no sting at last?—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
67
Where gay-cheek'd Vice her pleasure-house has set
For over-feasts of Horror, there erewhile
Shatter'd they lay upon the pavement, yet
Keeping the oath you swore to with a smile:
First victims to the death-tools, ever more
Your wit has tried to perfect: there lay still
In bloody blouse and the red cap, you wore
Yourself to court the Republic in until
The Butcher, silent, on them crept to kill—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
For over-feasts of Horror, there erewhile
Shatter'd they lay upon the pavement, yet
Keeping the oath you swore to with a smile:
First victims to the death-tools, ever more
Your wit has tried to perfect: there lay still
In bloody blouse and the red cap, you wore
Yourself to court the Republic in until
The Butcher, silent, on them crept to kill—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Those, too, who did not win the bright, quick death
Of heroes, sword in hand and smile on face—
In Cayenne's fever-swamps who spent their breath,
With that dry guillotine dying apace;
Those who in prisons linger'd till the chain
Dropp'd but with life away; those who, outworn
With sharp, home-longing, ever-gnawing pain,
Saw their last light in exile-lands, forlorn;
Hair-blanch'd with grief, those left at home to mourn—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Of heroes, sword in hand and smile on face—
In Cayenne's fever-swamps who spent their breath,
With that dry guillotine dying apace;
Those who in prisons linger'd till the chain
Dropp'd but with life away; those who, outworn
68
Saw their last light in exile-lands, forlorn;
Hair-blanch'd with grief, those left at home to mourn—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
And, see, these come with open wounds, who chose
After your eagles' flights to follow, these
Whose days found in your battles early close—
To whom you said: “The Empire, it is Peace;”
For Liberty, you promised, to each fight
You led them: when their blood gave victory,
With scornful smile, after your triumph-light,
You dug another grave for Liberty,
So that the earth a graveyard seem'd to be—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
After your eagles' flights to follow, these
Whose days found in your battles early close—
To whom you said: “The Empire, it is Peace;”
For Liberty, you promised, to each fight
You led them: when their blood gave victory,
With scornful smile, after your triumph-light,
You dug another grave for Liberty,
So that the earth a graveyard seem'd to be—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
69
From the Black Sea they rise and gather round;
Out of the Italian plains the Sleepers wake,
Who, freed by you, then saw their native ground
The after-burden of your armies take;
And those sent far across the Atlantic tide
To meet in Mexico their fatal blight,
There where a second time your sword was tried
At the Republic with malignant spite,
And where your star first lost its early light—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
Out of the Italian plains the Sleepers wake,
Who, freed by you, then saw their native ground
The after-burden of your armies take;
And those sent far across the Atlantic tide
To meet in Mexico their fatal blight,
There where a second time your sword was tried
At the Republic with malignant spite,
And where your star first lost its early light—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
From out his Tomb is risen another wraith—
(Rest in the Invalides he finds no more:)
The German war-cry, “Victory or Death!”
Has proved his sign of ruin once before;
In his gray cloak and the little hat he stands
Ready for march, the Ancestor of your reign,
But no war-fire his hollow eye commands:
Backward his finger points to St. Helene,
As if he sigh'd that still grave to regain—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
(Rest in the Invalides he finds no more:)
The German war-cry, “Victory or Death!”
Has proved his sign of ruin once before;
In his gray cloak and the little hat he stands
Ready for march, the Ancestor of your reign,
70
Backward his finger points to St. Helene,
As if he sigh'd that still grave to regain—
“Cæsar, the Dead salute you.”
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