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 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
IV.
Marius, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage.
Alone, but not a captive—not o'ercome
By any fate, and reckless of its doom—
Even midst the ruins by his own hand made,
There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!
What mighty thoughts, that will not be repress'd,
Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast?—
What glorious memories of the immortal strife
Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;
That giant-like, sea rival of his own
Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;
Doom'd in long conflict, through experience dread,
To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;
To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,
And yield to him who shares her ruins now!
By any fate, and reckless of its doom—
Even midst the ruins by his own hand made,
There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!
What mighty thoughts, that will not be repress'd,
Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast?—
What glorious memories of the immortal strife
Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;
That giant-like, sea rival of his own
Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;
Doom'd in long conflict, through experience dread,
To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;
To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,
And yield to him who shares her ruins now!
304
How, o'er his soul, with passions still that gush'd,
The wondrous past with all its memories rush'd!
These ruins were his monument. They told
Of wisest strategy, adventure bold,
Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,
That tried his genius, and approved it strong;
That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,
His country's boast, his deeds her brightest theme;
Written in brass and marble—sung in strains
That warm the blood to dances in old veins;
That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,
And crown the spirit with achieving will;
That seem eternal in the deeds they show,
And waken echoes that survive below;
Brood o'er the mortal, slumbering in the tomb,
And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,
Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,
Join in the homage, who till then were mute;
Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite
To sing the bird they could not match in flight;
Content to honor where they cannot shame,
And praise the worth they cannot rob of fame.
The wondrous past with all its memories rush'd!
These ruins were his monument. They told
Of wisest strategy, adventure bold,
Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,
That tried his genius, and approved it strong;
That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,
His country's boast, his deeds her brightest theme;
Written in brass and marble—sung in strains
That warm the blood to dances in old veins;
That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,
And crown the spirit with achieving will;
That seem eternal in the deeds they show,
And waken echoes that survive below;
Brood o'er the mortal, slumbering in the tomb,
And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,
Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,
Join in the homage, who till then were mute;
Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite
To sing the bird they could not match in flight;
Content to honor where they cannot shame,
And praise the worth they cannot rob of fame.
How, with these memories gathering in his breast,
Of all the labors that denied him rest—
Of all the triumphs that his country bore
To heights of fame she had not won before—
Broods he, the exile from his state and home,
On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!
Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,
Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.
No sad submission yields he to his fate,
So long as solace comes to him from hate,
Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace
No single look to recompense disgrace;
With no ambition check'd, no passion hush'd,
No pride o'erthrown, no fond delusion crush'd;
With every fire alive that ever sway'd,
His soul as lordly as when most obey'd,
He broods o'er wrongs, remember'd as his own,
And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.
Fix'd on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glares, as if fasten'd on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine;
Grasp'd firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul is heard to swear!
The awful purpose, nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each feeling with the deadliest will,
But, till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”
Of all the labors that denied him rest—
Of all the triumphs that his country bore
To heights of fame she had not won before—
Broods he, the exile from his state and home,
On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!
Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,
Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.
No sad submission yields he to his fate,
So long as solace comes to him from hate,
Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace
305
With no ambition check'd, no passion hush'd,
No pride o'erthrown, no fond delusion crush'd;
With every fire alive that ever sway'd,
His soul as lordly as when most obey'd,
He broods o'er wrongs, remember'd as his own,
And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.
Fix'd on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glares, as if fasten'd on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine;
Grasp'd firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul is heard to swear!
The awful purpose, nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each feeling with the deadliest will,
But, till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”
Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore
That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;
Reveal the secret purpose that inspires
That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;
Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance
Fix'd on those ruins in intensest trance,
Which nothing speaks to that it still surveys,
And looks within, alone, with meaning gaze.
Unclose the lip, that, rigidly compress'd,
Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;
And, on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,
Write the full record of his thought profound.
What future scene beneath that piercing eye
Depicts the carnage and the victory;
The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped—
The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead?
Say, what wild sounds have spell'd the eager ear,
That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;
How many thousands perish in that cry
That fills his bloody sense with melody?
What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,
Declare the vengeance gratified too well?
What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,
Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?
What horrid scene of triumph and of hate
Do ye discover to this man of Fate,
Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,
Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?
That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;
Reveal the secret purpose that inspires
That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;
Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance
Fix'd on those ruins in intensest trance,
Which nothing speaks to that it still surveys,
And looks within, alone, with meaning gaze.
Unclose the lip, that, rigidly compress'd,
Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;
And, on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,
Write the full record of his thought profound.
What future scene beneath that piercing eye
Depicts the carnage and the victory;
The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped—
The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead?
306
That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;
How many thousands perish in that cry
That fills his bloody sense with melody?
What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,
Declare the vengeance gratified too well?
What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,
Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?
What horrid scene of triumph and of hate
Do ye discover to this man of Fate,
Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,
Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?
He hath no speech, save in the ruins round;
But there's a language born without a sound,
A voice whose thunders, though unutter'd, fly
From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;
There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,
Still tearing those that taught him how to tear;
One dream alone delighting his desire,
The dream that finds the fuel for his fire:—
Let fancy shape the language for his mood,
And speak the purpose burning in his blood.
But there's a language born without a sound,
A voice whose thunders, though unutter'd, fly
From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;
There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,
Still tearing those that taught him how to tear;
One dream alone delighting his desire,
The dream that finds the fuel for his fire:—
Let fancy shape the language for his mood,
And speak the purpose burning in his blood.
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |