 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
Through the bronze gates, sculptured with legends feigned
Of the theocracies, the pageant swept,
A thousand feet dancing the song, and paused
Around the shrines they dragged the victims up.
Then, bending from Jove's altar to the east,
The Pontiff raised the golden chalice, crowned
With wine unmingled, and, amid the shower
Of green herbs, myrrh, obelia and vine leaves,
Poured out the brimmed libation on the head
Of the awaiting sacrifice, from flocks
Chosen for beauty, and young quickening life.
Then with a laurel branch, he sprinkled all,
Circling the altar thrice; the heralds, then,
Cried, “Who is here?” and all the multitudes
Like the chafed billows answered, “Many and Good!”
“Breathe not the words of omen!” “Lo! we stand
Like Harpocrates in the vestibule!”
The high Priest, 'mid the wreathing incense, raised
The prayer; the augur, with his wand marked out
The heavens; the aruspices, with eyes of awe,
Behind the slayers of the sacrifice
Stood gazing on the victims. “Hath no spot,
No arrow from the Huntress' bow or dart
Of Pythius stained the offering?” said the priest.
“'Tis fair and perfect, and unblemished stands
To give its body to the Harvest Queen
And all the gods!—We pour into its ear
The holy water—yet it doth not nod!
We bend the neck—it struggles for the flight!
Dismal presages! omens of despair!”
The Pontiff quailed, not in the dread of gods,
(His sole divinity was his own power)
But fear of superstition's evil thought,
As from the fluctuating host arose
A smothered shriek of terrour; and, in tones
Quick, stern, and deep as the exploded bolt,
Commanded—“Strike! the wrath of Jove attends
The impious delay!”—and, hushed as heaven
When broods the hurricane on cloudy deeps,
The worshippers stood trembling as they looked,—
The agonies and ecstacies of fear
And hope, in stormlike glimpses, shadowing o'er
The broken waves of faces—on the shrine,
And saw the axe of the cultrarius fall!
Maddened and bleeding, yet not slain, the ram
Flung back his twisted horns—sent up a sound
Of anguish, and in frenzy on the air
Springing, in his fierce death-throes, fell amidst
Dismayed adorers and gasped out his life.
Shrieks o'er the panting silence rose and filled
The temple, and in horrour shrunk the throng
As o'er the accursed rites pale Nemesis,
Leading the Destinies, had come to blast
The sacrifice with sacrilege; but now
The Pontiff's voice, bidding his lictors quell
The tumult, called another victim up
And stillness brooded o'er the stricken crowd.
Gashing the lifted neck, the popæ held
The brazen ewers beneath the bubbling blood,
And white robed flamens bade the people note
The happiest augury—without a sigh
Or tremor, seen or heard, the victim died.
Then flayed and opened they the offering,
Lifting the vitals on their weapons' points.
With writhing brows, pale lips and ashen cheeks,
And failing hearts, in horror's panic voice,
The aruspices proclaimed the prodigies.
“The entrails palpitate—the liver's lobes
Are withered, and the heart hath shrivelled up!”
Groans rose from living surges round; yet loud
The High Priest uttered—“Lay them on the fire!”
'T was done: and wine and oil poured amply o'er,
Yet still the sacrificer wildly cried—
“Woe unto all! the wandering fires hiss up
Through the black vapours—lapping o'er the flesh
They burn not, but abandon! ashes fill
The temple, whirled upon the wind that waves
The flame through smothering clouds, towards the Mount,
That, since first light, hath hurled its lava forth!
Hark! the wild thunder bursts upon the right!
Ravens and vultures pass us on the left!
Fly, votaries! from the wrath of heaven, oh, fly!
The Vestals shriek, the sacred fire is dead,
The gods deny our prayers! fly to your homes!”
From the Pantheon struggled the vast throng,
And rushed dismayed unto their household hearths,
While from Vesuvius swelled a pyramid
Of smoke streaked o'er with gory flame, and sounds,
Like voices howling curses deep in earth,
From its abysses rose, and ashes fell
Through the thick panting air in burning clouds.
All, save the haughty Pontiff, mocking fear,
The Temple had abandoned, but he sate
On the high altar, 'mid the trophied pomp
Of vain oblations to the sculptured gods,
Breathing his scorn and imprecations on
The dastard people and the blasted rites,
When, heaving as on billows, while a moan
Passed o'er the statues, the proud temple swayed,
As 't were an evening cloud, from side to side,
Rocking beneath the earthquake that convulsed
Sea, shore and mountain, at its hollow voice,
Hurled into ruin; and his lips yet glowed
With execrations on the sacrifice,
When from its pedestal, bending with brow
Of vengeance and fixed lips that almost spake,
Jove's giant image fell and crushed to earth
The Thunderer's mocker in his temple home?
Of the theocracies, the pageant swept,
A thousand feet dancing the song, and paused
Around the shrines they dragged the victims up.
Then, bending from Jove's altar to the east,
The Pontiff raised the golden chalice, crowned
With wine unmingled, and, amid the shower
Of green herbs, myrrh, obelia and vine leaves,
Poured out the brimmed libation on the head
Of the awaiting sacrifice, from flocks
Chosen for beauty, and young quickening life.
Then with a laurel branch, he sprinkled all,
Circling the altar thrice; the heralds, then,
Cried, “Who is here?” and all the multitudes
Like the chafed billows answered, “Many and Good!”
96
Like Harpocrates in the vestibule!”
The high Priest, 'mid the wreathing incense, raised
The prayer; the augur, with his wand marked out
The heavens; the aruspices, with eyes of awe,
Behind the slayers of the sacrifice
Stood gazing on the victims. “Hath no spot,
No arrow from the Huntress' bow or dart
Of Pythius stained the offering?” said the priest.
“'Tis fair and perfect, and unblemished stands
To give its body to the Harvest Queen
And all the gods!—We pour into its ear
The holy water—yet it doth not nod!
We bend the neck—it struggles for the flight!
Dismal presages! omens of despair!”
The Pontiff quailed, not in the dread of gods,
(His sole divinity was his own power)
But fear of superstition's evil thought,
As from the fluctuating host arose
A smothered shriek of terrour; and, in tones
Quick, stern, and deep as the exploded bolt,
Commanded—“Strike! the wrath of Jove attends
The impious delay!”—and, hushed as heaven
When broods the hurricane on cloudy deeps,
The worshippers stood trembling as they looked,—
The agonies and ecstacies of fear
And hope, in stormlike glimpses, shadowing o'er
The broken waves of faces—on the shrine,
And saw the axe of the cultrarius fall!
Maddened and bleeding, yet not slain, the ram
Flung back his twisted horns—sent up a sound
Of anguish, and in frenzy on the air
Springing, in his fierce death-throes, fell amidst
Dismayed adorers and gasped out his life.
Shrieks o'er the panting silence rose and filled
The temple, and in horrour shrunk the throng
As o'er the accursed rites pale Nemesis,
Leading the Destinies, had come to blast
The sacrifice with sacrilege; but now
97
The tumult, called another victim up
And stillness brooded o'er the stricken crowd.
Gashing the lifted neck, the popæ held
The brazen ewers beneath the bubbling blood,
And white robed flamens bade the people note
The happiest augury—without a sigh
Or tremor, seen or heard, the victim died.
Then flayed and opened they the offering,
Lifting the vitals on their weapons' points.
With writhing brows, pale lips and ashen cheeks,
And failing hearts, in horror's panic voice,
The aruspices proclaimed the prodigies.
“The entrails palpitate—the liver's lobes
Are withered, and the heart hath shrivelled up!”
Groans rose from living surges round; yet loud
The High Priest uttered—“Lay them on the fire!”
'T was done: and wine and oil poured amply o'er,
Yet still the sacrificer wildly cried—
“Woe unto all! the wandering fires hiss up
Through the black vapours—lapping o'er the flesh
They burn not, but abandon! ashes fill
The temple, whirled upon the wind that waves
The flame through smothering clouds, towards the Mount,
That, since first light, hath hurled its lava forth!
Hark! the wild thunder bursts upon the right!
Ravens and vultures pass us on the left!
Fly, votaries! from the wrath of heaven, oh, fly!
The Vestals shriek, the sacred fire is dead,
The gods deny our prayers! fly to your homes!”
From the Pantheon struggled the vast throng,
And rushed dismayed unto their household hearths,
While from Vesuvius swelled a pyramid
Of smoke streaked o'er with gory flame, and sounds,
Like voices howling curses deep in earth,
From its abysses rose, and ashes fell
Through the thick panting air in burning clouds.
All, save the haughty Pontiff, mocking fear,
The Temple had abandoned, but he sate
On the high altar, 'mid the trophied pomp
Of vain oblations to the sculptured gods,
98
The dastard people and the blasted rites,
When, heaving as on billows, while a moan
Passed o'er the statues, the proud temple swayed,
As 't were an evening cloud, from side to side,
Rocking beneath the earthquake that convulsed
Sea, shore and mountain, at its hollow voice,
Hurled into ruin; and his lips yet glowed
With execrations on the sacrifice,
When from its pedestal, bending with brow
Of vengeance and fixed lips that almost spake,
Jove's giant image fell and crushed to earth
The Thunderer's mocker in his temple home?
A peculiar sort of sacrificial cakes.
It was held unholy to offer up any maimed or imperfect creature, and herein the Judean ecclesiastical enactments agreed with those of the Greeks and Romans. All their animal sacrifices were “chosen for beauty and young quickening life.”
Any blemish inflicted by the Huntress or Pythius, by Sun or Moon namely, was deemed a particular offence to the deity.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |