 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
61
THE OATH OF HANNIBAL.
“Dixitque tandem perfidus Hannibal:
‘Cervi luporum præda rapacium,
Sectamur ultro, quos opimus
Fallere et effugere est triumphus.’”—
Hor., Lib. IV. Ode 4.
‘Cervi luporum præda rapacium,
Sectamur ultro, quos opimus
Fallere et effugere est triumphus.’”—
Hor., Lib. IV. Ode 4.
“Eternal hate!” in manhood's accents stern—
“Eternal hate to Rome!” the father vowed,
While many a marble god and sculptured urn
In deep triumphant echoes murmured loud,
“Eternal hate to Rome!” The sunbeam flowed
In liquid light upon the infant brow
Of Hannibal—'twas Hannibal that vowed,
All passionless and pure as Alpine snow,
At that red shrine. Let ages mark the lisper's vow.
“Eternal hate to Rome!” the father vowed,
While many a marble god and sculptured urn
In deep triumphant echoes murmured loud,
“Eternal hate to Rome!” The sunbeam flowed
In liquid light upon the infant brow
Of Hannibal—'twas Hannibal that vowed,
All passionless and pure as Alpine snow,
At that red shrine. Let ages mark the lisper's vow.
“Eternal hate!” with dove-like features mild,
And childish murmurs musically low,
The unconscious hero swore; and swearing, smiled
On the drawn falchion, and the infernal glow
Of altars, smoking to man's deadliest foe,
The old Avenger!—earth and air and sea
Shuddered; and, answering from their cave below,
Hell's myriad voices yelled in fiendish glee,
Presaging to their slaves the curse of victory.
And childish murmurs musically low,
The unconscious hero swore; and swearing, smiled
On the drawn falchion, and the infernal glow
Of altars, smoking to man's deadliest foe,
The old Avenger!—earth and air and sea
Shuddered; and, answering from their cave below,
Hell's myriad voices yelled in fiendish glee,
Presaging to their slaves the curse of victory.
Eternal hate to Rome! 'Tis yours to tell,
Ye towering pyramids of living stone—
Ye thrones of winter—ye, whose monarchs dwell
In the frore avalanche, the torrent's moan,
Cold, deathless, inaccessible, alone!—
'Tis yours to tell, ye mountain walls, that stand
Girding Italia with a frozen zone,—
But stood in vain what time the Punic brand
Cleft your stern rocks as torrents cleave the sand.
Ye towering pyramids of living stone—
Ye thrones of winter—ye, whose monarchs dwell
In the frore avalanche, the torrent's moan,
Cold, deathless, inaccessible, alone!—
62
Girding Italia with a frozen zone,—
But stood in vain what time the Punic brand
Cleft your stern rocks as torrents cleave the sand.
By Sanguinetto's brook and Thrasymene,
By Threbia's banks and Cannæ's reeking plain,
By hostile camps from the Tarpeian seen,
By Roman legions—Roman eagles ta'en,
By thrice three thousand rings of knighthood slain,
Well was that vow fulfilled—Eternal hate!
Hate!—till nor name nor stone on stone remain
To tell of Roman glory; till her fate
Baser may be than bright of yore her loftiest state.
By Threbia's banks and Cannæ's reeking plain,
By hostile camps from the Tarpeian seen,
By Roman legions—Roman eagles ta'en,
By thrice three thousand rings of knighthood slain,
Well was that vow fulfilled—Eternal hate!
Hate!—till nor name nor stone on stone remain
To tell of Roman glory; till her fate
Baser may be than bright of yore her loftiest state.
Eternal hate to Rome!—till battle's tide
Reluctant ebbed; till Nero, glorious name—
Victorious Nero—he whose free-born pride
Is all forgotten in the damning fame,
The black eternity, that brands, like flame,
His diademed successor—from the crown
Of the fair Apennine, redeemed the shame
Of Latin arms with Hasdrubal's renown,
Trampling the latest stay, last hope, of Carthage down.
Reluctant ebbed; till Nero, glorious name—
Victorious Nero—he whose free-born pride
Is all forgotten in the damning fame,
The black eternity, that brands, like flame,
His diademed successor—from the crown
Of the fair Apennine, redeemed the shame
Of Latin arms with Hasdrubal's renown,
Trampling the latest stay, last hope, of Carthage down.
Sadly they vanished from his lingering view,
The sun-bright shores of Italy; and tears
Streamed hot and heavy, as those mountains blue
Sunk slowly, one by one—his hopes, his fears,
His fortunes buried there! The toil of years,
The struggle, and the triumph, and the gore,
Gone to the winds! The last hill disappears—
The wild and shoreless sea is stretched before—
What passion racks him now? Hate! Hate for evermore!
The sun-bright shores of Italy; and tears
Streamed hot and heavy, as those mountains blue
Sunk slowly, one by one—his hopes, his fears,
His fortunes buried there! The toil of years,
The struggle, and the triumph, and the gore,
Gone to the winds! The last hill disappears—
The wild and shoreless sea is stretched before—
What passion racks him now? Hate! Hate for evermore!
63
Eternal hate! When Rome's unconquered pinion
Shook its red horror o'er his Libyan strand,
When striving, not as erst, for high dominion,
Or blood-bought conquest of a foreign land,
The swarthy legions of his parent sand
He led—not now to glory. When no more
Victorious fortune plumed her on his brand,
While Rome hung balanced in the battle's roar,
But Carthage' self was staked—was lost on Zama.
Shook its red horror o'er his Libyan strand,
When striving, not as erst, for high dominion,
Or blood-bought conquest of a foreign land,
The swarthy legions of his parent sand
He led—not now to glory. When no more
Victorious fortune plumed her on his brand,
While Rome hung balanced in the battle's roar,
But Carthage' self was staked—was lost on Zama.
When all save life—friends, country, power, were flown;
When, reft of hope, his heart yet scorned to ache;
When the world's outcast, agèd and alone,
Whom toil, war, famine, woe, had failed to break;
Whom hostile force, or kindred guile to shake—
Rome's terror still—in ghastly pride he sate,
Till the Bithynian tyrant deigned awake,
A mighty suppliant at his barbarous gate;—
Eternal hate to Rome, 'twas still—eternal hate!
When, reft of hope, his heart yet scorned to ache;
When the world's outcast, agèd and alone,
Whom toil, war, famine, woe, had failed to break;
Whom hostile force, or kindred guile to shake—
Rome's terror still—in ghastly pride he sate,
Till the Bithynian tyrant deigned awake,
A mighty suppliant at his barbarous gate;—
Eternal hate to Rome, 'twas still—eternal hate!
When the soul hovered on its quivering wing,
As loth to fly, yet impotent to stay;
When the last comfort of the treasured ring—
The sole Avenger of dark Cannæ's day—
Was quaffed; when hope had naught for which to pray,
When writhing brow confessed, and grinding teeth,
The pangs which rend the spirit from the clay;
Hate parted not, but with the parting breath—
Hate, as in life supreme, invincible in death.
As loth to fly, yet impotent to stay;
When the last comfort of the treasured ring—
The sole Avenger of dark Cannæ's day—
Was quaffed; when hope had naught for which to pray,
When writhing brow confessed, and grinding teeth,
The pangs which rend the spirit from the clay;
Hate parted not, but with the parting breath—
Hate, as in life supreme, invincible in death.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |