University of Virginia Library

THE NEW ROME.

(Kensington Gardens. Late evening.)
THE POET.
Declaiming from a Manuscript.)
‘“The time is out of joint. O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right!”
Yet forth I'll venture, leaping in the lists,
To join the knightly band of Satirists!
For since the hour—’

A VOICE.
Proceed! I'm listening!
Prithee, remember I am always near
When Bards who ought to soar to Heaven and sing
Elect to crawl upon the ground and sneer!

THE POET.
Satan again!

THE NEW-COMER.
I see you recognise me!
The real and only Devil, whose cause dejected
You champion'd 'gainst a world that vilifies me,
And so for Hell's black laurel were selected!
Yea, Satan! Not the gruesome De'il invented
Up north by Kings and ministers demented,
Not the Arch-Knave in bonnet and cock's feather
Who scaled the Brocken peaks in windy weather,
Far less that fop of fashionable flummery
Beloved by Miss Corelli and Montgomery:—
Nay, the true Æon, friend of things created
Whom 'tis your glory to have vindicated!

THE POET.
What brings you hither?

THE ÆON.
Partly to remind you
Of sundry noble themes well worth your while,
My son, to sing of,—but alas, I find you,
Putting this joyful Jubilee behind you,
A-swing on Twickenham's too easy Style!
'Ware satire, friend! and most of all, I pray you,
Shun jogtrot jingles of the pinchbeck Masters!

THE POET.
And if my Muse refuses to obey you?

THE ÆON.
Be damn'd with Austin and the poetasters!
But come, your subject?

THE POET.
Rome!—the new-created
And dominant realm which now makes jubilation!
This Empire, which is Rome rejuvenated!

THE ÆON.
Continue, if you please, your declamation!

THE POET.
‘Yet since the hour when in the throat of Wrong
The Roman thrust his blunt-edged sword of song,
Since as a tigress suckling cubs unclean
The Imperial City fed its fiefs with sin,
Full circle round the Wheel of Time hath rolled,
And lo! another Rome, like Rome of old,
Heir of the ages, gathering hour by hour
The aftermath of human pride and power,
Pitiless as its prototype of yore,
Sweeps on with conquering sails from shore to shore!
As Rome was then, when all the gods were dead,
When Faith was gone, and even Hope had fled,
Yet when the Roman still in every land
Knelt and upraised to Heaven a blood-red hand,
So is our England now!—yea here as there,
Temples still rise and millions kneel in prayer—
Pale gods of Peace are carelessly adored,
While priests and augurs consecrate the Sword!
“Honour the Gods!” the people cry who know
Those gods were dead and buried long ago:
Atheists in thought and orthodox in deed
Men throng the forum and uphold the Creed,
For fashion still preserves what Truth hath slain,
Still simulacra of the gods remain,
And still 'tis decent, 'spite the scoffer's sneer,
To keep the word of promise to the ear
And break it—to the Soul!’

THE ÆON.
Bravo! a strain
Which makes the little hunchback squeak again!
Proceed!

THE POET.
You're laughing!

THE ÆON.
As you say!

THE POET.
Doth not the parallel strike home?
Is not the Empire of to-day
Another and a lewder Rome?
Is not this Realm, whose flag unfurl'd
Flies now where'er the surges roar,
Even as that wonder of the world
Sung by your Juvenal of yore?

THE ÆON.
My Juvenal?

THE POET.
At least you'll grant
'Tis such a Bard the people want—
Fearless, free-spoken, sane, and strong,
To smite with stern and savage song
This monstrous Age of shams and lies?

THE ÆON.
Nay, on my soul! I recognise
The justice of your parallel,
As high as Heaven, as deep as Hell;
But not by hate and not by scorn,
Not by the arts of bards outworn,
I work! I conquer and confute
By Love and Pity absolute!
And he who earns my praise must find
The Light beyond these clouds of Fate,—
By love, not hate, for Humankind,
Must he enfranchise and unbind
The slaves whom God leaves desolate!

THE POET.
Amen!

THE ÆON.
For in his throat he lies,
Who, taught by tyrants, sees in me
The Evil Spirit that denies,—
Nay, by my Christ's poor blinded eyes,
My task is to affirm and free!

THE POET.
Your Christ?

THE ÆON.
Yea, mine! I claim as kin
All noble souls, however blind,
Who freely stake their lives to win
Respite of sorrow for mankind!
'Tis true He failed, like all who fancy
That tears can stay God's chariot-wheels,
And seek with childish necromancy
The Force which neither spares nor feels.
Peace to His dream! He loved men well,
Despite that superstitious leaven,—
He help'd to calm the unrest of Hell,
Although He failed to climb to Heaven!
Like Him I place beneath my ban,
With sycophant and knave and priest,
Those bitter fools who find in Man
Only the instincts of the Beast!
For now (as you yourself have sung)
In faith in Man lies Man's last chance!
Only the over-old or over-young
Look on Humanity askance!
But to your parallel again—
How do you prove and make it plain?

THE POET.
Look back across the rolling years,
Through Time's dark mist of blood and tears,
Across the graves of those who died
Despite their Saviour crucified,
And mark the imperial City rise
The cynosure of all men's eyes!
Domitian rules! Though men still see
The crimson light on Calvary,
From east to west, in every land,
The Roman banners are unfurled,
And the strong Roman's blood-red brand
Reapeth the harvests of the world.
Shrieks of the slain beyond the foam
Gladden the crowds who rest at home—
The gilded throng at Cæsar's heels,
The runners by his chariot-wheels,
The Priests and Augurs who intone
Praise of the gods around his throne.
A thousand starve, a few are fed,
Legions of robbers rack the poor,
The rich man steals the widow's bread,
And Lazarus dies at Dives' door;
The Lawyer and the Priest adjust
The claims of Luxury and Lust
To seize the earth and hold the soil,
To store the grain they never reap,—
Under their heels the white slaves toil,
While children wail and women weep!—
The gods are dead, but in their name
Humanity is sold to shame,
While (then as now!) the tinsel'd Priest
Sitteth with robbers at the feast,
Blesses the laden blood-stain'd board,
Weaves garlands round the butcher's sword,
And poureth freely (now as then)
The sacramental blood of Men!

THE ÆON.
Ah me!

THE POET.
Pursue the parallel:
Hear the New Woman rant and rage,
Unsex'd, unshamed, she fits full well
The humours of a godless age,—
Too proud to suckle fools at home,
From every woman's function free,
Lo (now as then!) she leads in Rome
The dance of Death and Vanity!
In manly guise she strives with men
In the Arena (now as then!)
Or by some painted Player's side
Sits lissome-limb'd and wanton-eyed,
Forgetting for a Mummer's nod
Her sex, her children, and her God!

THE ÆON.
Stop there! my poet must not flout at Woman!
‘Das Ewigweibliche’ is still my care!
Thro' her, so long the White Slave of the Human,
I mean to baulk the blundering Force up there!
The reign of Fools and Dandies, Prigs and Clerics,
Is o'er, with all its creeds of fiddle-faddle—
And lo, she leaves her vapours and hysterics,
And on the merry wheel she rides astraddle!
Unsex'd? Enfranchised, rather! Slave no longer,
Each hour she groweth saner, fairer, stronger,
Full-soul'd in health, redeem'd from superstition,
Yet mightier for her functions of fruition!

THE POET.
To breed and suckle fools and madmen? These
Alone can live in the accurst time coming!
Lo!—all the gods men hailed on bended knees
Are fallen and dead, and o'er the seven seas
Only the little banjo-bards are strumming!
O Age of Wind and windy reputations,
Of Windmill-newspapers that grind no grain!—
Where once the Poet sang to listening nations
The leader-writer pipes his servile strain,
Praises the gods he knows are dead and cold,
Hails the great Jingo-Christ's triumphal car,
Nay, in that false Christ's name, grown over-bold,
Shrieks havoc, and lets loose the dogs of War!

THE ÆON.
Nay, pass the peddling knaves whose hands have hurled
Trash by the ton upon a foolish world,
Who print in brutal type the gigman's creed
For the great mass of rogues who run and read!
Come to the Seers and Singers, on whose page
We read the glory of thy Mother-Age—
Off hat to those, the mighty men, whose names
The Empire honours and the world acclaims!

THE POET.
Find them!

THE ÆON.
I' faith, I leave that task to you—
Whom do you honour? Surely one or two?

THE POET.
Not those at least whom Rumour's brazen throat
Trumpets as worthy of the crown and bays—
Dress-suited sages, gentlemen of note,
Sure of the newsman's nod, the gigman's praise.
I turn from them, the sycophantic horde
Who tune their scrannel throats to praise the Lord,
And seek the heights whereon the Wise Men stand . . .
Lo!—the Philosopher!—with cheek on hand
And sad eyes fix'd on God's deserted Throne,
He cries, ‘Rejoice, since nothing can be known!
I show, beyond my ever-lengthening track
Of synthesis, the eternal—Cul de sac!’
Lo, then, the Poet!—happy, and at home
In all the arts and crafts of learnèd Rome,
He sees the bloody pageant of despair,
All Nature moaning 'neath its load of care,
Takes off his hat, and with a bow polite
Chirps, ‘God is in his Heaven! The world's all right!’
Add unto these the Sage who in the school
Of Timon madden'd and became God's Fool,
And all the would-be Titans of the time
Who pant in cumbrous prose or rant in rhyme,—
Where shall one find, to slake his soul's desire,
The piteous mood or cloud-compelling fire?

THE ÆON.
More satire, eh?—I' faith, if you'd your will
The Gods of this our Rome would fare but ill—
You ask too much, my friend! . . . But hark, that cry!
The hosts of Tommy Atkins passing by!
The Flag that for a thousand years has braved
The battle and the breeze is floating there!
What Shakespeare glorified and Nelson saved
Is worth, I think, some little praise and prayer!
Even I, the Devil, at that note
Feel the lump rising in my throat!
'Tis something, after all, you must agree,
To mark the old Flag float from sea to sea!

THE POET.
Amen!—God bless the flag, and God bless those
Who bled that it might wave aloft this day,
The nameless, fameless martyrs, who repose
Unwept, unmourn'd, on shores afar away!—
Honour to those who died for this our Rome,
Honour to those who, while we crow at home,
Preserve our freedom for a beggar's pay!
‘Let loose the dogs of War!’ the gigman cries,
Feasting on gold while Tommy starves and dies;
‘Glory to England and to us its brave!’
He shouts, while hirelings dig the soldier's grave!
O shame! O mockery! for a little gold
The freedom which we vaunt is bought and sold,—
And when a foeman smites us in the face,
‘A blow!’ we cry; ‘prepare the battle-field!’
Then bribe a starving wretch to take our place
And draw the ancestral sword we fear to wield!

THE ÆON.
You're out of temper with the times
And overstate your accusation,—
'Tis not her follies or her crimes
That keep this England still a Nation!
The gigman's lust, the bagman's greed,
The counter-jumper's peddling creed,
Are foam and froth of the great wave
Of Freedom rolling proudly on—
This England's heart of hearts is brave
And duteous as in ages gone!
The mercenary, who fulfils
The bloody deed another wills,
No alien is,—within his veins the bold
And fearless blood of a great race is flowing—
The flower of Valour, though 'tis bought and sold,
At least is home-bred and of English growing!
Enough of Rome! My Poet's gentle eyes
Are blinded with the City's garish day—
Sleep in the Moonlight for a time! you'll rise
Renew'd and strong, and Care will wing away.
Yonder among the hills of thyme and heather
I'm holding Jubilee myself full soon;
The Spirits of the Age will feast together
And there'll be merry doings 'neath the moon.
Join us! you'll find the mountain air more pleasant
Than this foul City gas you breathe at present;
Since to your soul these voices sound abhorrent,
Exchange them for the voices of the Torrent;
With dewy starlight freshen up your fancy,
Dip once again in Nature's lonely fountains,
And when you've drunk your fill of necromancy,
Flash back to Rome your message from the Mountains!