Poems by William Wetmore Story

Story, William Wetmore (1819-1895)

VOL. I. PARCHMENTS AND PORTRAITS

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION.

PARCHMENTS AND PALIMPSESTS.

A ROMAN LAWYER IN JERUSALEM.

A JEWISH RABBI IN ROME.

A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME.

PHIDIAS TO PERICLES.

MARCUS AURELIUS TO LUCIUS VERUS.

GIROLAMO, DETTO IL FIORENTINO, DESPONDS AND ABUSES THE WORLD.

PORTRAITS AND PERSONS.

VOL II. MONOLOGUES AND LYRICS

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PARCHMENTS AND PALIMPSESTS.

A ROMAN LAWYER IN JERUSALEM.

FIRST CENTURY.

[_]

[The Case of Judas.]

Marcus, abiding in Jerusalem,
Greeting to Caius, his best friend, in Rome!
Salve! these presents will be borne to you
By Lucius, who is wearied with this place,
Sated with travel, looks upon the East
As simply hateful—blazing, barren, bleak,
And longs again to find himself in Rome.
After the tumult of its streets, its trains
Of slaves and clients, and its villas cool
With marble porticoes beside the sea,
And friends and banquets,—more than all, its games,—
This life seems blank and flat. He pants to stand
In its vast circus all alive with heads
And quivering arms and floating robes,—the air
Thrilled by the roaring fremitus of men,—
The sunlit awning heaving overhead,
Swollen and strained against its corded veins,
And flapping out its hem with loud report,—
The wild beasts roaring from the pit below,—

The wilder crowd responding from above
With one long yell that sends the startled blood
With thrill and sudden flush into the cheeks,—
A hundred trumpets screaming,—the dull thump
Of horses galloping across the sand,—
The clang of scabbards, the sharp clash of steel,—
Live swords, that whirl a circle of gray fire,—
Brass helmets flashing 'neath their streaming hair,—
A universal tumult,—then a hush
Worse that the tumult—all eyes straining down
To the arena's pit—all lips set close—
All muscles strained,—and then that sudden yell,
Habet!—That's Rome, says Lucius: so it is!
That is, 't is his Rome,—'t is not yours and mine.

And yet, great Jupiter, here at my side
He stands with face alive as if he saw
The games he thus describes, and says, “That's life!
Life! life! my friend, and this is simply death!
Ah! for my Rome!” I jot his very words
Just as he utters them. I hate these games,
And Lucius knows it, yet he will go on,
And all against my will he stirs my blood;
So I suspend my letter for a while.

A walk has calmed me—I begin again—
Letting this last page, since it is written, stand.
Lucius is going; you will see him soon
In our great Forum, there with him will walk,
And hear him rail and rave against the East.
I stay behind,—for these bare silences,
These hills that in the sunset melt and burn,
This proud, stern people, these dead seas and lakes,
These somber cedars, this intense still sky,
To me o'erwearied with Life's din and strain,
Are grateful as the solemn blank of night
After the fierce day's irritant excess;
Besides, a deep, absorbing interest
Detains me here, fills up my mind, and sways
My inmost thoughts,—has got as 't were a gripe
Upon my very life, as strange as new.
I scarcely know how well to speak of this,
Fearing your raillery at best,—at worst
Even your contempt; yet, spite of all, I speak.

First, do not deem me to have lost my head,
Sun-struck, as that man Paulus was at Rome.
No, I am sane as ever, and my pulse
Beats even, with no fever in my blood.
And yet I half incline to think his words,
Wild as they were, were not entirely wild.
Nay, shall I dare avow it? I half tend,
Here in this place, surrounded by these men,—

Despite the jeering natural at first,
And then the pressure of my life-long thought
Trained up against it,—to excuse his faith,
And half admit the Christus he thinks God
Was, at the least, a most mysterious man.
Bear with me if I now avow so much;
When next we meet I will expose my mind,
But now the subject I must scarcely touch.

How many a time, while sauntering up and down
The Forum's space, or pausing 'neath the shade
Of some grand temple, arch, or portico,
Have we discussed some knotty point of law,
Some curious case, whose contradicting facts
Looked Janus-faced to innocence and guilt.
I see you now arresting me, to note
With quiet fervor and uplifted hand
Some subtle view or fact by me o'erlooked,
And urging me, who always strain my point
(Being too much, I know, a partisan),
To pause, and press not to the issue so,
But more apart, with less impetuous zeal,
Survey as from an upper floor the facts.

I need you now to rein me in, too quick
To ride a whim beyond the term of Truth,
For her a case comes up to which in vain
I seek the clue: you could clear up my mind;
But you are absent—so I send these notes.

The case is of one Judas, Simon's son,
Iscariot called—a Jew—and one of those
Who followed Christus, held by some a god,
But deemed by others to have preached and taught
A superstition vile, of which one point
Was worship of an ass; but this is false!
Judas, his follower, all the sect declare,
Bought by a bribe of thirty silver coins,
Basely betrayed his master unto death.
The question is,—Did Judas, doing this,
Act from base motives and commit a crime?
Or, all things taken carefully in view,
Can he be justified in what he did?

Here on the spot, surrounded by the men
Who acted in the drama, I have sought
To study out this strange and tragic case.
Many are dead, as Herod, Caiaphas,
And also Pilate,—a most worthy man,
Under whose rule, but all without his fault,
And, as I fancy, all against his will,
Christus was crucified. This I regret:
His words with me would have the greatest weight;
But Lysias still is living, an old man,
The chief of the Centurions, whose report
Is to be trusted, as he saw and heard,
Not once, but many a time and oft, this man.
His look and bearing, Lysias thus describes:—

“Tall, slender, not erect, a little bent;
Brows arched and dark; a high-ridged lofty head;
Thin temples, veined and delicate; large eyes,
Sad, very serious, seeming as it were
To look beyond you, and whene'er he spoke
Illumined by an inner lamping light,—
At times, too, gleaming with a strange wild fire
When taunted by the rabble in the streets;
A Jewish face, complexion pale but dark;
Thin, high-cut nostrils, quivering constantly;
Long nose, full lips, hands tapering, full of veins;
His movements nervous: as he walked he seemed
Scarcely to heed the persons whom he passed,
And for the most part gazed upon the ground;
Or lifting up his eyes, seemed as it were
To look far through you to some world beyond.

“As for his followers, I knew them all—
A strange, mad set, and full of fancies wild—
John, Peter, James—and Judas, best of all—
All seemed to me good men without offense,—
A little crazed,—but who is wholly sane?
They went about and cured the sick and halt,
And gave away their money to the poor,
And all their talk was charity and peace.
If Christus thought and said he was a god,
'T was harmless madness, not deserving death.
What most aroused the wealthy Rabbis' rage
Was that he set the poor against the rich,

And cried that rich men all would go to hell,
And, worst of all, roundly denounced the priests,
With all their rich phylacteries and robes,—
Said they were hypocrites who made long prayers,
And robbed poor widows and devoured their means,
And were at best but whited sepulchres:
And this it was that brought him to the Cross.

“Those who went with him and believed in him
Were mostly dull, uneducated men,
Simple and honest, dazed by what he did,
And misconceiving every word he said.
He led them with him in a spell-bound awe,
And all his cures they called miraculous.
They followed him like sheep where'er he went,
With feelings mixed of wonder, fear, and love.
Yes! I suppose they loved him, though they fled
Stricken with fear when we arrested him.”

“What! all—all fled?” I asked. “Did none remain?”

“Not one,” he said, “all left him to his fate.
Not one dared own he was a follower,—
Not Peter surely, he denied him thrice;
No one gave witness for him of them all.
Stop! When I say not one of them, I mean
No one but Judas,—Judas, whom they call

The traitor,—who betrayed him to his death.
He rushed into the council-hall and cried,
‘'T is I have sinned—Christus is innocent.’”

And here I come to what of all I 've heard
Most touched me,—I for this my letter write.
Paulus, you know, had only for this man,
This Judas, words of scorn and bitter hate.
Mark now the different view that Lysias took!
When, urged by me, his story thus he told:—

“Some say that Judas was a base, vile man,
Who sold his master for the meanest bribe;
Others again insist he was most right,
Giving to justice one who merely sought
To overthrow the Church, subvert the law,
And on its ruins build himself a throne.
I, knowing Judas—and none better knew—
I, caring nought for Christus more than him,
But hating lies, the simple truth will tell.
No man can say I ever told a lie;
I am too old now to begin. Besides,
The truth is truth, and let the truth be told.
Judas, I say, alone of all the men
Who followed Christus, thought that he was God.
Some feared him for his power of miracles;
Some were attracted by a sort of spell;
Some followed him to hear his sweet, clear voice,
And gentle speaking, hearing with their ears,
And knowing not the sense of what he said;

But one alone believed he was the Lord,
The true Messiah of the Jews. That one
Was Judas,—he alone of all the crowd.

“He to betray his master for a bribe!
He last of all. I say this friend of mine
Was brave when all the rest were cowards there.

“His was a noble nature: frank and bold,
Almost to rashness bold, yet sensitive,
Who took his dreams for firm realities;
Who once believing, all in all believed;
Rushing at obstacles and scorning risk,
Ready to venture all to gain his end;
No compromise or subterfuge for him,
His act went from his thought straight to the butt.
Yet with this ardent and impatient mood
Was joined a visionary mind that took
Impressions quick and fine, yet deep as life.
Therefore it was that in this subtle soil
The master's words took root and grew and flowered.
He heard, and followed, and obeyed; his faith
Was serious, earnest, real—winged to fly;
He doubted not, like some who walked with him;
Desired no first place, as did James and John;
Denied him not with Peter: not to him
His master said, ‘Away! thou 'rt an offense;
Get thee behind me, Satan!’—not to him,
‘Am I so long with ye who know me not?’

Fixed as a rock, untempted by desires
To gain the post of honor when his Lord
Should come to rule—chosen from out the midst
Of sixscore men as his apostle—then
Again selected to the place of trust,
Unselfish, honest, he among them walked.

“That he was honest, and was so esteemed,
Is plain from this,—they chose him out of all
To bear the common purse, and take and pay.
John says he was a thief, because he grudged
The price that for some ointment once was paid,
And urged 't were better given to the poor.
But did not Christus ever for the poor
Lift up his voice,—‘Give all things to the poor;
Sell everything and give all to the poor!’
And Judas, who believed, not made believe,
Used his own words, and Christus, who excused
The gift because of love, rebuked him not.
I, for my part, see nothing wrong in this.
Did he alone of Christus' followers
Condemn this gift? ah, no! by all of them
It was condemned, all cried indignantly
‘Why is this waste?’ not Judas more than they.

“Thief! thief indeed! If Christus was a God
Or even a Prophet, or, far less, a man,
Endowed with common judgment, insight, mind,
He must have known and seen what Judas was,
With whom he lived in constant fellowship;

And yet he chose him out of all of them
To bear the purse and give alms to the poor!—
He chose a thief, and none remonstrated,
Not even John, for all he now may say.”

“But why, if Judas was a man like this,
Frank, noble, honest,”—here I interposed,—
“Why was it that he thus betrayed his Lord?”

“This question oft did I revolve,” said he,
“When all the facts were fresh, and oft revolved
In later days, and with no change of mind;
And this is my solution of the case:—

“Daily he heard his master's voice proclaim,
‘I am the Lord! the Father lives in me!
Who knoweth me knows the Eternal God!
He who believes in me shall never die!
No! he shall see me with my angels come
With power and glory here upon the earth
To judge the quick and dead! Among you here
Some shall not taste of death before I come
God's kingdom to establish on the earth!’

“What meant these words? They seethed in Judas' soul.
‘Here is my God—Messias, King of kings,
Christus, the Lord—the Saviour of us all.
How long shall he be taunted and reviled,
And threatened by this crawling scum of men?

Oh, who shall urge the coming of that day
When he in majesty shall clothe himself
And stand before the astounded world its King?’
Long brooding over this inflamed his soul;
And, ever rash in schemes as wild in thought,
At last he said, ‘No longer will I bear
This ignominy heaped upon my Lord.
No man hath power to harm the Almighty One.
Ay, let man's hand be lifted, then, at once,
Effulgent like the sun, swift like the sword,
The jagged lightning flashes from the cloud,
Shall he be manifest—the living God—
And prostrate all shall on the earth adore!’”

“This is a strange solution,” here I cried.
“Find you a better, if you can,” said he.
“I cannot. Taking all the facts in view,
Or rather the reports, the truth of which
I cannot vouch,—but, taking them as facts,
I see no other. Strange to you and me
Of course it seems, but not so strange to one
Like Judas with a mind ideal half,
Enthusiastic, visionary, quick
To set ablaze, and yet half positive,
Fixed, practical, and ever prone to force
Mere dreams into the world of acts and facts.

“Others might think the words that Christus used
Were vague and wild: to Judas they seemed plain.

Christus was God, not man, and being such
Must of necessity desire the hour
When man should end, and God should be revealed.
Judas was sure he had divined this wish,
Sure that his own thought Christus had divined,
And sure as Christus said, the hour had come.

“This is, at least, the only key I know
That fits the wards of this mysterious case.”

Here let me interrupt this narrative
With comments of my own, and words, acts, facts,
Unknown to Lysias, testified by those
Who knew, loved, followed Christus, and, 't would seem,
Thought him a sort of God. From their reports
I take the facts they state, the words they use,
Striving to find through this entangled maze,
The simple clue of truth, no more, no less.

“Divined his thought,” says Lysias. Was his thought
So hidden that a sympathetic heart
Could not at once divine it? If to some,
Wanting the sense to apprehend, his words
Seemed riddles hard to guess, to me at least
The wonder seems that any could mistake,
So clearly, with such iterance, they were said.

“Divined his thought.” What was there to divine?
What else could mean those sayings strange and strong,
So oft repeated? What for instance this?
“I to Jerusalem must go, and there
Be taken, suffer, and be slain, and then
I shall arise triumphant over all.
Then you shall see in glory and in power
The son with all his Father's angels come.”
And then it was, when Peter, answering back,
Rebuked him saying, “Be it far from thee,
This shall not be unto thee,” he, half vexed
To be thus thwarted in his wish, cried out,
“Get thee behind me, Satan, thou to me
Art an offense.” And so again he said:
“I lay my life down, no man taketh it
Away from me. I lay it down myself,
As I have power to take it up again;
And I will lift up all the earth to me.”
And yet again: “I go my way, but where
You cannot follow,”—and at this his friends
Whispered, “What means this? Will he kill himself?”

'T is plain at last this one thought haunted him.
He longed for sacrifice, as all such souls,
Exalted, fired with high ideal thoughts,
Long for their martyrdom and cannot rest
Till by their death they consecrate their faith.

Them the fire burns not, them the wild beasts' fangs
Are powerless to torment,—the torturing rack,
The red-hot pincers break and rend in vain.
The spirit overpowers and scorns the flesh,
And pain is but the promise of reward.

Weary of teaching where none understood,
Tired of life and all its mean mad strife,
Eager he longed to greet the end of all.
“I have a baptism and must be baptized
Thereunto, and am straitened till 't is done.”
Thus cried he, and his words seem plain enough,
So plain indeed that some among them deemed
He meant to take his life. Some, to avert
His purpose, strove like Peter, and in vain.
And of the common crowd of followers
Many abandoned him as one half mad.

But not to press this further and repeat
His many other sayings strange and wild,
Let these suffice! You will perceive how strong
They bear upon the matter to explain
The sad mistake of Judas,—if indeed
He did mistake,—or show he but obeyed
The will of Christus and direct command.
You, who have seen how glad some victims go
To meet their death,—ay, greet and covet it,—
Will see that Christus, being, let us say,
Inspired,—all men with high and noble thoughts

Are what we call inspired,—a prophet too—
Almost a God—so deemed at least by some,
Even by himself, 't would seem,—lifted at least
Above the herd of ignorant wicked men
In all his hopes and aims, misunderstood
Even by his friends, pursued by enemies,
Should weary of the heavy task his God
Had laid on him and long to consecrate
By sacrifice his life, and end it all.

Upon his spirit, in his later years,
A change had come. The teaching sweet and calm,
The universal love for all mankind,
Which in his early years was all in all,
Had given way to other thoughts and hopes.
No more the simple teacher as of yore,
Now, though at times he said he was mere man,
At other times he claimed to be a God.
The son of God, Messiah of the Jews,
The coming one to whom all power was given
To judge the quick and dead, who, of himself,
In three days' space could hurl their temple down,
And build it up,—mere madness as it seemed
To those who heard and laughed and pitied him.
This overcast his spirit, and at times
His words were bitter (as when he denounced
The Pharisees and priests), at times his acts
(As when he drove from forth the Temple's gates
The changers, crying they had made God's house

A den of thieves). Through all these later days
A spirit ruled him different from the old.
Whether he thought, in truth, that he was God,
And Death, or what to others seemed the end,
Was but the door through which from human life
He to a life divine should pass, and man
So become God and back to earth return
Triumphant, glorious, with angelic hosts,—
Or whether Death he deemed would quail and crouch,
And powerless at his presence drop its sword
And justify his claim to all the world,—
Whatever were his thoughts, he longed to try
The sharp conclusion, once for all, and prove
He was Messiah, God, the King of all.

I hazard this. It may be so, at least
This way his words would clearly seem to point.
If so, then Judas may have shared his thoughts;
If not so, ample ground there surely was
For misconception without thought of wrong.

So much for this; what followed let us see.
The records are not clear, but still enough
To show the way to truth, for one at least
Trained as you are to balance evidence.

One thing is amply proved: that he alone,
When safe beyond the reach of enemies,
Ordained this journey to Jerusalem,

Alone decreed the time, place, circumstance,
Against his followers' wish when they should meet.
Why did he go, unless to brave his foes,
To court betrayal, and to seek his death?

But be this as it may, thither he went;
There in the house appointed met his friends;
There, knowing he was sought for by his foes,
Sat down with Judas and the rest to sup.
And as they supped, he said, “Among you here
Is one that shall betray me.” At these words
Did all start up amazed, indignant, each
With horror struck, protesting, crying out.
Each questioning each? ah, no! each simply said,
“Lord is it I? Lord is it I?” Yes, all!
Ay! every one of them cried, “Is it I?”
And he: “The one who dippeth in his sop
With mine into the dish, he is the one
That shall betray me.” Judas in the dish
Then dipped his sop—or Christus gave it him,
And said “Now go! and what thou hast to do
Do quickly;” and then Judas rose and went.
But ere he rose and left them Christus said,
“Now shall the Son of man be glorified!”
Strange words, that Judas well might think to mean
His master should be glorified through him.

Here let us pause and look these simple facts
Full in the face. Either the act itself

Which Judas was to do was infamous,
Or simply right and justified by all.
Setting aside all question of mistake,
Which was it, that's the question, right or wrong?

What was betrayal? merely pointing out
The person of their leader, at such time,
Such place as he commanded; and what need
Even of this? He did not hide himself,
He was well known, he daily walked abroad
Attended by his followers, preached to crowds,
Healed those who sought his healing, openly,
Roundly denounced the scribes and Pharisees,
Avowed his doctrines and proclaimed his faith.
What need of Judas or of any one
To point him out, betray him as 't is called?
All knew him and could take him when they pleased.
Betray indeed! what was there to betray?
'T was but the after tragedy alone
That threw a backward, lurid light on it
And made this act of Judas seem so vile.

Suppose the act was infamous, or, at least,
So deemed by any one among the twelve,
Is it not clear that none of them had cried
“Lord is it I?” What! every one of them
Imagined he might be the traitor meant
And do the very act that now the world
Brands as accursëd. No, impossible!

Else they were traitors every one of them,
Traitors in will and thought, if not in deed.

Plainly the act that Judas had to do,
Call it by any ugly name you will
(Names do not alter acts), to none of them
Seemed base, wrong, infamous as now 't is held,
Or all alike were base, vile, infamous,—
Not Judas only, but the whole of them.

Suppose, again, they all were honest men,
Devoted to their leader heart and soul,
And Judas only vile; that they were shocked
At thought of such betrayal, how explain
Their questioning, “Is it I?” and how explain
Their after silence, with no word to him
Of stern remonstrance, friendly counsel, prayers
To stay his purpose; failing these, no hand
Lifted to hold him, stop him by main force?

Not only they did naught by word or act,
But Christus' self cried, “What thou hast to do,
Go and do quickly;” laying as it were
Commands upon him thus to go and act.

What! Christus urged him on, or let him go
To consummate an act of infamy
Without one warning word to hold him back?
It cannot be. This clearly seems to prove
He acted by command. He undertook

A duty laid upon him, no vile thought
Or wish impelling,—else had Christus sought
To save him, turn his mind away from crime,
Remonstrate with him, and not urge him on
To his destruction, as it seems he did.

Suppose, again, a band of men conjoined
For noble purposes and aims like these,
Or even a band of foul conspirators,
With murder in their minds, or what you will.
And suddenly their leader points them out
A traitor sitting with them. “There is he
Who will betray me.” Would not all at once
Rise and cry out, remonstrate, threaten, pray,
Seek every means to break his purpose down,
And all these failing, with compelling strength
Seize him and bind him, force him to renounce
His plotted crime; ay, more, when all else failed
Slay him and save their leader by his death?
And he, the traitor, would not he cry out,
Protest, deny, declare, even though in fact
Traitor he meant to be, his innocence?

Ay! they were men of peace, preached love, I know,
Forgiveness; and to raise a stave, a sword,
Was in their estimation wrong. Why, then,
Went they out armed? Two swords at least they had,
And, later, Peter drew his sword and smote

The high priest's servant and cut off his ear.
He wore a sword, at least, and he could strike
When the occasion called,—this did not call.

They did not understand? a poor excuse!
The words were plain, and Judas understood.
How? why? he any more than they?
'T would seem that every one among them there
Knew the intent of Christus, must have known
From all he said before, as well as then.
And, knowing it, approved it, or at least,
Did not oppose it, but let Judas go.
They grieved, indeed! Why did they grieve? at what?
The act of Judas, or their Lord's resolve?

One moment more, when Judas had gone out,
Christus remained with all the rest, and then,
What said he to them? Did he once reprove
This contemplated crime of Judas? No!
Them he reproved, and said, “If me you loved
You would rejoice, because I said I go
Unto the Father. 'T is expedient, too,
That I should go away, for otherwise
The Comforter will never come to you,
And he will glorify me when he comes.”
And more he said, and every word implied
That death he courted, with determined mind.

Then they set forth to their accustomed place
Beyond the brook of Cedron, as agreed,

Decided, fixed upon, as Judas knew.
Had Christus then desired to avert his fate,
What easier? He had simply not to go
To the appointed spot. No one could force
His steps to take that path. But his own will
Was fixed; there he would go and only there;
Once only his high spirit seemed to fail,
When, at Gethsemane, he prayed the cup
Might pass away from him; then strong again
He onward went with firm, unfaltering step.

Here I commence the narrative again,
So interrupted, and perhaps too long.
Still, all this weighs so strongly on the case
I could not pass it over. And besides
This, Lysias did not know, or scarcely knew,
And then by vague report.—Now to resume.

“Judas,” says Lysias, “when the rest he left,
Came straight to where I was with the high priests,
Not as a coward, stealing in to do
A dastard act, but with an open face,
And clear, bold voice, and said, ‘Behold me here,
Judas, a follower of Christus! Come!
I will point out my master whom you seek!’
And out at once they sent me with my band;
And as we went, I said, rebuking him,
‘How, Judas, is it you who thus betray
The lord and master whom you love, to death?’

And, smiling, then he answered, ‘Fear you not;
Do you your duty; take no heed of me.’
‘Is not this vile?’ I said; ‘I had not deemed
Such baseness in you.’ ‘Though it seem so now,’
Still smiling, he replied, ‘wait till the end.’
Then turning round, as to himself he said,
‘Now comes the hour that I have prayed to see,—
The hour of joy to all who know the truth.’

“‘Is this man mad?’ I thought, and looked at him;
And, in the darkness creeping swiftly on,
His face was glowing, almost shone, with light;
And rapt as if in visionary thought
He walked beside me, gazing at the sky.

“Passing at last beyond the Cedron brook,
We reached a garden, on whose open gate
Dark vines were loosely swinging. Here we paused,
And lifted up our torches, and behold
Against the blank white wall a shadowy group,
There waiting motionless, without a word:
A moment, and with rapid, nervous step,
Judas alone advanced, and as he reached
The tallest figure, lifted quick his head;
And crying, ‘Master! Master!’ kissed his cheek.
We, knowing it was Christus, forward pressed.
Malchus was at my side, when suddenly

A sword flashed out from one among them there,
And sheared his ear. At once our swords flashed out,
But Christus, lifting up his hand, said, ‘Peace,
Sheathe thy sword, Peter—I must drink the cup.’
And I cried also, ‘Peace, and sheathe your swords.’
Then on his arm I placed my hand, and said,
‘In the law's name.’ At this he turned and stood
A moment, mute, and then stretched forth his arms
Saying as if to justify himself,
And show that Judas understood him right,
‘Think'st thou, if I my Father now beseech,
Even now, he will not send to aid me more
Than legions twelve of angels? But, if so,
How should the Scriptures be fulfilled? I taught
Daily within the temple to you all,
And yet you took me not! This is your hour.
The cup my father gives me I must drink.’

“We took him then and bound his hands with cords,
He offering no resistance to our will.
This done, I turned, but all the rest had fled,
And he alone was left to meet his fate.

“My men I ordered then to take and bear
Their prisoner to the city; and at once

They moved away. I, seeing not our guide,
Cried, ‘Judas!’—but no answer; then a groan
So sad and deep it startled me. I turned,
And there, against the wall, with ghastly face,
And eyeballs starting in a frenzied glare,
As in a fit, lay Judas; his weak arms
Hung lifeless down, his mouth half open twitched.
His hands were clutched and clenched into his robes,
And now and then his breast heaved with a gasp.
Frightened, I dashed some water in his face,
Spoke to him, lifted him, and rubbed his hands.
At last the sense came back into his eyes,
Then with a sudden spasm fled again,
And to the ground he dropped. I searched him o'er,
Fearing some mortal wound, yet none I found.
Then with a gasp again the life returned,
And stayed, but still with strong convulsion twitched.
‘Speak, Judas! speak!’ I cried. ‘What does this mean?’
No answer! ‘Speak, man!’ Then at last he groaned:
‘Go, leave me! leave me, Lysias. O my God!
What have I done? O Christus! Master, Lord,
Forgive me, oh, forgive me!’ Then a cry
Of agony that pierced me to the heart,
As groveling on the ground he turned away

And hid his face, and shuddered, in his robes.
Was this the man whose face an hour ago
Shone with a joy so strange? What means it all?
Is this a sudden madness? ‘Speak!’ I cried.
‘What means this, Judas? Be a man and speak!’
Yet there he lay, and neither moved nor spoke.
I thought that he had fainted, till at last
Sudden he turned and grasped my arm, and cried,
‘Say, Lysias, is this true, or am I mad?’
‘What true?’ I said. ‘True that you seized the Lord!
You could not seize him—he is God the Lord!
I thought I saw you seize him. Yet I know
That was impossible, for he is God!
And yet you live—you live. He spared you, then.
Where am I? What has happened? A black cloud
Came o'er me when you laid your hands on him.
Where are they all? Where is he? Lysias, speak!’

“‘Judas,’ I said, ‘what folly is all this?
Christus my men have bound and borne away;
The rest have fled. Rouse now and come with me!
My men await me, rouse yourself, and come!’

“Throwing his arms up, in a fit he fell,
With a loud shriek that pierced the silent night.
I could not stay, but, calling instant aid,
We bore him quick to the adjacent house,
And placing him in kindly charge, I left,
Joining my men who stayed for me below.

“Straight to the high priest's house we hurried on,
And Christus in an inner room we placed,
Set at his door a guard, and then came out.
After a time there crept into the hall,
Where round the blazing coals we sat, a man,
Who in the corner crouched. ‘What man are you?’
Cried some one; and I, turning, looked at him.
'T was Peter. ‘'T is a fellow of that band
That followed Christus, and believed in him.’
‘'T is false!’ cried Peter; and he cursed and swore,
‘I know him not—I never saw the man.’
But I said nothing. Soon he went away.

“That night I saw not Judas. The next day,
Ghastly, clay-white, a shadow of a man,
With robes all soiled and torn, and tangled beard,
Into the chamber where the council sat
Came feebly staggering: scarce should I have known
'T was Judas, with that haggard, blasted face;

So had that night's great horror altered him.
As one all blindly walking in a dream
He to the table came—against it leaned—
Glared wildly round awhile;—then stretching forth
From his torn robes a trembling hand, flung down,
As 't were a snake that stung him, a small purse,
That broke and scattered its white coins about,
And, with a shrill voice, cried, ‘Take back the purse!
'T was not for that foul dross I did the deed—
'T was not for that—oh, horror! not for that!
But that I did believe he was the Lord;
And that he is the Lord I still believe.
But oh, the sin!—the sin! I have betrayed
The innocent blood, and I am lost!—am lost!’
So crying, round his face his robes he threw,
And blindly rushed away; and we, aghast,
Looked round,—and no one for a moment spoke.

“Seeing that face, I could but fear the end;
For death was in it, looking through his eyes.
Nor could I follow to arrest the fate
That drove him madly on with scorpion whip.

“At last the duty of the day was done,
And night came on. Forth from the gates I went,

Anxious, and pained by many a dubious thought,
To seek for Judas, and to comfort him.
The sky was dark with heavy, lowering clouds;
A lifeless, stifling air weighed on the world;
A dreadful silence like a nightmare lay
Crouched on its bosom, waiting, grim and gray,
In horrible suspense of some dread thing.
A creeping sense of death, a sickening smell,
Infected the dull breathing of the wind.
A thrill of ghosts went by me now and then,
And made my flesh creep as I wandered on.
At last I came to where a cedar stretched
Its black arms out beneath a dusky rock,
And, passing through its shadow, all at once
I started; for against the dubious light
A dark and heavy mass, that to and fro
Swung slowly with its weight, before me grew.
A sick, dread sense came over me; I stopped—
I could not stir. A cold and clammy sweat
Oozed out all over me; and all my limbs,
Bending with tremulous weakness like a child's,
Gave way beneath me. Then a sense of shame
Aroused me. I advanced, stretched forth my hand,
And pushed the shapeless mass; and at my touch
It yielding swung, the branch above it creaked,
And back returning struck against my face.
A human body! Was it dead, or not?
Swiftly my sword I drew and cut it down,
And on the sand all heavily it dropped.

I plucked the robes away, exposed the face—
'T was Judas, as I feared, cold, stiff, and dead:
That suffering heart of his had ceased to beat.”

Thus Lysias spoke, and ended. I confess
This story of poor Judas touched me much.
What horrible revulsions must have passed
Across that spirit in those few last hours!
What storms, that tore up life even to its roots!
Say what you will—grant all the guilt—and still
What pangs of dread remorse—what agonies
Of desperate repentance, all too late,
In that wild interval between the crime
And its last sad atonement!—life, the while,
Laden with horror all too great to bear,
And pressing madly on to death's abyss:
This was no common mind that thus could feel—
No vulgar villain sinning for reward!

Was he a villain lost to sense of shame?
Ay, so say John and Peter and the rest;
And yet—and yet this tale that Lysias tells
Weighs with me more the more I ponder it;
For thus I put it: Either Judas was,
As John affirms, a villain and a thief,
A creature lost to shame and base at heart;
Or else, which is the view that Lysias takes,
He was a rash and visionary man,
Whose faith was firm, who had no thought of crime,
But whom a terrible mistake drove mad.

Take but John's view, and all to me is blind.
Call him a villain who, with greed of gain,
For thirty silver pieces sold his Lord.
Does not the bribe seem all too small and mean?
He held the common purse, and, were he thief,
Had daily power to steal, and lay aside
A secret and accumulating fund;
So doing, he had nothing risked of fame,
While here he braved the scorn of all the world.
Besides, why chose they for their almoner
A man so lost to shame, so foul with greed?
Or why, from some five-score of trusted men,
Choose him as one apostle among twelve?
Or why, if he were known to be so vile,
(And who can hide his baseness at all times?)
Keep him in close communion to the last?
Naught in his previous life, or acts, or words,
Shows this consummate villain that, full-grown,
Leaps all at once to such a height of crime.

Again, how comes it that this wretch, whose heart
Is cased to shame, flings back the paltry bribe?
And, when he knows his master is condemned,
Rushes in horror out to seek his death?
Whose fingers pointed at him in the crowd?
Did all men flee his presence till he found
Life too intolerable? Nay; not so!
Death came too close upon the heels of crime.
He had but done what all his tribe deemed just:

All the great mass—I mean the upper class—
The Rabbis, all the Pharisees and Priests—
Ay, and the lower mob as well, who cried,
“Give us Barabbas! Christus to the cross!”
These men were all of them on Judas' side,
And Judas had done naught against the law.
Were he this villain, he had but to say,
“I followed Christus till I found at last
He aimed at power to overthrow the State.
I did the duty of an honest man.
I traitor!—you are traitors who reprove.”
Besides, such villains scorn the world's reproof.

Or he might say: “You call this act a crime?
What crime was it to say I know this man?
I said no ill of him. If crime there be,
'T was yours who doomed him unto death, not mine.”

A villain was he? So Barabbas was!
But did Barabbas go and hang himself,
Weary of life,—the murderer and thief?
This coarse and vulgar way will never do.
Grant him a villain, all his acts must be
Acts of a villain; if you once admit
Remorse so bitter that it leads to death,
And death so instant on the heels of crime,
You grant a spirit sensitive to shame,—
So sensitive that life can yield no joys
To counterbalance one bad act; but then

A nature such as this, though led astray
When greatly tempted, is no thorough wretch.
Was the temptation great? Could such a bribe
Tempt such a nature to a crime like this?
I say, to me it simply seems absurd.

Peter at least was not so sensitive.
He cursed and swore, denying that he knew
Who the man Christus was; but after all
He only wept—he never hanged himself.

But take the other view that Lysias takes,
All is at once consistent, clear, complete.
Firm in the faith that Christus was his God,
The great Messiah sent to save the world,
He, seeking for a sign,—not for himself,
But to show proof to all that he was God,—
Conceived this plan, rash if you will, but grand.

“Thinking him man,” he said, “mere mortal man,
They seek to seize him. I will make pretense
To take the public bribe and point him out,
And they shall go, all armed with swords and staves,
Strong with the power of law, to seize on him,—
And at their touch he, God himself, shall stand
Revealed before them, and their swords shall drop,
And prostrate all before him shall adore,

And cry, ‘Behold the Lord and King of all!’”
But when the soldiers laid their hands on him,
And bound him as they would a prisoner vile,
With taunts, and mockery, and threats of death—
He all the while submitting—then his dream
Burst into fragments with a crash; aghast
The whole world reeled before him; the dread truth
Swooped like a sea upon him, bearing down
His thoughts in wild confusion. He who dreamed
To unbar the gates of glory to his Lord,
Oped in their stead the prison's jarring door,
And saw above him his dim dream of Love
Change to a Fury stained with blood and crime.
And then a madness seized him, and remorse
With pangs of torture drove him down to death.

Conceive with me that sad and suffering heart,
If this be true that Lysias says—Conceive!
Alas! Orestes, not so sad thy fate,
For thee Apollo pardoned, purified,—
Thy Furies were appeased, thy peace returned;
But Judas perished, tortured unto death,
Unpardoned, unappeased, unpurified.
And long as Christus shall be known of men
His name shall bear the brand of infamy,
The curse of generations still unborn.

Thus much of him: I leave the question here,
Touching on naught beyond, for Lucius waits;

I hear him fuming in the courts below,
Cursing his servants and Jerusalem,
And giving them to the infernal gods.
The sun is sinking—all the sky 's afire—
And vale and mountain glow like molten ore
In the intense full splendor of its rays.
A half-hour hence all will be dull and gray;
And Lucius only waits until the shade
Sweeps down the plain, then mounts and makes his way
On through the blinding desert to the sea,
And thence his galley bears him on to Rome.

Salve et vale!—may good fortune wait
On you and all your household! Greet for me
Titus and Livia—in a word, all friends.

A JEWISH RABBI IN ROME.

WITH A COMMENTARY BY BEN ISRAEL.

[Fifteenth Century. Reign of Sixtus IV.]

Rabbi Ben Esdra to his dearest friend,
Rabbi Ben Israel, greeting—May the Lord
Keep thee in safety! I am still in Rome,
And, after months of silence, now redeem
My pledge to tell you how this Christian world
(Which here I came to study), nearly viewed,
Strikes me, a Jew born, and with steady faith
In all the Law and Prophets of our land.
Still, though a Jew, it is the Truth I seek,—
Only the Truth,—and, come from whence it will,
I greet it with bent head and reverent heart.
I am a seeker;—though my faith is firm,
I will not tie my mind in knots of creeds.

No more preamble. I am now in Rome,
Where our Jehovah rules not,—but the man
Jesus, whose Life and Fate too well we know,
Is made a God—the cross on which he died
A reverend symbol, and his words the law.
His words, what were they? Love, good-will to man.

His kingdom? Peace. His precepts? Poverty.
Well, are they followed? That's the question now.
What fruit have they produced?

One moment, first.
I think no ill of him. He was sincere,
Lofty of thought, a pure idealist,
Possessed, indeed, by visionary dreams,
But wishing ill to no one, least of all
To us, and to our Faith, which was his own.
I will not say he was entirely wrong
In the strong censures that he laid on us;
For we had many faults—were, as he said,
Only too much like whited sepulchres,—
And then, no good man is entirely wrong,
And none entirely right. The truth is vast,
And never was there Creed embraced it all.
Like all enthusiasts he beheld his half,
Deemed it the whole, and with excess of zeal
Pushed his ideal truth beyond the stretch
Of human practice. Most of what he taught
The wise and good of old had said before.
His healing skill, this sect calls miracles,
A hundred others had as well as he;
And for that claim his followers set up,
And he, perhaps (though here there is much doubt),
Asserted of himself, that he was sent
Messias, King of kings, to save the world,—

This, surely, was no crime deserving death:
No mere opinions, void of acts, are crimes.

Besides, what sect or creed was ever crushed
By cruelty? Our error was perverse,
Willful, unwise. Had we but spared his life,
He would have passed away as others pass,—
Simon and John and Apollonius,
Judas of Galilee, and many more.
But, no! we lifted him above the rest;
Made him conspicuous by his martyrdom;
Watered with blood his doctrines; fired the hearts
Of those who loved him with intemperate zeal
And wild imaginations, till at last
They thought they saw him risen from the dead.
Our folly (call it by its lightest name)
Nourished the seed into this mighty sect,
That takes his name and worships him as God.

Setting aside the superstitious part,
I ask, What were the doctrines that he preached,
And that his followers with their lips profess?
Love! Peace! Good-will to man! This was the gist
Of all he taught. Forgive your enemies!
Seek for the lost sheep from the fold that stray!
Harm no one! For the prodigal returned
Kill the fat calf! Be merciful to all!

Who are the enemies, prodigals, lost sheep,
To whom these Christians give love, mercy, care?
Not we, the Jews, in truth. Is it for us
They kill the calf? Are we the enemies
That they forgive? Have they good-will for us?
Not they! They hold us rather like foul swine,—
Abuse us,—lay great burdens on our backs,—
Spit on us,—drive us forth beyond their walls,—
Force us all slavish offices to do,—
And if we join their sect, scorn us the more.
If those are blessëd, as he says, whom men
Revile and persecute, most blest are we!

Yet was not Jesus, first of all, a Jew,—
Even to his death a Jew? Did he renounce
His strict faith in the Prophets and the Law?
Never! “I come not to destroy,” he said,
“The Law or Prophets, only to fulfill.”
So, too, his preaching, whatsoe'er it was,
Was to the Jews. The miracles he wrought
Were for the Jews alone. “I am not sent”—
These are his words—“but unto the lost sheep
Of Israel's house: my bread is not for dogs.”
Who were the dogs to whom he thus refused
To lend his healing hand? What had she done
Who asked his service that he scorned her thus?
She was from Canaan, or a Greek—no Jew;
This was her crime. 'T is true that, touched at last
By those sad, humble words of hers, “The dogs

May eat the crumbs dropped from the master's board,”
He made her an exception to his rule,—
But still his rule was this. This his first rule.
No? But it was! Remember the rich youth
Who prayed to be his follower: “Two things,”
He said, “are needful.” First, that you obey
The Law and Prophets—that is, are a Jew;—
And then the second, that your wealth and goods
You sell, and give the proceeds to the poor.
First be a Jew, then poor. Renounce all wealth;
Keep nothing back. These are conditions prime,
Refusing which, your following I reject.

I see you gravely shake your head at this;
But read the records,—you will see I'm right.
Jesus, let me repeat it yet again,
Was first and last a Jew; never renounced
This faith of ours; taught in the Synagogue;
Quoted the Prophets; reaffirmed the Law;
Worked with the Jews, and only healed the Jews,
And held all other nations but as dogs.

And second (mark this well, and ponder it),
He was a Communist—denied the right
Of private wealth; ordained a common purse
To be administered for all alike,
And all rejected who refused him this.
“'T is easier for a camel to pass through
A needle's eye,”—these are his very words,—
“Than that a rich man should inherit heaven.”
A rich man, mind you, whether good or bad.
What was the moral of his parable

Of Lazarus and Dives? What offense
Did Dives, that in everlasting fire
He was condemned to suffer? What good deed
Did Lazarus, that he at last should lie
On Abraham's bosom in eternal bliss?
Nothing! The beggar, Lazarus, was poor;
Dives was rich. This was the crime of one,
The virtue of the other. Not one hint
Of any other reason for the hell
Or heaven that he adjudged them—not one word
That Dives was not charitable, kind,
Generous, a helper of his brother man;—
No accusation, save that he was rich.
No word that Lazarus, with all his sores,
Possessed ONE virtue, save that he was poor.
Nay, more: when Dives in his torment sued
For mercy, what did Abraham say to him?
You for your evil deeds must suffer now?
No! but, “You had the good things on the earth,
Lazarus the evil. Therefore, now, to thee
Is torment given—comfort unto him.”

Working to pile up wealth Jesus abhorred.
“Each man for all,” he said, “and all for each.
Take no thought of to-morrow—for the day
Sufficient will be given. No sparrow falls
Save through God's law. The ravens of the air
Sow not and reap not, yet God feedeth them.
The lilies of the field nor toil nor spin,
Yet Solomon was not arrayed like them.

Why, then, take thought of raiment and of food?
Leave all to God. Blessëd are ye, the poor!
God's kingdom shall be yours: but ye, the rich,
Woe unto you.” This was his life and text.
Once only—so the record goes—a rage
Seized upon Jesus, when, with whip and thong,
The money-changers—all who bought and sold—
He from the precincts of the Temple drove,
Saying, “'T is writ, This is the house of prayer,
But ye have made it to a den of thieves.”
Let this show what he thought of such as these.
Those who were with him knew and did his will,—
Lived in community of goods, renounced
All private wealth. This doctrine, too, they preached
After his death; and all who joined their sect
Sold their possessions, houses, treasures, lands,
And paid the price into the common store,
To be administered to each one's need.
They did not seek by subterfuge and trick
To cling to Mammon while they worshiped God.

What should a Christian do, then, who accepts
The doctrines that this master, nay, this God
(For so they call him), clearly thus appoints;—
Live by them, should he not? Not by blank words
Affirm them, but by all his acts and life.
First, love to God—and love to man as well.
Then, peace, forgiveness, kindness, poverty.
What is the Christian practice? War—the sword
As arbiter of all disputes of men—
Reprisals,—persecutions unto death
For all who differ from them—Peter's sword
That Jesus bade him sheathe,—no simple lives
Of frugal fare and pure beneficence,
But luxury and imperious tyranny
In all high places,—all in earnest strife
To pile up wealth for selfish purposes,—
Each greedy for himself, the wretched poor
Down-trodden, trampled on,—the Church itself,
Splendid with pageant, cruel in its power,—
Pride rampant, hissing through a thousand maws,—
Power, like a ravening wolf among the lambs,
Worrying the weakest,—prayers, lip-deep, no more—
The devil's work done in the name of God.

Such is the spectacle I see in Rome.

Among the pomps in which this Christian Church
Invests its pageants, oft I think of him
Whom they pretend to worship, and his words
Come back to me with which he once reproved
Our priests of his own days. The world, indeed,
Has but one pattern for its worldliness,—
Or now, or then, 't is evermore the same.
If we of old were stiff-necked in our pride,
Desiring power instead of godliness,
Avid of pomp,—these Christians are the same:
They will not follow either God or Christ.
“Thus saith the Lord, Stand in the ways, and see;
Ask, where is the good way, and walk therein,
And so ye shall find rest unto your souls.
But they replied, We will not walk therein.”
Thus Jeremiah,—Jesus much the same.
Long prayers, low bowings in the market-place,
Chief seats in synagogues, upper rooms at feasts,
Fine linen, costly dresses, pompous rites,
Grand ceremonials, purple trailing robes,
Embroidered hems, and wide phylacteries,—
All this he scorned. Well, still we see the same,
For all his scorn, among his followers.
His very words describe these cardinals
As they were made for them alone,—not us.
Not we alone were whited sepulchres;
Robbed widows, orphans, every one for greed:
This Church still robs them, wears its purple robes,

Prays at the public corners of the streets,
Nor even the outside of the platter cleans.

And what thinks Jesus of it?—if, indeed,
He from beyond can look into their hearts,
Who call upon his name and preach of Peace.
Foul hypocrites, who feed their hungry flocks
With husks of dogmas and dead chaff of talk,
And trample virtue down into the mire.

I ask myself, Do these men ever think
Or weigh their master's teaching, practice, words,
That thus by rote, like empty formulas,
They gabble them, as senseless parrots talk.
Doctrine and life to him were one. To these
Doctrine from life is utterly divorced.

Whatever Jesus was, this Church, these men,
Are none of his,—or ours; his words alone
They worship like a fetish, without sense,—
His real inner teaching they reject;
Nay, are afraid to look it in the face
And seek its meaning, lest it come to this,
That they must choose between the things he would,
And what they covet dearer than their life.

Jew as I am, in view of them, at times
I long to see some real Christian sect
Ready to take the system that he taught,

And try it in this world,—not talking Peace,
Good-will to men, Love, Justice, Charity,
But living it in very deed,—a sect
That should abjure all individual greed,
All competition for a selfish end,
And joining, make one common purse for all,
As Jesus did among his followers.
Would it succeed? Ah, you and I are Jews;
Jesus has no authority with us.
But were we Christians, and not hypocrites,—
Did we believe that he was really God,
Or even that his mission was divine,—
How should we dare to gloss his teachings o'er,
And twist his doctrines so that they should fit
Our worldly needs, and in the very face
Of his plain orders seek some verbal trick
To warp them to the life we like to lead!

The Eternal One must needs look down and smile
At these base wrigglings of his creatures here,
Filled with sad pity, too, at their offense,—
Seeing them do, with his name on their lips,
All he forbids, and dreaming none the less
They only shall be saved,—all others damned.

Would Jesus' plan succeed?—The world thus far
Has taken another path,—we most of all,—
Believing not in him, nor in his scheme;—

But dreaming—shaking, as it were, from me
All usages and habits of the world,
At times I stretch my mind out in the vague,
And seek upon this plan to build a world.
No property, but that which all should own
With equal rights,—the product of all work
Held for the common good in trust for all;
All, to the lowest, to be clothed, fed, housed,
Freed from necessity and from the wolf
Of hunger, and the pains and pangs of life;
Each having claims on all to do the task
Best fitted for his powers, tastes, happiness;
Each as a duty bound to do his share,
And not to be a drone within the hive.

What glory might the world then see!—what joy!
What harmony of work! what large content!
What splendid products of joint industry!
All toiling with one purpose and one heart;
No war, no waste of noble energies,—
But smiling peace, the enlarging grace of art;
Humanity a column with its base
Of solid work, and at its summit crowned
With the ideal capital of Love!

This is a dream that turns this world of ours
Quite upside down;—I'll say no more of it.

And yet one word more, lest you deem me fool!
Think not I dream: none but a fool could dream
Equality of rights,—that is, the claim
To justice, life, food, freedom in the bound
Of common benefit, involves the claim
To equal virtues, powers, intelligence,—
Since God in these unequal shaped us all,
And fitted each one for his special end.
So should the wise, just, virtuous take the lead,
Or all at once is lawless anarchy;
For what more fatal, hopeless, than a scheme
Where wise and good, and fool and knave alike,
Own equal powers and rights in government?

But how secure the leadership to those
Whom God hath made for leaders? Ah, my friend,
That is the question none hath e'er resolved;
For liberty, at best a negative—
Mere freedom from restraint—engenders soon
License and tyranny,—dire positives:
Just as Aurelius, best of emperors,
Begot for son the cruel Commodus.

Danger on all sides threatens government.
Choose you a king,—the very best is weak,—
And fierce temptation dogs the path of power.
Choose you the Demos,—it perchance is worse;
For then, as in an agitated sea,

The frothiest ever to the surface swims.
Caprice, rage, panic, interest, sway the mob;
Justice is overstormed, wisdom lies low,
And noisy ignorance, swollen by the breath
Of blatant demagogues, wrecks the lost state.

Why?—But because the eager lust of men,
The godless strife of utter selfishness,
Makes of the world a blind and brutal herd,
All crowding on, devoid of common aim,—
Each goring his own way to make his path.

Well, seeing this, and how these blundering schemes
Beget a brood of sin and misery,
Said Jesus to his followers: All is wrong;
Let it be all reversed,—such life is hate;
But God is love: try love, then, for your scheme,
Try God's law;—as the Book of Wisdom saith:
“All hatred stirreth strife; but love hath power
To cover up all sins;” and yet again:
“He who his neighbour scorneth, sins; but he
Is happy who hath mercy for the poor.”
“The profit of the earth is made for all,
And riches breed disease and vanity.”
So saith the preacher, just as Jesus said.
Nothing was new in Jesus' scheme but this,—
To make community a fact—no dream.

But new or old, his followers obeyed,
Accepting what he taught. Their life was pure,—
They craved no gains, abjured all private wealth;
Preached poverty, and practiced what they preached;
And then, with stealthy step, and half-veiled face,
Pride entered, and ambition; and they shaped
That fair community into the thing
Now called a Church, and on its altar raised
The same false idol he had driven forth;

And now what is this Church so called of Christ?
The last and even the most hideous shape
Of tyranny—that spawns upon the world
As love's true offspring the foul serpent brood
Of superstition, bigotry, and hate.

Thus looking on, and striving as I can
To keep my mind wide open to new thought,
I weave my dream of what the world might be,—
A vague wild dream, but not without its charm.
Since nothing in our Law forbids to us
The trial of this scheme, suppose we Jews—
(Nay, do not smile)—suppose we very Jews
Go on and do even this, the Christians' work:
They will not do it,—oh, be sure of that!

No more of this: oh, my Jerusalem!—
Thou whom again we shall rebuild in power—
Let Justice be thy strong foundation-stones,
And Love the cement that shall knit them close.
Firm in our faith—at last—at last, O Lord!
When we have suffered to the bitter end,
Thy chosen people Thou wilt lift again,
And sweep thy enemies before thy path.

Come not to Rome,—it is the sink of vice:
Its grandeur is decayed; its splendid days
Are faded. Famine, War, and Pestilence—
Tempest and inundation and fierce hordes
Have o'er it swept, with ruin in their track.

The herdsman tends his flocks upon the Hill
Where Manlius drove the Gauls. The Capitol
Scarcely exists in name: its temples proud
Are wrecked and ruined. In the Forum herd
Horned cattle; and beyond the Flaminian gate,
Where once triumphant swarmed the crowds of Rome,
Spreads a flat marsh o'ergrown with rustling canes,
Where flocks of whirring wild-fowl make their home.
Death haunts the temples, once so full of life.
Life crowds the tombs where the dead Cæsars lie,
And fortifies their wrecks for deadly feud.
The arts have perished. Prone upon the earth
Lie shattered the proud statues of their gods,
While the rude builder breaks them with his pick,
Or burns them into lime. The games are o'er;
The streets are filled with ruffian soldiery,
Quick at a quarrel; and the deadly knife
Of treachery stabs the unsuspecting foe.
Upon the Castle every week are seen
Black corpses, nailed along the outer walls.
The city throngs at night with bravos hired,
Who after murder find a safe retreat
In many a priestly palace. In a word,
Rapine and murder, rape and parricide,
Ay, ev'ry crime, with or without a name,

Ravage the city. Justice, with sad face,
Weeping, hath fled, and Mercy's voice is dumb.
Is this the reign of Christ—or Belial?

Yet still I linger here: I scarce know why.
There is a charm that, all beyond my will,
Allures me, holds me, will not let me go.
'T is not indeed like our Jerusalem;
Yet in its age, its sorrows and its wrongs,
It is allied to her,—a city sad,
That, like a mourner weeping at a tomb,
Sits clad in sackcloth, grieving o'er the past,
Hoping for nothing, stricken by despair.
Sad, lonely stretches compass her about
With silence. Wandering here, at every step
We stumble o'er some ruin, once the home
Of happy life; or pensive, stay our feet
To ponder o'er some stern decaying tomb,
The haunt of blinking owls. Nor all in vain
Doth kindly nature strive to heal the wounds
Of Time and human rage: with ivy green,
With whispering grasses, reeds, and bright-eyed flowers,
Veiling its ruin; and with tremulous songs
Of far larks hidden in the deep blue sky,
Lifting the thoughts to heaven.

Here many a day
Alone I stray, and hold communion sad
With dreams that wander far on boundless ways

Of meditation vague, recalling oft
The passages of Prophets in our Land.
At times Isaiah seems to speak, and say
To Rome, as once unto Jerusalem:
“Judah is fallen, ruin hath involved
Jerusalem. What mean ye that ye beat
My people into pieces? that ye grind
The faces of the poor? The Lord shall take
The bravery of thy ornaments away;
Thy men shall perish by the sword in war;
Thy mighty ones shall perish, and thy gates
Lament and mourn; and thou, being desolate,
Shalt sit upon the ground. Woe unto them
That draw iniquity with the weak cords
Of vanity, and call the evil good,—
Their roots shall be as rottenness, like dust
Their blossoms perish,—for they cast away
The Lord's law, and despise his Holy Word.”

And then in sorrow for this grievous fate
In which we are plunged, I comfort me with this—
That he, the Eternal One, hath promised us
That we at last shall from our sorrows rest,
And from our fear, and from our bondage dire,
And build again our new Jerusalem.

And yet once more. Hear Jeremiah speak
“How doth the city solitary sit
That once was filled with people! How is she

Become a widow, that among the powers
Was great, and princess in the provinces?
She weepeth sorely in the night; her tears
Are on her cheeks; and of her lovers none
Will comfort her.” Ah, my Jerusalem!
Thy sister here is Rome, and sins like thee,
And she shall suffer also like to thee.

As she hath suffered for her heathen pride
And worship of false gods, and now is cast
Headlong to earth with all her temples proud,
So shall she suffer in the time to come
For all her violence and worldly lust,
And all her utter falseness to her faith.
Is there no place upon this wretched earth
Where God shall have his own, and peace shall reign?
Is there no spot the devil doth not own?
Shall we, poor human wretches, ever seek
To thwart God's law, and rear up in his stead
Base idols, and make covenant with Death?

Such thoughts come over me, oppressed and sad,
As 'mid Rome's ruined tombs I meditate,
Feeling how transient a thing is man,
Whose life is but a shadow on the grass
That comes and goes, or like a passing wind,
Or like a voice that speaks and vanishes.
And sitting silent under the blue sky

That broods unchanging o'er the change below,
Idly I watch the drooping ivy swing
Through sunlit loops of arching aqueducts,
Printing its wavering shadow on the sward.
Or, as my eye runs down their lessening lines,
Broken by gaps of time and war, and strung
Along the far Campagna's rolling stretch
Like vertebræ of some huge skeleton,
I ponder o'er the past of Rome,—the pomp,
The pride, the power, the ruin,—masters, slaves,
Conquerors, and victims, even the gods themselves,
Shattered and fallen and equal in the dust—
And silent Nature calmly moving on,
Heedless of them, and what they were or did,
As she will be of us, when we are gone.
Often, again, with scarce a conscious thought,—
My spirit wandering vaguely, who knows where,—
I gaze upon the cloud-shades trailing slow
O'er the deep chasms of the opaline hills,
And drift with them through some abyss of space,
And feel the silence sink into my soul.
At times a rustling starts me, and I see
Some long-haired goat, that, mounting up to crop
A wandering spray, peers down through glass-gray eyes,
And, pausing, stares at me. At times, again,
I hear the thud of hoofs upon the grass,
And jangling swords, and voices of command,
As some armed troop goes galloping along.
And then I hide me, knowing that my tribe

Are only recognized to be the butt
Of mocking words—or scarce more wounding blows.
The shepherd, leaning idly on his staff,
Alone has kindly words for such as we,—
For Nature hath subdued him into calm,
Until he almost seems a part of her.

I have seen the Pope, whom in their blasphemy
They term God's Holiness. A fisherman,
Like Peter, was his father; and his son,
By mock humility and specious ways
Veiling his inward self, inly devoured
By lust of place, and luxury, and power,
Hath mounted in the end to Peter's chair.
Peter was poor and simple at the least,—
Honest though ignorant. This Sixtus here,
Fourth of his name, his utter opposite,—
Luxurious, worldly, fierce, and stained with crime.
There are no limits to his low desires,—
None to his passions; and he treads us down
As if we were the offal of the earth.

Last week he gave a banquet that, I think,
Poor Peter would have been aghast to see:
'T is said it cost some twenty thousand crowns,
Shaming Vitellius with its cost and waste.
But this is nothing to his other deeds.
Little he thinks of carrying out the dream
Of which I just have spoken. No! the poor

Starve on black bread, and fester in disease,
While thus he lords it in his luxury.
Nor are the rich much better off with him:
A short month since he pillaged an old man—
The Prince Colonna—on some poor pretense;—
Robbed him of all his plate, robes, tapestries,
Tore him with torture, then lopped off his head;
And clothed in wretched rags to mock his rank,
Sent back in answer to his mother's prayers
For his mere life—the mutilated corpse!
And this is God's vicegerent on the earth—
The head of what they call the Christian Church!

Bad as the Christian's lot is, ours is worse:
We are the football and the scorn of all,—
Laden with taxes, tributes,—forced to wear
An ignominious badge,—banned from the town,
And huddled in the Ghetto's filthy den.
No public office may we hold: our oath
Avails not in their courts against the word
Of any Christian; and now, worse than this,
In these last years one degradation more
Is cast upon us by this Christian court,
Whose creed is, “Love your neighbour as yourself.”
We are but beasts that in the Carnival
Must race half-naked, clothed but round the loins,
A halter on our necks, as we were dogs,—
Insulted, hooted, jeered at by the mob.

No one of us is free of this,—or old
Or young, whatever be our state,—
Elder or priest or child,—it matters not.
High ladies, cardinals in purple robes,
Ay, even the Pope himself, with all his court,
Seated on high, in all their pomp and pride,
Laugh at us, as we stumble on our course,
Pelted with filth, and shake their holy sides,
Encouraging the mob that mock at us.

But what offends me more than all the rest
Is that this usage has debased our tribe,—
Bent its proud neck, and forced it to the earth,—
Taught us to cringe and whimper, taught us wiles,
And driven us at their beck to creep and crawl.
We, who were God's own people,—we must bow
Before these Christians: with a smile accept
Even their kicks, and humbly give them thanks
For our mere life. This stings me to the quick.
As for what Christ said, “Love your enemies;
Bless them that curse you, and do good to them,”—
This is beyond the power of any man—
Beyond my power at least,—I cursed them all!

I stay my pen here,—for the hot blood boils
Within my brain when thinking on these things:
I dare not trust myself to write you more.

My work is almost done for which I came,
And soon I hope to greet your face again,
Shaking the dust off from this godless place,
With all its rottenness and infamy:
Then for my dear Jerusalem again!

Greet all my friends,—Rebecca, Ishmael,
And all your dear ones. Peace be with you all!
I count the days till we once more shall meet.

(Commentary by Ben Israel.)

I 've read the records carefully again:
It goes against my will—still, I admit,
Ben Esdra may be right. Here let me note
One case that he perchance has overlooked—
That of the Publican named Zaccheus.
This man was rich, and, curious, sought to look
On Jesus,—for this purpose climbed a tree.
Jesus, perceiving him, proposed himself
To be his guest; at which a murmuring went
Among his followers,—for this wealthy man
Was, as they said, a sinner, or no Jew.
But I note this, that Zaccheus on the spot
Surrendered half his goods unto the poor
Ere Jesus went into his house; and then,
And not till then, said Jesus,—“On this house
This day salvation cometh, forasmuch
As he, too, is a son of Abraham,”—
That is, a Jew. Again, where did he send
His twelve disciples (Judas 'mid the rest)
To preach the Gospel? To the Gentiles? No!
This he forbade,—but “unto the lost sheep
Of Israel's house.” And one case more I note,—
That of the woman of Samaria,
To whom he said (his followers murmuring
That he should speak to her): “Salvation comes
But to the Jews.” Doubtless, as well we know,
It was unlawful for a Jew to eat
And bide with those who were uncircumcised.
Upon this point, long after he was dead,
Extreme contention 'mid his followers rose,
If Gentiles, ere they had been circumcised,
Into the Christian faith could be baptized,—
Some holding full adherence to the law
A prime condition,—some, that it sufficed
If its main principles were recognized:
But this I merely note. It seems quite clear
That only Jews at first could join the sect.

Here I, Ben Israel, note the curious case
Of Ananias and Sapphira, struck
By sudden death, because of all their wealth
They kept a part back for their private use—
Tempting by this the Lord, as Peter said.
But where are the Almighty's lightnings now?

And scarcely this, say I, Ben Israel—
Commenting on this letter. We of old
Among the patriarchs ever practiced it.
And well it worked, till, into cities packed,
Men grew ambitious, greedy, void of God,
And then confusion came to one and all.
The greed of riches is the curse of man:
Virtue and wisdom only, hand in hand,
Have any rightful claims to power; the wise,
The good, in every age affirm the same,—
Solon, Confucius, Plato, Thales, all.
“Flee greed, choose equal rights,” Menander says.
When Greece made question of her wisest men
What is the best form of all government,
Thales replied,—“Where none are over-rich,
None over-poor;” and Anacharsis said,—
“Where vice is hated—virtue reverenced.”
So Pittacus,—“Where honours are conferred
But on the virtuous;” and Solon, too,
In thought, if not in words, like Jesus spoke,—
“Where any wrong unto the meanest done
Is held to be an injury to all.”
So also Solomon,—“Remove me far
From vanity and lies; and give to me
Nor poverty nor wealth. Blessed is he
Who for the poor and needy giveth thought:
The Lord shall help him in his time of need.”

A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME.

DEDICATED TO T. G. A.

It seems so strange to us of the new faith,
Who feel its beauty, joy, and holiness,
Rising above this lower Pagan creed,
Like morning o'er the dark and dreaming earth;
To us who have beheld, known, talked with those
Who walked beside our Lord, and heard his voice,
And with their own eyes saw his miracles,—
To hear these Romans, Marcus, Caius—nay,
Even Lucius, who is learned, liberal, trained
In every school of thought, deny them all:
Calling them mere impostures, or at best,
Distortions of the facts, half true, half false,
With nothing but the false miraculous!
It makes us grieve, as showing how they lack
That sense by which alone the natural man,
As Paul says, can receive the things of God.
But when had any Roman in all time
A spiritual sense? 'T is to the East
The power of prophecy is given: alone
It shapes religions, has the inner sight
That through the matter sees the soul beyond,

Is through its faith receptive, not its mind,
And nearer unto God, as is the child.
The West, immersed in things, is as the man,
And joys to fashion governments and laws:
It orders facts, it thinks, invents, and works,
But blind and deaf to spiritual truth
Lives in the Present, builds no infinite bridge
Into the Future, hopes not, nor divines.
At highest, 't is the world's great intellect,
Its understanding, brain, and not its soul.
Lucius is of the West; he cannot feel
Those finer impulses beyond the sense,
Those inward yearnings stretching out of sight,
Where reason cannot follow, after truth.
As far as intellect can lead him on
Up the clear path of logic, he will go;
The rest is nonsense, and, of course, he likes
The well-trod path as being the most safe.
And thus he reasons on the miracles:—

“Of facts like these, conforming to no law,
There are a thousand chances of mistake
To one in favour of the apparent facts,—
First, self-deception; strong desire to see
Begets the power of seeing; from itself
The nervously expectant sense projects
Its image, its mirage, or hears returned
The outward echo of the inward voice;
And while the reason and the judgment drowse,
The fancy, all alive, sees, hears, accepts.

Then come illusions of the senses;—Facts
Half seen are wholly false,—scarce facts at all.
Let but the fact be strange and new, surprise
Destroys the power of scrutiny.—Again,
Wonder, the habitual state of many minds
(Those, most of all, religiously inclined),
Love of the marvelous, a dread to peer
Too keenly into that which wears a garb
Of holiness, a proneness to revere
What others reverence—all lead astray.
Belief is passive: it receives, accepts;
But doubt is active: it disputes, rejects.
You think these wonders, facts. You say that Christ
Was holy in his aspect, pure in life,
And in his perfectness above mankind.
I will not question this: I only say
He was a man, at best, and not a god.
The Jews could not have crucified a god.
No, nor a demigod, like Hercules.

“Observe, I do not say as others do,
That he was wicked in intent, and sought
A kingly crown above his wretched tribe.
And if he did, I care not. What he said
Was well enough, only it was not new.
All that is good is found in Socrates,
Or Plato, or the old Philosophies.
Had he been born in Greece, he might, perhaps,

Have graced the train of one of these great men.
But in that dismal Syria, 'mid a herd
Of ignorant Jews, most of them fishermen,
Who worshiped him, he lost all common sense.
From what I hear, he grew half-cracked at last,
And thought himself a god, and claimed the power
Of miracles, like other madmen here.
Well, well: he suffered for all that by death,
And, I dare say, was better than the most
Among that loathsome people. For all that,
Touched in his brain he was, you must admit.
For what man in his senses ever dreamed
He from the dead should rise with pomp and power
A kingdom to establish on the earth?

“As for his miracles, I do not doubt
That some among that herd of credulous fools,
On whom he practiced, thought they saw these things.
But who was there with eyes and mind well trained
To sift the facts, to judge the evidence,
To question, to examine, to record?
Not one: the stupid crowd cried ‘miracle’
(For everything is miracle to them);
The Scribes and Pharisees, the learned men,
All stood aloof and scorned him and his works.

“And were they true, what prove they?—Why, in Rome
These wonder-working magians come by scores,
Each with his new inspired theogony,
Each with his miracle to prove him God!
For instance, there is Judas, whom they call
The Gaulonite; and his three sons as well;
There is Menander, and Cerinthus too,
Theudas, and the greatest two of all,
Simon of Gitton, named the Magian,
And Apollonius of Tyana.
Thousands assert for them, as you for Christ,
A supernatural power, a gift divine.
What shall I say? All surely are not gods!
No! nor a single one. Some, as I hear,
Are scholars versed in Egypt's mystic lore,
And by the subtle thought of Greece imbued,
With minds enriched by travel and strange tongues,
And skilled in writing, teaching, prophecy:
'T is even said their prophecies prove true!
If so, by chance, by happy guess, no more.
Yet if I hold these miracles of theirs
As mere delusions (and you say they are),
How can you ask me to accept on faith
Those Christ (a good man, if you will, but yet
An untaught Jew of Galilee) performed,
Far out of sight, with none to vouch for them
Except a ruck of wretched ignorant Jews?
As for their doctrines, systems, forms of faith,

There is an Eastern likeness in them all,
Simon or Christ—'t is nearly the same thing.

“And so this magian had the power, you think,
To drive out shrieking devils from the breasts
Of madmen, and compel them by his will
To rush into a herd of guiltless swine;
Nay, that he cured the sick, and raised the dead,
One Lazarus, four days buried, till he stank;
Even more, that he could raise himself to life
When crucified and dead, and in his tomb;
And all because these awe-struck vulgar Jews
Saw some one like him, and affirmed 't was he.
A woman first, a Mary Magdalene,
Set all these stories going. Who was she?
A half-mad courtesan, one who had owned
Her seven devils—but of her the less
You say the better. You'll at least admit
The kingdom that he promised on the earth,
The pomp, the power, the glory, were all trash.
He vanished very swiftly out of sight
For all his promises, and left the fools
Who trusted him to gape and stare to see
Some day the heavens open, as he said,
And him with angels coming. When he comes
Pray give me notice;—I, too, will believe;
Till then, excuse me; on such evidence
Of such grave portents, I to change my faith!
I would not hang a sparrow on it all.”

So Lucius thinks, and talks, and never sees
How strange a contradiction in him lies;
For he believes in all the wildest myths,
And miracles, and wonders of his gods,
Ay, and his demigods as well, and pays
To them his reverential sacrifice.
Like a good pagan, he believes them all,
Though he admits, of course, he never saw,
Nor any eyes of any living man;
Though all the evidence is far away,
Dimmed and obscured by misty centuries;
And though these myths are vouched by writings vague
Or by tradition only, differing, too,
In each tradition. Yet this faith being fixed,
Established by long ages of belief,
It must be true; and our good Lucius sees
In all these variations proofs of truth.
The facts remain, he says, despite them all,
Colored by this report or that report,
For this is human merely—only shows
How various minds are variously impressed;
One sees the fact as red, one green, one blue,
But all this difference proves the existing fact.

But when Christ comes within our very reach,
And living crowds behold his miracles,
Attesting them by strenuous belief,
And sudden cries, and life-long change of faith,
All are deceived; such strange things cannot be!

Yet either they were true or false. If false,
How were these crowds impressed to think they saw
What never happened? Is not this as strange,
As wondrous as the miracles themselves?
“Tricks, tricks,” he says, “they only thought they saw;
Do not a juggler's tricks deceive us all?
I have no faith in Apollonius
For all the evidence—it must be trick.
In ancient times the gods came down to man,
Assuming human powers—but that is past;
But when a human creature of to-day
Assumes their functions, and works miracles
Against the laws of nature, and calls up
The dead, the best thing is to hold him mad.”

No! Lucius will not try the old and new
By the same test; a kind of mystery shrouds
The ancient fact; the current of belief
For generations carries him along.
The early faith, stamped on his childish mind,
Can never be erased—'t is deep as life.
The priest, the sacrifice, the daily rites,
The formula, the fashion, the old use
Possess him, coloring all his life and thought;
And we, who in the new, pure faith rejoice,
Seem to his eyes, at least, but fools misled,
Who only seek his gods to overthrow,
And to whom ruin in the end must come.

We smile in pity—let us, too, be just.
'T is hard to root up all one's faith at once;
All the old feelings, all the happy dreams,
All the sweet customs, the long growth of years.
The very superstitions of our youth
Have fragrance in them. Underneath the words
We faltered, clinging to a mother's hand,
A dim, sweet music flows. To that old song
No new-writ verse will ever run so smooth.

We strike his faith, and whoso strikes our faith
We hold as foe—and oft lose sight of Truth
Defending dogmas, doctrines, formulas,
Shells though they be, from which the life has fled.
While yet the mind is plastic to a touch,
The die of doctrine strikes, deep in, our faith,
And age but hardens the impression there.
Half our fixed notions are but ancient ruts
Of empty words and formulas of thought,
Worn in by repetition and long use—
And easy run the wheels within these ruts.
He who assails and goads the mind to think,
Or starts it from the grooves of prejudice,
We call foul names, we hate, we scorn, we fear;
He seems at once a foe to man and God.
What will he do? Old superstitious props
Hold up our lives; if they be stricken down,
What shall befall us? Oh! that way lies death!
Old miracles, myths, dogmas, all things old,

Are reverent for their age. It is the new
We have to fear: as if God did not work
With fresh abounding power in our own day,
In our own souls; as if dead creeds could hold
The living spirit, and these pagan husks
Forever feed the soul that starves for Truth.

I will not say but in old myths resides
Something of good—some tender living germ
Of beauty and delight. Though I renounce
Their errors for this higher, holier life
That Christ has given; still, 't is sweet to think
Of Aphrodite rising from the sea,
The incarnate dream of beauty; of the staid,
Calm dignity of wisdom bodied forth
In grand Minerva; of the gracious joy,
The charm of nature, Bacchus represents;
Of Flora scattering flowers and breathing spring;
Of all those lovely shapes that lurking gleam
Through nature's sunny openings. Ah! I know
Reason rejects them for a higher thought,
And yet, at times, that old sweet faith returns
To tempt me back in its poetic train.
At times, the one Eternal Father seems
So far away, and this fair world that teemed
With airy shapes, so void and cold and bare.

But this is folly. Yet if in my heart
Old superstitions still possess a charm,
How harshly blame our Lucius, who remains

Fixed in the old—to whom we only seem
Rash innovators, bringing in new gods?
Of other stuff is our friend Caius made.
The folly of this faith he will admit;
“And yet,” he says, “the system stands our stead
Despite its follies—why then cast it down?
Truth is impossible; we cannot know;
The impenetrable veil of destiny
Behind our life, before our life is dropped.
All is an idle guess, and this mixed creed
Of superstitions has its gleams of truth.
It served our fathers; if we cast it down
Then chaos comes. Thinking results at last
In wretchedness. We cannot hope to know.
Only the gods know. Man's mind must be fed
With superstitions mixed with truth; pure truth
Would merely madden; for as we are made
Half mind, half matter, so our thoughts must be.
Then let our faith stand where it is; the beams
Are rotten here and there, but he who mends
May topple down the temple on our heads,
And leave us godless. Nay, the parasite
Of superstition, like the ivy, knits
The old wall's crumbling stones. For higher minds
A higher truth, a purer faith—but that
Through all these forms, we, who have eyes, can see,
The forms themselves the common herd demand.

Since all at last is theory, the best
Is to be happy, calm, and confident.
What is, is—and we cannot alter it.
Then plague me not with revelations new.
All things are revelations; every creed
Comes from above, from God, from all the gods.
Pure sunlight blinds the eye, so comes it veiled
With soft suffusion in the ambient air;
The sun, itself one speck—the positive
Set in an infinite negative of sky,
And beauty, offspring of the eternal light,
Dimmed to soft hues to suit our mortal sense.

“As for your miracles, I heed them not;
For all things, in one sense, are miracles.
Who can explain the simplest fact of life,
As how we see, or move our hand, or speak,
Or how we think, or what is life or death?
By dint of daily doing use wears out
All strangeness; and with words which but restate
And group the facts, we fancy we explain.
Our so-called laws of nature are but rules
Drawn by experience from recurrent facts,
Which every new phenomenon corrects.
Cause and effect are only cheating words;
We know no causes, we but see effects.
Yet, as in one sense all is miracle,
So, in another, no such thing exists.
The new, the strange, outside the common rule

Of man's experience, seems miraculous,
For mortal eyes are dim, and short of sight.
But could we through this world's phenomena
Pierce to the essence and the life of things,
All would arrange itself to perfect law—
No breaches, no exceptions, all pure law.”

Our Decimus, who hopes to win the rank
Of tribune, takes a somewhat different view.
“Don't talk to me,” he says, “of right or wrong,
Of true or false; we all must take the world
For what it is. Against established things
Why run your head, and spoil your chance in life?
Christ may have been a god, or he may not,
But here in Rome we worship other gods;
Better or worse is not the question here.
If you would win success, go with the crowd,
Nor like a fool against the current strive;
What will you gain by warring with the time,
And preaching doctrines that the general mind
Considers impious? Even were they true,
They only raise up foes to tread you down.
As for myself, I'm not the babbling fool
To utter all I think. I sacrifice
With all the rest, perform the common rites,
And do the thing that 's deemed respectable;
And so I win the favor of all men.
What care I if the crowd be right or wrong?
I use them just to serve my purposes,

As steps whereby to rise to place and power.
One should not be the last to leave the old,
Nor yet the first to welcome in the new.
The popular belief—that is my faith;
My gods are always on the side that wins.”

Marcus, the augur, whose whole life is spent
In omens, auguries, and sacrifice,
And service at the temple in white robes,
So deep is sunken in the pagan rut
He cannot start his mind even to think.
Our creed to him is rank impiety,
Worthy of death. He to the beasts would throw
Whoever dares our doctrines to embrace.
His faith is absolute; no shade of doubt
Has ever crossed him; he is planted there
Firm as a tree, or rather, like a wall;
A tree lives, grows, but he is simply dead,
Stone upon stone, dull, dead, fixed, like a wall.
Thus, buttressed up by custom's honoured props,
Established in the faith of centuries,
Engraved with mystic lines and Orphean hymns,
Old saws and sacred lore of ancient priests,
An honest, absolute, stolid wall he stands,
Firm to uphold the statues of the gods,
And shield them from the assaults of impious men.
If I beseech him to consider well
And reason on his faith, he cries, amazed,
“Reason! what more fallacious guide than that?

Reason! with human reason do you dare
To explain the gods, and to assail our faith?
They in the days of old revealed themselves,
Assumed our shapes, ordained the sacrifice
Of blood and wine upon our altars poured,
Their power attested by miraculous deeds,
And still by omens, portents, auguries,
Inform and aid us on our human path.
You do not understand them? oh, indeed!
And so you summon them before your bar,
Bid them explain their doings and their laws,
And if they fail to meet your views, why, then
You judge them and reject them. Oh, I see!
The gods must ask leave to be gods from us,
And beg our pardon if by ways obscure,
Instead of common human ways, they work,
Or else we will arise and get new gods.
Oh, Jupiter! who are these impious men?
Whence do they come, what do they mean, who thus
Set up at Rome their superstitions vile,
And with their feeble reason dare oppose
The will of heaven? Go, atheist, infidel,
Go, and ask pardon of the gods, and learn
Obedience, and humility, and fear,
Or Jove himself will from his right hand launch
His thunderbolt, and sweep you to your fate.”

At times, this solid, settled faith of his
Shakes me with doubt. For what if he be right,

And this new faith that so commends itself
To all I am and hope, be, at the worst,
Temptation and delusion, shall I set
My face against the verdict of the world?
Shall not the faith that soothed the dying bed
Of Socrates—the faith that Plato taught
And Cicero avowed, suffice for me?
Shall I dare question what such minds affirm?
“Obey! obey!” a voice within me cries
('T is the old echo of my early faith),
And then, “Arouse!” cries out a stronger voice,
“Arouse! shake off this torpor! Sink not down
In the old creed—easy because 't is old;
In the dead faith—so fixed, because 't is dead.”

Let us go in and speak with Paul again.
He is so strong, he braces up our faith,
And stiffens all the sinews of the mind.

PHIDIAS TO PERICLES.

So the old crew are at their work again,
Spitting their venom-froth of calumny,
And Menon's is the voice that now gives cry,—
A poor weak tool for those who lurk behind,
Hid in the dark to prick him to their work;
For who so blind as not to recognize
The hand of Cleon, the coarse demagogue,
Who rails at all to gain a place himself;
And scurrilous Hermippus, and the rest
Of that mean pack we know so well of old?

'T is sorry work, for which high-minded men
Must feel contempt, or pity at the least.
Menon I hoped at first would merely prove
An honest tool, bewrayed to a false charge
But honest in his purpose, though too free
In quick aspersion, taking little heed
To seek for truth, and careless where he struck
And whom he wounded; but since still he clings
To his foul calumny, and stoops to pick
Even from the gutter aught that serves his turn,
I give him up. Let him go with the rest.

100

Yet those who urge him on I rather scorn;
And for this charge now boldly cried at last
Into the public ear, I give him thanks.
So long as scandal, like a slimy snake,
Crawled in the grass, and hissed, and darted out
Its poisonous fangs in ambush, none could tell
Where it was creeping; now it shows its head,
And we may crush it like a noisome thing.

High as man stands when at his godlike heights
Of valour, honour, justice, and large thought,
The noblest shape the gods have ever made,
He in his lowest vices is more low
Than any wretched reptile on the earth.
We do dumb creatures wrong to liken them
To some mean talking creatures, who spit forth
Their envious venom, and with poisonous tongue
Of foul detraction sting their fellow-man.
Beasts have not these mean vices—only men.

You, Pericles, and I, do what we will,
Are guilty, both of us, of one offense
That envious natures never can forgive—
The great crime of success. If we were low
They would not heed us; but the praise of men
Lavished on us in Athens, right or wrong,
Rouses their anger. They must pull us down.
What can we hope for better than the fate
Of Anaxagoras, Miltiades,

101

Themistocles, or any, in a word,
Of those who in our Athens here have stood
In lofty places? It was crime enough
For Aristides to be called “The Just.”

And yet some consolation lies in this:
'T is at the tallest poppies that men strike;
'T is at fruit-bearing trees that they throw stones.

There are some natures so perverse, they feed
And batten upon offal; unto them
Nothing is pure or noble, nothing clean,
On which they do not seek to cast a stain.
They, like the beetle, burrowing in the dark,
Gather 'mid mould and rot their noisome food,
And issuing into sunlight roll their ball
Of filth before them, deeming it the world;
Honour and truth, fair dealing, upright aims,
Bare honesty, to them are only shams,
Professions, catch-words, that a man may use
To gull the world with, not realities.
Is there a tree that lifts into the air
Its glad green foliage: there like cankered pests
These vermin crawl and bite. Is there a fruit
That glows and ripens in the summer sun:
There speed these wasps to buzz and sting and stain.
Whence come into their minds these hints and taunts

102

Of fraudulent and evil practices
They cast at other men with such free hands?
Are they not germs spontaneously bred
Of their own natures—germs of evil thoughts,
Of possibilities, if not of facts,
That in themselves might ripen into deeds?
In the clean nature no such growth is bred;
What is repulsive to our inner sense
We deem impossibilities to all.

Let me not be unjust: this paltry few
Who in our Athens do their dirty work
Are bad exceptions to the better rule
Of honest and high-minded men, who scorn
Such arts to rise, ungoaded by the spur
Of envy, deeming the world wide enough
For all like brothers heartily to work.
And I would fain believe that even they
Who use these arts and spread these calumnies
Are troubled by remorse in better hours,
And feel the sting of conscience, and abjure
These lies that come like curses home to roost.

Because we will not strike our hands in theirs,
Drink with them, haunt with them the market-place,
Use their low practices to court the rich,
Hint falsehoods, that we dare not frankly say,
Flatter and fawn for favors, sneer at all—
Even those we publicly profess our friends—

103

We are aristocrats forsooth; we lift
Our heads too high, we are too proud; a thing
Which is a shame for one in Athens born.
We should be hand and glove with every one.
Well! let us own we are too proud, at least,
To court low company; too proud to rise
By any step that treads a brother down;
Too proud to stoop to defamating arts;
Too proud to sneer, to crawl, to cringe, to lie!
And if in Athens we select our friends,
Is this forbidden to a freeman here?

So, not content with throwing stones at you,
My noble Pericles, they cast at me
Their evil scandals. 'T was impiety
Because I wrought your figure and mine own
Upon Athena's shield; then, worse than this,
Our fair Aspasia they aspersed, and slurred
My honour and your own, as well as hers.
Now, since these shafts have struck not to the white,
A grosser scandal, hoping that at last
Some mud will stick if but enough be thrown;
So Menon cries, “This sculptor whom you praise
Has stolen for his private use the gold
The state confided to him, to encrust
This statue of Athena.” 'T is a lie!
An evil, wicked lie; as well you know,
My Pericles. I see it in your smile.

104

Yet, were it not that, with small faith in men
Like those that watch us with an evil eye,
I feared some accusation like to this
(And you yourself forewarned me of the same),
I had perchance been reft of all clear proof
Against this libel. As it is, I smile.
Each dram and scruple of the gold was weighed.
'T is moveable; and in response I say,
Let it be taken off and weighed again.
If in the balance it be changed a hair,
The fault be on my head. It will not change!

Thus far, O Pericles, well though I knew
Such calumnies were whispered secretly,
I would not stoop to answer them, secure
In my own honour, scornful of the crew
That uttered them, and holding it a loss
Of simple dignity to make response.
One does not stride forth in the market-place
To vaunt one's honesty, or cry aloud
“I do not lie and steal, though curs do bark.”

But here 's a public charge of theft urged home,
With show of false facts and pretended proof,
And so I speak; I ask for trial now,
Lest to the ignorant, who know me not,
Mere silence wear the false mask of consent.

But what avails it? Baffled in their aim,
They will retire a moment, to return

105

With some new scandal, which will creep and crawl
At first in whispers, dark and vague, and then
Take shape, grow stronger, and at last lift up
Its public hissing head. These cunning lies
Will serve their purpose, save to honest men;
The noble and the just will stand by me;
The envious rabble cherish still the lie.
Yes; for a lie will hurry to the bound
Of twilight, scattering its noisome seed,
Ere tardy Truth can lace its sandals on
To start in chase. Besides, great Truth is proud
And confident, disdaining to pursue
Through secret drains and slums the eager lie
That loves a whispered word, a foul surmise,
And in reply to Truth's calm honest voice
Winks, hints, and shrugs its shoulders with a laugh.
Ten thousand ears will hear the audacious lie,
One thousand to the refutation list,
Ten of ten thousand will believe stern Truth.

True, the last ten outweigh, as gold does dross,
The other thousands; but one does not like
One's clean robes to be smirched by dirt and mud,
Even though the mud brush off. Posterity
Will do us justice? Yes, perhaps, or no.
So long as men are men 't will be the same,
Or now, or thousands of long years from now.

106

And it is now we live. Our honest fame,
To be enjoyed, must compass us about
Like ambient air we breathe—pure, without taint.

What matters it, when I am turned to dust,
When all emotions, joys, loves, passions, hopes,
Are vanished like a breeze that dies away,
And all that I am now,—these hands, this heart,
This spirit,—nay, the very friends I own,
And all that lent this life its perfect charm,
Are past and over; ah! what matters it
What in the future men may say or do?
Whether, disputing o'er my grave, at last
They call me good or bad, honest or vile?

What joy can any verdict give me then,
When I myself, and all who love me now,
And all who hate or envy me as well,
Will be but mute insensate dust, whose ear
No word of blame can reach, no word of praise?
And yet, even then, although it matters not,
Truth, standing by my grave, I trust, will say,
Honest he was, and faithful to the last,
Above low frauds, striving for lofty ends,
Obedient to the gods, and friend to man,
Doing his work with earnest faith and will;
Not vaunting what he did, but knowing well
Perfection is impossible in Art;
Receiving with humility the praise

107

The world accorded, wishing well to all,
And never envious of his brother's fame.

There stands Athena, she whom Menon says
I did not make, being helped by better men,
Whose fame I thus defraud of their just rights
By claiming it as mine. What can one say
To such a paltry charge of petty fraud?
I scorn to answer it; nay, even they
Who make it know 't is false as 't is absurd.

Speak! my Athena; answer thou for me!
She will not answer, yet her silence speaks
More eloquent than any words of mine.
Look, Pericles! how calm and all unmoved
She stands and gazes at us; a half-scorn
On those still lips at these poor jealousies,
These foolish bickerings and strifes of men.
“What mean you, that you make this wicked noise”
(She seems to say), “you creatures of an hour?
Why do you wrangle thus your life away
With your sharp lies and envious vanities,
Buzzing and stinging a brief moment's space
In Time's thin stretch across the Infinite,
Whose awful silences shall gulf you all?—
Swift evanescent flashes through the dark
Across the untroubled patience of the night,
And the still, far, unalterable stars.
Ye boasters! what is all your vaunted work

108

That with such pride ye build, save that the gods
Smile on you and assist you? 'T is not yours,
If any good be in it. Bend your hearts
Before the Powers august. Strive not to rob
Your fellow-mortal of the gift the gods
Bestow upon him. Humbly do the work
That is appointed, and in confidence
Await the end, secure of Nemesis.”

109

MARCUS AURELIUS TO LUCIUS VERUS.

DEDICATED TO THE LADY WILLIAM RUSSELL.

I have received your letter, read it through
With careful thought, and, to confess the truth,
I deem it timid to a point beyond
What suits an Emperor,—timid in a way
Unsuited to the temper of the time.
You say Avidius hates us; does not stint
His jests and sneers at what we are and do;
Has no respect for the imperial robes;
Says you are an old woman, whose bald talk
You deem profound philosophy, while I
Am merely a debauched and studious fool.
You bear him no ill-will for this, you say,
(My noble Lucius, this is worthy you!)
But then you add you fear he has designs
To do us wrong, and beg me to keep watch,
Lest he, by all his wealth and power, at last
Compass our ruin. But consider this—
If to Avidius Destiny decree
The Empire's purple, all our art is vain!
You know the saying of your ancestor,
Our austere Trajan, “Never was there prince
Who killed his own heir;” no man e'er prevailed
Him to o'erthrow whom the immortal gods

110

Had marked as his successor; so, as well,
He whom the gods oppose must surely fall,
Not through our act, but by his destiny,
Caught in the inevitable snare of fate.

Again, the traitor or the criminal,
Though by the clearest proof convicted, stands
As 't were at bay; one weak and friendless man
Against the state's compacted law and might,
And thus moves pity—seeming, as it were,
From that unequal match to suffer wrong.
“Wretched, indeed” (as your grandfather said),
“The fate of princes who make good their charge
Of purposed murder by their martyrdom,
Proving the plot against their life, by death.”
Domitian 't was, in truth, who spake these words,
Yet rather would I call them Hadrian's,
Since tyrants' sayings, true howe'er they be,
Have not the weight of good and noble men's.

As for Avidius, then, let him work out
His secret course, being, as you say he is,
Austere in discipline, a leader brave,
And one the state cannot afford to lose;
Let him continue there upon the edge
Of Daphnic luxury, near by Antioch,
To rein the army in and hold it firm,
Secure that Nemesis awaits on him,
As on us all, whate'er we are or do:
And for my children's interests, and mine,

111

If they can only be subserved by wrong,
Perish my children, rather than through wrong
They triumph! If Avidius deserve
Better than they, and if through him the state
Glory and strength superior may gain,
Better he live and win the prize he seeks!
Better they die and yield to him the state!

Please God, that while the imperial robes I wear
No blood be shed for me,—for I would fain
Be called “The Bloodless,” like our Antonine!
And if this man have injured me, and shown
Ingratitude, that meanest of all sins,
At least he cannot rob me of one boon
I hold the greatest given by victory,
That of forgiveness. Ever since the Fates
Placed me upon the throne, two aims have I
Kept fixed before my eyes; and they are these:—
Not to revenge me on my enemies,
And not to be ungrateful to my friends.

112

GIROLAMO, DETTO IL FIORENTINO, DESPONDS AND ABUSES THE WORLD.

[_]

“Mi dici che sono famoso e che tutti mi lodano. Ah! caro amico mio, qual valore ha ciò che si chiama successo in questo mondo? L'alto frutto che stentiamo tanto a cogliere, che ci lusinga tanto colla sua bella apparenza spesso in bocca sembra insipido, immaturo, od aspro. E poi, la Fama viene troppo tardi! Son vecchio e non mi fido più a belle parole. Grata sarebbe stata la lode del mondo quando ero giovane, m'avrebbe consolato, rinforzato, spronato ad alte imprese, come lo squillo della tromba che eccita al conflitto, che promette vittoria. Ma ora le illusioni, le speranze sono fuggite ed il reverbero della Fama non mi pare che un rumore vano ed insulso. I cari son morti e non possono udirlo; e per me poco me ne curo. Quel che ho fatto, ho fatto e lo conto per poco. Tutte le lusinghe del mondo non cambierebbero il mio giudizio. L'albero ha portato il suo frutto, e buono o cattivo rimane quello che è.”—

Lettera inedita di Girolamo.

Success, ah yes, success, you say I've gained!
The world applauds, and yet I only sigh.
Its loud applause but feeds my vanity;
The jewel that I sought is not attained.
Something there was which once the future had—
A foolish hope, an idle dream, a light
That shone before me ever day and night—
That now is gone, and leaves me poor and sad.
'T was not to win the fickle world's applause:
That followed after as effect, not cause;
And between that and this you call success

113

How vast a void! Something I dreamed to do,
The joy of which should light my being through
With a serene interior happiness.
So strove I with the toil of brain and heart,
Saying, “Into the inner sphere of art
When I have pierced and made me master there,
The toil all over, I shall stand and bear
Sound fruit, sweet blossoms, like a healthy tree
That hath the winds of heaven for playmates free,
A rest and refuge for the head of care.”

What now is come instead? This glorious star
Turns out to be a common, vulgar lamp—
A false marsh-meteor dancing o'er the damp,
Low stretch of blasted life; this godlike Lar
A brazen cheat; this fair Hesperian fruit
A Dead Sea apple; and the siren's lute
Strung to such discord it were better mute.

Once by the shore I mused and saw afar
A dream-like bark, that o'er the morning sea,
Through veiled and violet distances of air,
With roseate sails went gliding silently;
Freighted with bliss, to some ideal land
Its happy peaceful way it seemed to wend.
And there I longed—oh, how I longed to be!
Now on its filthy deck at last I stand:
Oh, dismal disenchantment, bitter end!
Soiled are its sails, the sea is rough and high,

114

Foul are the odors, coarse the company;
And sick at stomach and at heart I lie,
And curse my fate and wish that I could die.

The world has cured me of my self-conceit;
Its cold rebuffs have brushed away like dust
My youth's presumptuous faith and proud self-trust.
What do I care if they were all a cheat,
Those bright illusions of my early years?
While I believed that I was strong, I was;
Self-conscious, now, I look around and pause,
Hindered in all I do by doubts and fears.

Success! Yes, while you stinted me in praise
My pride upheld me; to myself I said,
“Some time they'll praise me, after I am dead.
The work is good, although the world delays;
I for the prize can wait.” But now you blow
The trumpet in my honour, I bend low,
And from my eyes my work's best charm has fled.
Once I compared it with the world's neglect,
And proudly said, “'Tis better than they see.”
Now I behold it tainted with defect
In the broad light of what it ought to be.

Fame seemed, when out of reach, how sweet and grand!
How worthless, now I grasp it in my hand!

115

The glory was the struggle, the affray;
Victory is only loss; at last I stand
Mourning amid dead hopes at close of day.
Give me the old enthusiasms back,
Give me the ardent longings that I lack,—
The glorious dreams that fooled me in my youth,
The sweet mirage that lured me on its track,—
And take away the bitter, barren truth.
Ah, yes! Success, I fear, has come too late!
Once it had swelled my heart and filled my sails;
Now I am reefed, it only cries and wails
In my rent cordage like a blast of fate.
The lift is gone, the spring is strained and weak;
I scorn the praise yon idle praisers speak.
What matters now the lauding of your lips,
What matters now the laurel wreath you plait
For these bald brows, for these gray hairs? It slips
Over my eyes and helps to hide my tears.
I am too old for joys—almost for fears.

Ye critics, pardon, that I dared to do
Not as you wished, but only as I chose.
You might have done far better, it is true,
And perfumed my camellia like a rose.
Oh, had you wrought my crippled works yourselves,
They had been giants which are now but elves!

116

Do we not feel as well our works' defect
As you who circling round them hum and sing,
Mosquito critics with a poisonous sting;
Or ye whose higher purpose 't is to teach,
Who kindly patronize, suggest, direct,
And make our labours texts on which to preach
And show your own superior intellect?
Do we not know our work is mean and poor?
'T is only when the fire is in the brain,
And all alone we strive—the outward door
Of life closed up—and listen as to one
Speaking within us with a spirit's tone,
That what we do seems not entirely vain.
Waking from that half-trance of inner thought,
The voices gone, the real world returned,
We feel the thing that we have done is naught—
A blackened brand with all the flame outburned,
A goblet cracked which all its wine hath shed,
A cage in which the singing bird is dead.

This was my hope and trust, when I am gone,
Dead, turned to dust, senseless to blame or praise,
That somewhat out of all that I had sown
Of thought and feeling on the world's highways
Might not be held as base and noxious weeds
For Time with hand unsparing to destroy,
But, falling on some kindly soil, the seeds
Might grow and bloom into a moment's joy,
Or ripen into fruit of noble deeds.

117

This lent me life, and strung my throbbing strings
To music once. What joy 't would be to feel
My song into some maiden's heart might steal
And live amid her pure imaginings,—
That she should keep it in her memory
As handmaid to her love, and breathe it low,
And pour into it all the overflow
Of her young heart and say it with a sigh;
Or that some student in despairing hour
Should from a word of mine renew his power;
Some toiling heart be strengthened in its aim;
Some faltering purpose trample down its shame;
Some eye, long used to poring on the ground,
Look up and feel the sky and beauty round;
Some sorrowing mourner get a glimpse of youth;
Some world-cased spirit feel the sting of truth.
Is this so now? You say it is, and yet
It does not stir me now; the fountain's jet
But dribbles o'er the worn-out pipes, where first
Its shattered showers of diamonds towering burst.

Autumn has come; the grass is dry and sere;
No spring-time flowers now grace the dying year.
The fruits are nearly culled; the harsh winds blight
The lingering leaves. I only linger here,
And the time comes for me to say good-night.

118

Yes, I am sad—sad and dispirited,
And those I loved and laboured for are dead.
The heart is hardened, once so sensitive.
Fame the world gives, but youth it cannot give;
Nor can it give me back the smiles of those
Whose praise had been the best reward on earth
Success but makes me feel the dreadful dearth,
The gap of death that naught can ever close.
Midst all the voices one—the dearest one—
I miss to greet me now my work is done.
The hand that would so gladly on my brow
Have placed the laurel that you bring too late,
And kissed the lips below,—where is it now?
What do I care that now you call me great;
Is this the triumph, this the happiness?
Cry to the dead ones, “He hath won success.”
Say, will their voices answer back to bless?

Yet courage! this is but an idle mood;
To-morrow I shall feel within my blood
A new pulse beating, a new impulse start.
'T is but a cloud to-day comes o'er my heart,
A sickening sense of weakness, where desire
Hath only left the ashes of its fire.
Art still remains, and wheresoe'er I be
It draws me with a sweet necessity.
Though in a moment's rage I storm and frown,
And with a rude hand cast its altars down,
Or, disappointed and depressed with care,
Heed not the perfume of the incense there,

119

A better mood will come, when I again
Shall seek its temple, worship in its train,
Put on my coronal, and be its priest,
Glad to perform the duty that is least.
For what were life without its joys and fears,
Its tumults, and its clash of smiles and tears?
What could I do, forbade to enter in
Its happy courts, but sit without and weep?
No! the old use will never let me sleep,
And, poor as all my service yet hath been,
While life continues in this breast to beat,
A space to struggle and a prize to win
Will still remain. Oh, not alone a name,
Though human praise to human ears is sweet,
Allures me. Something higher far I claim,
To shape out something that I shall not shame
To lay upon art's shrine as offering meet;
Something in which the strength of age shall be,
And youth's high hope be made reality.

So! still the same; these years have nothing taught;
Still the enthusiast! Even while I spoke
Elastic springs the hope I thought was broke.
I am a child still. Oh, thank Heaven! not all,
Despite the world's rebuffs and what you call
Success, not all is lost and turned to naught!
There 's tinder yet which can be set on fire
When the chance sparks of feeling on it fall.

120

I have not stood a beggar on the ways
And held my hand out for the critic's praise;
I have not flattered, fawned, nor coined my heart,
Degraded the high purposes of art,
Pandered to vulgar aims and groveling thought;
And if success has come, it comes unbought.
Art shall not drag her skirts along the mud
While I can help her; shall not beg and cringe,
Claim alms for pity's sake, her heaven-born blood
Ceasing with noble pride her cheeks to tinge.
I have not cast her alms, but on my knees
Been thankful for the crust she threw to me,
Me, her poor worshiper, most glad to be
Her humblest slave; glad if by slow degrees
I win one smile at last my life to bless,
And this alone for me would be success.

University of Virginia Library

PARCHMENTS AND PALIMPSESTS.

A ROMAN LAWYER IN JERUSALEM.

FIRST CENTURY.

A JEWISH RABBI IN ROME.

WITH A COMMENTARY BY BEN ISRAEL.

A PRIMITIVE CHRISTIAN IN ROME.

PHIDIAS TO PERICLES.

MARCUS AURELIUS TO LUCIUS VERUS.

GIROLAMO, DETTO IL FIORENTINO, DESPONDS AND ABUSES THE WORLD.