University of Virginia Library

Through haughty Rome's imperial street
The mighty Emperor rode,
And frankincense and spices sweet
In silver censers glowed;
In car of state erect he stood,
And round him, rushing like a flood,
The people poured with shout and song,
And every eye of all that throng
Gazed on him with delight;
For he had triumphed, far and wide,
Had sated Rome's o'er-grasping pride,
And, laying captive nations low,
Now dragged the pale and trembling foe,
Bent down in sore affright.
And still before him opened far
The pathways for his conquering star,
More crowns of world-wide fame to win,
'Mid shouts of warriors, battle's din.
One triumph scarcely o'er, he spurned
The laurel-wreaths so hardly earned,
And still his fevered spirit burned
New realms, new worlds to gain.

And now his legions on he led,
Legions that ne'er from foe had fled,
The glory of his reign,
To reap new harvests in the field
Where all faced death, but none would yield;
When lo! from out the exulting crowd,
Her voice half-drowned by plaudits loud,
A woman rushed, bent low with years,
Grey-haired, and weeping blinding tears;
With eager cry and outstretched hand,
As one who might a king command,
She caught the Emperor's eye, and stayed
The progress of that proud parade.
“Ah, Lord!” she cried; “on thee I call,
On bended knees before thee fall,
Implore, beseech thee; let not might,
All ruthless, triumph over right.
I had a son, my only boy,
My heart's delight, my pride and joy,
Fair-haired, bright-eyed, a sunbeam clear
That made it summer all the year.
In that pure boyhood, free from stain,
His father grew to life again;
And he, O Sire, in bloom of youth,
Flushed with high courage, strong in truth,
Now lies all stiff and cold in death,
And never more shall living breath
Warm limbs and heart again.
And lo! the murderer standeth there,
His proud lip curling in the air,
As if he scorned my wild despair
For him his hand hath slain.
See, still he smiles that evil smile,
Half-lust, half-hate, thrice vilely vile,
As knowing well the dark disgrace
That hangs o'er all of Abraham's race,
As knowing well the Christian's name
Makes him who bears it marked for shame,
And counting still a Christian's prayer
An idle rending of the air.
But thou, O Prince, the true, the just,
To whom the blood, from out the dust,
For vengeance cries in murmurs loud,
Like mutterings from the thunder-cloud,
Thou wilt not scorn the widow's cry,
Nor let her voice be heard on high,
Accusing thee of wrong;
Not yet her plaint ascends with theirs,
Who cry beneath God's altar-stairs,
‘How long, O Lord, how long?’
There still is time to do the right,
Time to put forth thy kingly might,
That man of pride and blood to smite.”

Then turned his head that Emperor just,
As faithful to his kingly trust,
As one sore grieved, yet strong of will
Each task of duty to fulfil;
And to that widow sad and lorn,
By care and grief and anguish worn,
With knitted brow and stedfast face,
Thus spake his words of princely grace:
“Know, weeping mother, know, thy prayer
By day and night my thoughts shall share;
My eye shall search the secret guilt,
And track the blood thy foe hath spilt;
No depth of shade, no length of time
Shall hide the felon, stained with crime.
Long since, men know, I spake full clear,
And stayed the blast which many a year
Had filled the Christians' hearts with fear.
I would not welcome vain report;
In daylight clear, in open court,
Let those who will their charges prove,
And so let justice onward move;
And shame it were that I should shrink,
Through fear what rich or proud may think,
From words of truth and deeds of power,
The outcome of the judgment hour.
All this shall be; but now the day
Leads on to battle far away.
The foes are fierce on Ister's stream;
The helms of thousand warriors gleam;
And we must war with spear and shield
By leaguered fort, on tented field;
Must bear the scorching heat or frost,
In desert wild, on rock-bound coast,
Until, at length, the battle won,
Each task fulfilled, each duty done,
We turn our steps once more for home,
And rest in peace in lordly Rome.
Yes: then shall every deed of shame
In daylight clear bear fullest blame,
No wrong escape the sentence true,
All evil pay the forfeit due.
Till then be patient; every hour
Will dull the edge of suffering's power;
The months pass onward, quick they flee;
Then bring thy prayer once more to me.”

“Ah, Prince!” the widow made her moan,
“Too true, the hours speed on and on;
To-day flits by while yet we speak;
To-morrow's dawn in vain we seek.
Do right at once. Who dare foretell
The issue of thy warfare fell?
Who knows but I may still abide
While thou on Thracia's plains hast died?
Or thou returning, conqueror proud,
May'st find me mouldering in my shroud?
Delay not, shrink not; do the right,
Or else e'en thou, in all thy might
May'st stand, all shivering with affright,
Before the throne of endless light.”

She spake, and then great Trajan's heart
Was moved to choose the better part;
He stayed his march; a night and day
Halted that army's proud array;
He tracked the secret guilt of blood,
Though high in state the murderer stood,
And rested not till doom was done,
As rose the next day's blood-red sun;
And thus, in face of earth and heaven,
His pledge in act and word was given,
That great or small, or bond or free,
Before his throne should equal be,
Heathens and Christians all confess
His power to punish or to bless,
The might of truth and righteousness.