Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

The Dungeon of Minturnæ.
Marius. The Cimbrian.
Marius.
What art thou, wretch, that, in the darkness com'st,
The midnight of this prison, with sly step,
Most fit for the assassin, and bared dagger
Gleaming in thy lifted grasp!

Cimbrian.
I am sent by those
Whose needs demand thy death. A single stroke
Sets us both free forever—thou from Fate,
Me from captivity.

Marius.
Slave, hast thou heart
To strike at that of Marius!

Cimbrian.
That voice—that name—
Disarm me; and those fearful eyes that roll,
Like red stars in the darkness, fill my soul
With awe that stays my hand. Master of the world,
The conqueror of my people hast thou been,—
I know thee as a Fate! I cannot harm thee.

Marius.
Go to thy senders, and from Marius say,
That, if they bare the weapon for my breast,
Let them send hither one who has not yet
Look'd in a master's eye. 'Tis not decreed
That I shall perish yet, or by such hands
As gather in Minturnæ. Get thee hence!

301

II.

Public Hall of Minturnæ.
Magistrates. The Cimbrian. Augur.
Cimbrian.
I cannot slay this man. Give me to strike
Some baser victim, or restore to me
My chains. I cannot purchase, at such price,
The freedom that I covet.

Magistrate.
Yet this man
Conquer'd thy people.

Cimbrian.
He hath conquer'd me!

Augur.
And he must conquer still!
His hour is not yet come. The Fates reserve
His weapon for their service. They have need
Of his avenging ministry, to purge
The world of its corruptions. I behold
A fearful vision of the terrible deeds
That wait upon his arm. Let him go free.
Give him due homage; clothe him with fresh robes;
Speed him in secret, with a chosen bark,
To other shores. So shall your city 'scape
Rome's wrath, and his hereafter.

Magistrate.
It is well:
This counsel looks like wisdom.

Augur.
It is more!
So the gods speak through their interpreter.

Magistrate.
Release him straightway—send him forth in honor;
We give him freedom—let the gods give safety.

302

III.

Island of Ænaria.
Marius. Cethegus.
Cethegus.
Thou hast slept, Marius.

Marius.
And thou hast watch'd my sleep;
Ah! truest friend and follower, not in vain!
Dismiss that cloudy trouble from thy brows,
Those doubts that vex thy heart; for know that Fate
Still hath me in its keeping, and decrees
Yet other deeds and conquests at my hand,
And still one glorious triumph. I shall be
Once more, in Rome, a Consul! When a child,
Sporting on summer slopes, beneath old hills,
Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud,
Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence
Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.

Cethegus.
Thou'st had it six.

Marius.
One other yet remains.

Cethegus.
Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream;
For know that, while thou slept'st, our treacherous bark
Loosed sail, and left the shores.

Marius.
Gone!

Cethegus.
Clean from sight.

Marius.
Ha! ha! Now thank the gods that watch my sleep,
And save me when the might of man would fail!
Courage, my friend, that vessel speeds to wreck,
Rack'd on some lurking rock beneath the wave,
Or foundering in the tempest. We are safe!

Cethegus.
Thou'rt confident.

Marius.
As Fate and Hope can make me.
Yet look! there is an omen. We must fly
This place, for other refuge. See the strife

303

Betwixt these deadly scorpions on the sands.

Cethegus.
What read'st thou in this omen?

Marius.
Sylla's soldiers
Are fast upon our heels. Get to the shore;
Some fisher's boat will help us from the land,
And bear us whither the directing Fates
Decree for refuge—safely o'er the seas
That gulf our treacherous vessel.

Cethegus.
Be it so!
I follow thee whatever be thy fate!

Marius.
Hark! dost thou hear?

Cethegus.
What sound?

Marius.
The tramp of horse;
And lo! the boat awaits us by the shore!

IV.

Marius
, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage.

Alone, but not a captive—not o'ercome
By any fate, and reckless of its doom—
Even midst the ruins by his own hand made,
There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!
What mighty thoughts, that will not be repress'd,
Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast?—
What glorious memories of the immortal strife
Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;
That giant-like, sea rival of his own
Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;
Doom'd in long conflict, through experience dread,
To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;
To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,
And yield to him who shares her ruins now!

304

How, o'er his soul, with passions still that gush'd,
The wondrous past with all its memories rush'd!
These ruins were his monument. They told
Of wisest strategy, adventure bold,
Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,
That tried his genius, and approved it strong;
That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,
His country's boast, his deeds her brightest theme;
Written in brass and marble—sung in strains
That warm the blood to dances in old veins;
That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,
And crown the spirit with achieving will;
That seem eternal in the deeds they show,
And waken echoes that survive below;
Brood o'er the mortal, slumbering in the tomb,
And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,
Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,
Join in the homage, who till then were mute;
Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite
To sing the bird they could not match in flight;
Content to honor where they cannot shame,
And praise the worth they cannot rob of fame.

How, with these memories gathering in his breast,
Of all the labors that denied him rest—
Of all the triumphs that his country bore
To heights of fame she had not won before—
Broods he, the exile from his state and home,
On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!
Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,
Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.
No sad submission yields he to his fate,
So long as solace comes to him from hate,
Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace

305

No single look to recompense disgrace;
With no ambition check'd, no passion hush'd,
No pride o'erthrown, no fond delusion crush'd;
With every fire alive that ever sway'd,
His soul as lordly as when most obey'd,
He broods o'er wrongs, remember'd as his own,
And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.
Fix'd on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glares, as if fasten'd on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine;
Grasp'd firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul is heard to swear!
The awful purpose, nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each feeling with the deadliest will,
But, till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”

Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore
That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;
Reveal the secret purpose that inspires
That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;
Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance
Fix'd on those ruins in intensest trance,
Which nothing speaks to that it still surveys,
And looks within, alone, with meaning gaze.
Unclose the lip, that, rigidly compress'd,
Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;
And, on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,
Write the full record of his thought profound.
What future scene beneath that piercing eye
Depicts the carnage and the victory;
The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped—
The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead?

306

Say, what wild sounds have spell'd the eager ear,
That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;
How many thousands perish in that cry
That fills his bloody sense with melody?
What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,
Declare the vengeance gratified too well?
What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,
Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?
What horrid scene of triumph and of hate
Do ye discover to this man of Fate,
Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,
Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?

He hath no speech, save in the ruins round;
But there's a language born without a sound,
A voice whose thunders, though unutter'd, fly
From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;
There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,
Still tearing those that taught him how to tear;
One dream alone delighting his desire,
The dream that finds the fuel for his fire:—
Let fancy shape the language for his mood,
And speak the purpose burning in his blood.

V.

Marius.

“If thou hadst tears, O Carthage! for the voice
That speaks among thy ruins, it would cheer
The spirit that was crush'd beneath my heel,
To hear the tongue of thy destroyer swear
To live as thy avenger. I have striven
For Rome against thee, till, in frequent strife,

307

Thy might was overthrown—thy might as great
As Rome's in days most palmy, save in this:
Thou hadst no soul as potent in thy service,
As I have been in hers. And thou, and all—
The Gaul, the Goth, the Cimbrian—all the tribes
That swell'd the northern torrents, and brought down,
Yearly, the volumed avalanche on Rome—
Have sunk beneath my arm, until, secure,
She sat aloft in majesty, seven-throned,
And knew or fear'd no foe. This was my work—
Nor this alone; from the patrician sway,
That used her as the creature of his will,
I pluck'd her eagles, casting down his power
Beneath plebeian footstep. For long years
Of cruellest oppression and misrule,
I took a merited vengeance on her pride,
Debasing her great sons, that, in their fall,
Her people might be men. I loved her tribes,
Since they were mine. I made their homes secure;
I raised their free condition into state—
And I am here! These ruins speak for me—
An exile—scarr'd with honorable wounds,
At seventy years, alone and desolate!

“But the o'erruling Deities decree
My triumph. From thy ruins comes a voice
Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries,
To me, as thy avenger. Thou forgiv'st
My hand the evil it hath wrought on thee,
That the same hand upon thy conqueror's head
May work like ruin. The atoning Fates
Speak through thy desolation. They declare
That I shall tread the ungrateful city's streets,
Arm'd with keen weapon and consuming fire,

308

And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow
The seeds of future ruin in her heart,
So that her fall, if far less swift than thine,
Shall be yet more complete. She shall consume
With more protracted suffering. She shall pass
Through thousand ordeals of the strife and storm,
Each bitterer than the last—each worse than thine—
A dying that shall linger with its pain,
Its dread anxieties, its torturing scourge,
A period long as life, with life prolong'd,
Only for dire, deservéd miseries.
Her state shall fluctuate through successive years,
With now great shows of pride—with arrogance
That goes before destruction—that her fall
May more increase her shame. The future grows—
Dread characters, as written on a wall—
In fiery lines before me; and I read
The rise of thousands who shall follow me,
Each emulous of vengeance fell as mine,
By mine at first begotten. Yet, why gaze
In profitless survey of the work of years,
Inevitable to the prescient soul,
And leave our own undone? I hear a voice
Reproaching me that I am slow to vengeance;
Me, whom the Fates but spare a few short hours,
That I may open paths to other masters,
For whom they find the scourge. They tutor me
That mine's a present mission; not for me
To traverse the wide future, in pursuit
Of those who shall succeed me in their service,
But to speed onward in the work of terror,
So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready,
Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise,
Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins,

309

Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey,
And bound to my performance as the lion,
Long crouching in his jungle, who, at last,
Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood
Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye;
A crimson sea receives me, and I tread
In billows, thus incarnadined, from nations
That bleed through ages thus at every vein.
Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still
Lurk, homeless, in these ruins that ye once
Made sacred as abodes, and deem'd secure,—
I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer,
And swear myself your soldier. I will go,
And with each footstep on some mighty neck,
Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine!
Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud,
Before my coming, Rome? Is not my spirit,
That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose,
Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant,
Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper,
That loads him with despair? Alone I come;
But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd
About me, with their service—willing creatures
That shall assist me first to work on thee,
And last upon themselves! The daylight fades,
And night belongs to vengeance. I depart,
Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror's heart.”

The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Jonson's tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome,” etc.

310

VI.

Silent once more the ruins—dark the night,
Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrass'd flight;
No fears delay, no toils retard the speed
Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed;
And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure
Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure,
Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell
That summons human fiends to works of hell!
Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate,
Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate;
Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain,
Thy virtues sapp'd to break thy despot's chain!
Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong,
The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong;
Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway
That kept meet progress with the march of day;
That, from all nations pluck'd the achieving arts,
Which make sway sovereign in a people's hearts;
Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear,
There swell'd the temple's crest, the column there,
Each with its chronicle to spell the soul,
And each most precious to the crowning whole;
A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made
The admiring nations silent in thy shade;
Genius and Art commingling in thy cause,
And gods presiding o'er thy matchless laws.

311

VII.

But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh,
And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky;
Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last,
And all thy glories centre in thy past—
Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath
Thine altars swells the midnight cry of death;
The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe,
But to make bare thy bosom to the blow;
From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom,
From thy own children hollow out thy tomb.
The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame,
Were those that led thee once to heights of fame:
The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast,
Is the same eagle that made great thy nest.
Hark! at his shrilly scream the sleuth-hounds wake,
The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake;
Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey
The herds they kept, most busy with the prey.
These are the flocks they foster'd from their foes,
And these are first to drink the blood that flows.
Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire
The madden'd son to prey upon the sire!
Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields
To make this last the bloodiest of his fields.
Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down—
His iron footstep planted on thy crown;
But in thy fate, 'tis something for thy pride,
Thus self-destroy'd, thou mighty suicide!

University of Virginia Library

CAIUS MARIUS.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.