Michael Villiers, Idealist And Other Poems. By E. H. Hickey |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
THE LAST COMBAT IN THE COLISEUM
|
| I. |
| II. |
 | Michael Villiers, Idealist |  |
176
THE LAST COMBAT IN THE COLISEUM
I
A folk that called itself a Christian folk
Still kept the blood-lust of its heathendom,
Men slaying men to make fair mirth for Rome;
And one, aflame with anger and pity, spoke
His heart out in the eloquent speech that broke
Against the mob's hard will, and fell therefrom
Like a strong wave, whose heart beneath its foam
Beating in vain, sobs back from some hard rock.
Still kept the blood-lust of its heathendom,
Men slaying men to make fair mirth for Rome;
And one, aflame with anger and pity, spoke
His heart out in the eloquent speech that broke
Against the mob's hard will, and fell therefrom
Like a strong wave, whose heart beneath its foam
Beating in vain, sobs back from some hard rock.
Another took his life within his hand,
Saying, ‘No longer shall this evil be.’
They smote him that he died upon the sand,
Having fulfilled love's whole supreme command.
But in his death love gained its victory,
For never again did Rome such combat see.
Saying, ‘No longer shall this evil be.’
They smote him that he died upon the sand,
Having fulfilled love's whole supreme command.
But in his death love gained its victory,
For never again did Rome such combat see.
177
II
Now many a year since then is past and o'er,
But men not yet to love's high law subdued;
The evil still is fain to blast the good;
Wrong wrestles still with right at all things' core;
And some, who guess the secret of love's lore,
Speak, very mighty in their voice and mood;
And some, who know that secret's plenitude,
Lay down their lives, as men lay down their store.
But men not yet to love's high law subdued;
The evil still is fain to blast the good;
Wrong wrestles still with right at all things' core;
And some, who guess the secret of love's lore,
Speak, very mighty in their voice and mood;
And some, who know that secret's plenitude,
Lay down their lives, as men lay down their store.
Wilt thou, O man, deliver men from wrong,
'Tis not enough thy substance to bestow;
And not enough to send thy heart along
Upon the rhythmic tide of passionate song;
Thyself, thy soul, thy body, all must go:—
Thou knowest not the rest, but God doth know.
'Tis not enough thy substance to bestow;
And not enough to send thy heart along
Upon the rhythmic tide of passionate song;
Thyself, thy soul, thy body, all must go:—
Thou knowest not the rest, but God doth know.
| Michael Villiers, Idealist | |