Gods, Saints & Men By Eugene Lee-Hamilton ... With Ten Full-Page Illustartions Designed by Enrico Mazzanti |
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The Gods of beauty and of gladness
Lived on; but exiled and in sadness.
Long since their last adorer's prayer
Had died upon the desert air,
And round their temple's shattered column,
The silence was complete and solemn.
In shirt of hair, the scourge in hand,
A thousand saints in every land
Usurped their high antique command.
The chant of monks, the parting knell
Upon the ear for ever fell;
Or else the savage clank of steel
As men stalked armed from head to heel.
Each radiant and immortal God
The lonely path of exile trod
In pale disguise; or had retreated
To distant shores, and lay secreted.
Thus in a mountain's deep recess,
In undiminished loveliness,
Dwelt Venus in the middle ages,
Decoying some stray knights and pages,
And cheering exile's endless leisure
With mortal loves and earthly pleasure.
Where loudest rose War's shriek and rattle,
Rallying the Paynim in the battle,
A strange knight-errant might be seen
Of superhuman strength and mien,
Whose vizor's closed and narrow bars
Concealed the dazzling face of Mars.
A few on some far distant sea,
Where adverse winds had made them roam,
Had seen the car of Neptune flee
At their approach across the foam,
With Tritons spouting in the breeze,
And green-haired Oceanides.
Disguised, Apollo sought the gloom
Of many a bare monastic room,
And like a sunbeam peeped and peered
At many a monk who nothing feared.
When they were copying after matins
Some lyric poet of the Latins,
He whispered softly in their ear:
Of worlds of beauty which had perished,
Of things divine no longer cherished,
Of sounds which men had loved to hear.
Lived on; but exiled and in sadness.
Long since their last adorer's prayer
Had died upon the desert air,
And round their temple's shattered column,
The silence was complete and solemn.
In shirt of hair, the scourge in hand,
A thousand saints in every land
Usurped their high antique command.
The chant of monks, the parting knell
Upon the ear for ever fell;
Or else the savage clank of steel
As men stalked armed from head to heel.
Each radiant and immortal God
The lonely path of exile trod
In pale disguise; or had retreated
To distant shores, and lay secreted.
Thus in a mountain's deep recess,
In undiminished loveliness,
Dwelt Venus in the middle ages,
Decoying some stray knights and pages,
2
With mortal loves and earthly pleasure.
Where loudest rose War's shriek and rattle,
Rallying the Paynim in the battle,
A strange knight-errant might be seen
Of superhuman strength and mien,
Whose vizor's closed and narrow bars
Concealed the dazzling face of Mars.
A few on some far distant sea,
Where adverse winds had made them roam,
Had seen the car of Neptune flee
At their approach across the foam,
With Tritons spouting in the breeze,
And green-haired Oceanides.
Disguised, Apollo sought the gloom
Of many a bare monastic room,
And like a sunbeam peeped and peered
At many a monk who nothing feared.
When they were copying after matins
Some lyric poet of the Latins,
He whispered softly in their ear:
Of worlds of beauty which had perished,
Of things divine no longer cherished,
Of sounds which men had loved to hear.
So lived the Gods, expecting ever
The happier days which followed never,
While all their bright dependent train
Had shape of imps and goblins ta'en:
The Fauns and Dryads changed themselves
Into queer wayward forest elves;
The Naiads lurked as spiteful Nixes
In sunless pools, or dreaded Pixies,
Who could assume a deadly beauty,
Could lure the Christian from his duty,
And while his earthly peace they stole,
Endangered his immortal soul.
The happier days which followed never,
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Had shape of imps and goblins ta'en:
The Fauns and Dryads changed themselves
Into queer wayward forest elves;
The Naiads lurked as spiteful Nixes
In sunless pools, or dreaded Pixies,
Who could assume a deadly beauty,
Could lure the Christian from his duty,
And while his earthly peace they stole,
Endangered his immortal soul.
I love the legends which relate
To these strange exiles and their fate;
Long since from high Olympus hurled,
And wandering through an altered world:
Bright forms of beauty which intrude
Mid times of stern and savage mood,
And hover o'er midæval gloom
Like flowers waving o'er a tomb.
I love to note their secret dealings
With mortals ever and anon,
When all was changed, thought, life and feeling,
And nature's votaries were gone.
I love in this prosaic day
To watch, through fancy's rainbow portal,
The rapid loves of an immortal,
With one of merely human clay;
So gather round and let me tell
The strange adventure which befell
A Knight of that same Suabian band
Who left their northern mountain home,
When, to be crowned by Papal hand,
Imperial Otho came to Rome.
To these strange exiles and their fate;
Long since from high Olympus hurled,
And wandering through an altered world:
Bright forms of beauty which intrude
Mid times of stern and savage mood,
And hover o'er midæval gloom
Like flowers waving o'er a tomb.
I love to note their secret dealings
With mortals ever and anon,
When all was changed, thought, life and feeling,
And nature's votaries were gone.
I love in this prosaic day
To watch, through fancy's rainbow portal,
The rapid loves of an immortal,
With one of merely human clay;
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The strange adventure which befell
A Knight of that same Suabian band
Who left their northern mountain home,
When, to be crowned by Papal hand,
Imperial Otho came to Rome.
He was a youth of noble blood
Named Wolfram, whose o'er-dreamy mood
Earned him small love from other knights.
He cared not for their tales of fights,
He seldom in their converse shared,
Nor for their sports and revels cared.
They called him love-sick, for they knew
That he at home had said adieu
To one to whom he was betrothed.
He loved the thing which most they loathed.
He loved that soft Italian land,
He spoke its soft seductive tongue,
He loved the southern breeze which fanned
The vines which there in garlands hung.
But most of all young Wolfram cherished
Those Roman ruins, strange and vast,
Which vaguely spoke of greatness perished,
And of a far forgotten past;
Where self-sown flowers sought to deck
Each fragment of the mighty wreck.
He loved to roam alone and linger
Where Time, with slow reluctant finger,
Was wiping gradually away
The splendours of the Cæsars' sway.
Named Wolfram, whose o'er-dreamy mood
Earned him small love from other knights.
He cared not for their tales of fights,
He seldom in their converse shared,
Nor for their sports and revels cared.
They called him love-sick, for they knew
That he at home had said adieu
To one to whom he was betrothed.
He loved the thing which most they loathed.
He loved that soft Italian land,
He spoke its soft seductive tongue,
He loved the southern breeze which fanned
The vines which there in garlands hung.
But most of all young Wolfram cherished
Those Roman ruins, strange and vast,
Which vaguely spoke of greatness perished,
And of a far forgotten past;
Where self-sown flowers sought to deck
Each fragment of the mighty wreck.
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Where Time, with slow reluctant finger,
Was wiping gradually away
The splendours of the Cæsars' sway.
Not far from where the knights were quartered,
Beside the Tiber where they watered
Their glossy steeds at break of day,
Immense and lonely ruins lay:
Baths, temple, palace,—none I ween
Now knew what once their use had been.
The giant masses, crumbling slowly,
Like rocks, and yet not shapeless wholly,
Formed mighty courts, where none except
The lonely goat-herd ever stepped;
Where all around was verdure sighing,
Where columns in the grass were lying,
Where wild acanthus, strong and green,
Was round the marble leafage seen
Of shivered capital and frieze;
Where violets nodded in the breeze,
And half concealed the fragments fair
Of broken statues scattered there:
A rounded arm, or an upturned face
Still smiling on the lonely place.
While from this world of shattered marble
And new-born green rose up the warble
Of birds unnumbered, quick to sing
The praises of awakening spring.
Here, mid the rubbish and the flowers,
Would Wolfram linger many hours,
And often ask himself with wonder
Before those mighty arches yonder,
What strange and giant men were they
Who, in a long-forgotten day,
Had built such stout and lofty halls,
Compared with which his castle's walls,
Suspended like an eagle's nest
Upon his Suabian mountain's crest,
And which the foe had feared to scale,
Had seemed but insecure and frail;
And then his thoughts would wander home,
Far from this vast and crumbling Rome,
To where his sweet affianced bride
Sat, fair of hair and modest-eyed,
Awaiting with ill-hidden yearning
The happy time of his returning.
Beside the Tiber where they watered
Their glossy steeds at break of day,
Immense and lonely ruins lay:
Baths, temple, palace,—none I ween
Now knew what once their use had been.
The giant masses, crumbling slowly,
Like rocks, and yet not shapeless wholly,
Formed mighty courts, where none except
The lonely goat-herd ever stepped;
Where all around was verdure sighing,
Where columns in the grass were lying,
Where wild acanthus, strong and green,
Was round the marble leafage seen
Of shivered capital and frieze;
Where violets nodded in the breeze,
And half concealed the fragments fair
Of broken statues scattered there:
A rounded arm, or an upturned face
Still smiling on the lonely place.
While from this world of shattered marble
And new-born green rose up the warble
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The praises of awakening spring.
Here, mid the rubbish and the flowers,
Would Wolfram linger many hours,
And often ask himself with wonder
Before those mighty arches yonder,
What strange and giant men were they
Who, in a long-forgotten day,
Had built such stout and lofty halls,
Compared with which his castle's walls,
Suspended like an eagle's nest
Upon his Suabian mountain's crest,
And which the foe had feared to scale,
Had seemed but insecure and frail;
And then his thoughts would wander home,
Far from this vast and crumbling Rome,
To where his sweet affianced bride
Sat, fair of hair and modest-eyed,
Awaiting with ill-hidden yearning
The happy time of his returning.
One day that Wolfram thus alone
Was roaming through this world of stone,
His eyes, all careless, chanced to fall
Upon an opening in the wall,
Half hidden by a waving screen
Of ivy and luxuriant green.
He pushed the leaves aside and found
A passage leading under ground;
And soon was in a vaulted room,
Bare, spacious, and half-plunged in gloom,
Which led to many other halls,
Bare like itself, with frescoed walls.
All would in total gloom have slept
Had not the summer sunshine crept
Into one hall whose vault, more thin,
Seemed lately to have fallen in.
The pictured floors were dimly seen,
Inlaid with marbles white and green,
Where griffins battled, fierce of mien,
And mermen strange, whose curling tails
Were covered o'er with fishy scales,
While round each group a wreath of vine
With hanging grapes was made to twine.
O'er all these strange designs he passed
From hall to hall and reached the last;
It was a small and dome-shaped hall,
Where high upon a pedestal
A single marble statue stood,
Sole tenant of that solitude,
Who in the faint mysterious light
Looked down upon him cold and white.
Was roaming through this world of stone,
His eyes, all careless, chanced to fall
Upon an opening in the wall,
Half hidden by a waving screen
Of ivy and luxuriant green.
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A passage leading under ground;
And soon was in a vaulted room,
Bare, spacious, and half-plunged in gloom,
Which led to many other halls,
Bare like itself, with frescoed walls.
All would in total gloom have slept
Had not the summer sunshine crept
Into one hall whose vault, more thin,
Seemed lately to have fallen in.
The pictured floors were dimly seen,
Inlaid with marbles white and green,
Where griffins battled, fierce of mien,
And mermen strange, whose curling tails
Were covered o'er with fishy scales,
While round each group a wreath of vine
With hanging grapes was made to twine.
O'er all these strange designs he passed
From hall to hall and reached the last;
It was a small and dome-shaped hall,
Where high upon a pedestal
A single marble statue stood,
Sole tenant of that solitude,
Who in the faint mysterious light
Looked down upon him cold and white.
A superstitious terror crept
O'er Wolfram's heart: he backward stept.
It was a statue, sure he felt,
To which the Christian ne'er had knelt;
One of those Pagan gods who stole
The peace of man's immortal soul;
One of the few intact, unbroken,
Of whom his friend, the Monk, had spoken;
One of those baleful ancient Gods,
Whom Jesus, after fearful odds,
Had banished from the face of earth,
And who, some said, were nought but devils
Who still at times held impious revels,
Mid scenes of strange unhallowed mirth.
O'er Wolfram's heart: he backward stept.
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To which the Christian ne'er had knelt;
One of those Pagan gods who stole
The peace of man's immortal soul;
One of the few intact, unbroken,
Of whom his friend, the Monk, had spoken;
One of those baleful ancient Gods,
Whom Jesus, after fearful odds,
Had banished from the face of earth,
And who, some said, were nought but devils
Who still at times held impious revels,
Mid scenes of strange unhallowed mirth.
Whiter and whiter seemed to loom
Her limbs of marble in the gloom,
No lanky saint, berobed and pure,
Such as in churches stand demure;
But one whose limbs were softly rounded,
Of beauty splendid and unbounded;
'Twas Venus such as from the wave,
She rose to conquer and enslave.
He knew her not, but felt her power,
And something made him shrink and cower,
For potent was the fiend indeed,
And well might to damnation lead.
If she should move? With thumping heart,
He quickly turned him to depart,
And, as he did so, felt a dread
Lest, if he only turned his head,
She should pursue with silent tread.
Her limbs of marble in the gloom,
No lanky saint, berobed and pure,
Such as in churches stand demure;
But one whose limbs were softly rounded,
Of beauty splendid and unbounded;
'Twas Venus such as from the wave,
She rose to conquer and enslave.
He knew her not, but felt her power,
And something made him shrink and cower,
For potent was the fiend indeed,
And well might to damnation lead.
If she should move? With thumping heart,
He quickly turned him to depart,
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Lest, if he only turned his head,
She should pursue with silent tread.
And yet, what made him linger near,
Despite his faith and pious fear?
What made him on the morrow seek
That chamber empty and antique;
That silent form which seemed to speak?
What made him tread with trembling feet
Once more that strange secure retreat,
In which for half a thousand years
No step had ventured to disturb
A godess potent and superb?
Despite his faith and pious fear?
What made him on the morrow seek
That chamber empty and antique;
That silent form which seemed to speak?
What made him tread with trembling feet
Once more that strange secure retreat,
In which for half a thousand years
No step had ventured to disturb
A godess potent and superb?
And through her strong and subtle power,
He lingered daily many an hour,
There in the strange and lonely place,
Merely to look upon her face,
In which his eyes could only see
Inscrutable placidity.
How dull, how coarse, his northern bride
Seemed by that marble statue's side!
This was the effigy; but where
Was she whose image was so fair?
Where was the godess? Where was she,
Whose face must still more glorious be?
Had not the Monk distinctly said
The Gods were conquered—but not dead?
Then might she not be lurking near
To this her marble statue here?
The Monk had said that they were devils
Who held unhallowed midnight revels;
But if their shape was like to this,
To have from such a fiend one kiss
And then be damned, were boundless bliss!
He lingered daily many an hour,
There in the strange and lonely place,
Merely to look upon her face,
In which his eyes could only see
Inscrutable placidity.
How dull, how coarse, his northern bride
Seemed by that marble statue's side!
This was the effigy; but where
Was she whose image was so fair?
Where was the godess? Where was she,
Whose face must still more glorious be?
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The Gods were conquered—but not dead?
Then might she not be lurking near
To this her marble statue here?
The Monk had said that they were devils
Who held unhallowed midnight revels;
But if their shape was like to this,
To have from such a fiend one kiss
And then be damned, were boundless bliss!
So Wolfram thought, and time passed on,
Till came the Eve of good St. John.
The thousand bells of Christian Rome,
In solemn swing from every dome,
Had for the faithful scarce sufficed
To utter forth the praise of Christ.
In long black files, and two by two,
The Monks had crawled the cloisters through,
To chant with white and listless faces
The vespers in the holy places;
And well might Monk and Layman pray,
Upon that waning summer day,
For, on that eve beyond a doubt,
All evil spirits were about.
It was the eve on which, 'twas said,
The fallen Gods might raise their head,
Emerging from deep hidden mines
To haunt once more their ancient shrines;
The Virgin could not move a finger,
To save the wretches who might linger
Among the ruins—unhallowed haunts,
Where leering fiends with impious taunts
Derided Mother Church, and even
Sweet Mary's self, the Queen of Heaven.
Till came the Eve of good St. John.
The thousand bells of Christian Rome,
In solemn swing from every dome,
Had for the faithful scarce sufficed
To utter forth the praise of Christ.
In long black files, and two by two,
The Monks had crawled the cloisters through,
To chant with white and listless faces
The vespers in the holy places;
And well might Monk and Layman pray,
Upon that waning summer day,
For, on that eve beyond a doubt,
All evil spirits were about.
It was the eve on which, 'twas said,
The fallen Gods might raise their head,
Emerging from deep hidden mines
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The Virgin could not move a finger,
To save the wretches who might linger
Among the ruins—unhallowed haunts,
Where leering fiends with impious taunts
Derided Mother Church, and even
Sweet Mary's self, the Queen of Heaven.
All this the Knight had often heard,
But yet, though still his conscience feared,
A force, 'gainst which he strove in vain,
Led him to seek the ruins again,
Upon this balmy afternoon,
The longest of declining June.
The sun had set, and now reposed
All Nature, after fiery hours.
Sweet languid scents, as evening closed,
Rose up from all the drowsy flowers.
Upon a fallen column sitting,
Young Wolfram watched the first bats flitting.
A sudden yearning, vague and strange,
A sense of some great coming change,
Came o'er his heart, which now stood still,
And now beat high with sudden thrill.
Strange leafy rustles reached his ear,
Like whispered words too low to hear.
All round him waved that blood-red flower
Which, in Adonis' mortal hour,
First sprang, full-petall'd, from the ground,
Born of the drippings of his wound.
The nightingales began to wake
Each other with their rapid shake,
And like wee meteors, here and there
The fire-flies darted through the air.
But yet, though still his conscience feared,
A force, 'gainst which he strove in vain,
Led him to seek the ruins again,
Upon this balmy afternoon,
The longest of declining June.
The sun had set, and now reposed
All Nature, after fiery hours.
Sweet languid scents, as evening closed,
Rose up from all the drowsy flowers.
Upon a fallen column sitting,
Young Wolfram watched the first bats flitting.
A sudden yearning, vague and strange,
A sense of some great coming change,
Came o'er his heart, which now stood still,
And now beat high with sudden thrill.
Strange leafy rustles reached his ear,
Like whispered words too low to hear.
All round him waved that blood-red flower
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First sprang, full-petall'd, from the ground,
Born of the drippings of his wound.
The nightingales began to wake
Each other with their rapid shake,
And like wee meteors, here and there
The fire-flies darted through the air.
It was a night for mighty Love
To visit Earth from spheres above;
And as the stars in deeper blue,
More brilliant and more numerous grew,
So did the ruins sweeter get,
And sweeter yet, and sweeter yet.
Each towering mass of Roman brick,
Beclad with ivy dark and thick,
Grew ghostly in the dusky light,
And mingled slowly with the night.
The nightingales their chorus hushed;
The breeze no more the verdure brushed;
And silence settled upon all,
Except, at whiles, the owlet's call.
But suddenly was heard to float
Across the night a wondrous note,
Which seemed at hand and yet remote,
Like human voices grandly blending,
But far all human tones transcending.
The strange and all-pervading sound
Appeared to Wolfram now to flow
From heights above, now from below,
And now to gird him all around.
To visit Earth from spheres above;
And as the stars in deeper blue,
More brilliant and more numerous grew,
So did the ruins sweeter get,
And sweeter yet, and sweeter yet.
Each towering mass of Roman brick,
Beclad with ivy dark and thick,
Grew ghostly in the dusky light,
And mingled slowly with the night.
The nightingales their chorus hushed;
The breeze no more the verdure brushed;
And silence settled upon all,
Except, at whiles, the owlet's call.
But suddenly was heard to float
Across the night a wondrous note,
Which seemed at hand and yet remote,
Like human voices grandly blending,
But far all human tones transcending.
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Appeared to Wolfram now to flow
From heights above, now from below,
And now to gird him all around.
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