 | Miscellaneous Poems |  |
42
PRUDENTIUS.
44
CATHEMERINON.
“Per Quinquennia jam decem ni fallor, fuimus!” &c.
Have flown (scarce less) since I
Drank the sweet vital air, the solar beam,—
And was my life a dream,
A blank and useless void, unmarked by good?
Since first a child, I stood
Beneath the master's chastening rod, or when
Mixing, a man, with men,
I took the youthful toga, and the boon
Of boundless freedom—soon
Ah! sullying soon, the modest cheek of youth,
Its innocence and truth.
Then mixing in the forum, and the war
Of words;—made worse appear
The better reason, arguing for a lie,
The pleader's sophistry.
45
O'er many a goodly city, sway
I held of Prefect, tempering the law discreet,
Evil and good to meet.
Till now advanced, so did the Prince's eye
My weak deserts descry,
Second in rank I stood by Cæsar's throne.—
Ah! me! for life had flown
Swiftly the while, and silent;—Of the speed
Of time not taking heed,
Or how far back the lengthening annals date
Of Salias' Consulate,
Stamp of my birth!—These scattered locks declare
How many a season fair,
Fresh with the vernal rose, the summer bloom
I've seen;—anon the tomb
Shall level all my glory—all shall be
Erewhile alike to me.
Therefore, mature in wisdom, now be heard
My monitory word.
“The world thou lovest, surely thou shalt lose;”
Unwisely didst thou choose.
But let the sinful soul i' the dying day,
Its follies past away,
46
With song and praise proclaim.
The Lord Jehovah—let thine anger strike
The Heretic alike
And Heathen superstition—let thy voice
With tidings glad rejoice
Through Rome; and the brute gods and idols be
Scattered in dust.—A cry
Lift up to heaven; hymning with harp and psalms
The robes, the waving palms,
The wreath of glory round the Apostles' brows,
And her—the Virgin spouse.
So rapt my soul in penitence and praise,
Gladly my mortal days
Would I shake off—and when my dying tongue
And falt'ring speech have sung,
E'en to its latest accents—then in Heaven
May I be found—forgiven.
47
CONTRA. SYMMACHUM.
“Quare age mortalis, soli mihi construe Templum,” &c.
Raise the confiding prayer, and bend the knee.
I ask no gilded roof, no fretted shrine,
Where the rich spoils of distant quarries shine,
Far Sparta's emerald stone, the roseate glow
Of Afric's rocks, or slabs of Parian snow
Dragg'd from the deep to deck each orient cell,
Be mine no purple from the Tyrian shell;
To me small joy such marble shrines impart,
My home—the temple of the human heart.
Faith shall its strong foundation lay, while near
Sweet Love and Piety the call shall hear;
The roof, firm Justice build; along the floor
Strewing her blushing flowers from door to door,
Shall meek-eyed Modesty the Portress be,
Herself the fairest, of the temple free.
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Such roof is worthy its celestial guest.
Nor strange the site I choose, for once before
A mortal shape immortal glory wore.
With plastic hand, well-pleas'd the Godhead made
On Earth a tenement his beams to shade,
In his pure bosom pour'd celestial breath,
The incarnate Word—the Man of Nazareth.
49
Περι Στεφανων.
Passio Apostolorum Petri et Pauli.
“Plus solito coëunt ad gaudia,” &c.
Woke is the festal morn, unwonted crowds
Pass and repass—the streets of Rome are fill'd;
All wear a look of joy. The day arrives,
The day of triumph, sacred to behold,
Rich with the apostles' blood—brethren in death
They were, as in their life. On either brow
The martyr's crown of glory now is seen.
Old Tiber knew (his neighbouring waters roll'd
Fast by the spot) where the twin-trophy rose
(One did the cross, and one the sword destroy),
Marking the blood-besprinkled grass. He fell
The first, by impious Nero's tyrant hand,
Named of the rock, he fell. When Peter knew
The tree his Lord had sanctified by death,
“Oh! not for me,” he cried, “oh! not for me,
The glory of a martyrdom like his;
A humbler death be mine.” And so he bent
Earthward his visage prone—exalted more
The more depress'd. Now, the revolving sun,
Drawn through his annual circle, hath return'd
To the same punctual spot. Again for death
The insatiate tyrant call'd.—Then did he fall
Beneath the headsman's axe, e'en he the light,
The great apostle of the Gentile world.
He saw, as with a prophet's eye, the shade
Of death, how soon to come—he saw and hail'd
The anticipated doom. “To Christ I go,
Yea, unto Christ.”—Sooth were his words, nor day,
Nor hour deceiv'd him. Now on either shore
They lie, divided but by Tiber's wave.
On the right bank, a sepulchre is seen
Lifting its golden roof,—the ashes there
Of him, the elder of the brethren lie;
The olive waves its branches, and the flow,
The silent flow of waters murmur round,
That forth from the Mamertine fountain drawn,
Gush thro' the marble channel.—Thence with lapse
Sonorous, led within the tomb, they give,
As in a glassy mirror, every form,
Each hue, the fretted cornice, and the walls,
Empurpled with celestial colours, all
Like some rich field tapestried by spring awakes,
To live reflected in the trembling wave.
Pass and repass—the streets of Rome are fill'd;
All wear a look of joy. The day arrives,
The day of triumph, sacred to behold,
Rich with the apostles' blood—brethren in death
They were, as in their life. On either brow
The martyr's crown of glory now is seen.
Old Tiber knew (his neighbouring waters roll'd
Fast by the spot) where the twin-trophy rose
(One did the cross, and one the sword destroy),
Marking the blood-besprinkled grass. He fell
The first, by impious Nero's tyrant hand,
Named of the rock, he fell. When Peter knew
The tree his Lord had sanctified by death,
“Oh! not for me,” he cried, “oh! not for me,
The glory of a martyrdom like his;
50
Earthward his visage prone—exalted more
The more depress'd. Now, the revolving sun,
Drawn through his annual circle, hath return'd
To the same punctual spot. Again for death
The insatiate tyrant call'd.—Then did he fall
Beneath the headsman's axe, e'en he the light,
The great apostle of the Gentile world.
He saw, as with a prophet's eye, the shade
Of death, how soon to come—he saw and hail'd
The anticipated doom. “To Christ I go,
Yea, unto Christ.”—Sooth were his words, nor day,
Nor hour deceiv'd him. Now on either shore
They lie, divided but by Tiber's wave.
On the right bank, a sepulchre is seen
Lifting its golden roof,—the ashes there
Of him, the elder of the brethren lie;
The olive waves its branches, and the flow,
The silent flow of waters murmur round,
That forth from the Mamertine fountain drawn,
Gush thro' the marble channel.—Thence with lapse
Sonorous, led within the tomb, they give,
As in a glassy mirror, every form,
Each hue, the fretted cornice, and the walls,
51
Like some rich field tapestried by spring awakes,
To live reflected in the trembling wave.
Through either street the Roman multitude
Presses with pious step; the festal day
One and the same in grateful memory
Is held.—Now pass we on to either shrine,
Chanting the hymns of praise—the further bank
Crossing the Hadrian bridge, so call'd, we gain
Beyond the Tiber. Then on reverted step,
Before the sacred tomb of Paul we kneel;
Thus Rome its pious duties hath fulfilled.
Homeward now bend thy feet, and let thy mind
Hive up these treasur'd thoughts to memory dear.
Presses with pious step; the festal day
One and the same in grateful memory
Is held.—Now pass we on to either shrine,
Chanting the hymns of praise—the further bank
Crossing the Hadrian bridge, so call'd, we gain
Beyond the Tiber. Then on reverted step,
Before the sacred tomb of Paul we kneel;
Thus Rome its pious duties hath fulfilled.
Homeward now bend thy feet, and let thy mind
Hive up these treasur'd thoughts to memory dear.
| Miscellaneous Poems | |