University of Virginia Library

These are strange times; I stand as half-perplexed
Which way to turn amid the war of creeds:
New names are heard among us—Moses, Christ;
Our fathers knew them not, and yet the suns
Rose brightly on them, and the glad showers fell,
And life was pleasant on the vine-clad hills.
They loved and were beloved; they toiled and died.
Why has this change come o'er us? Why disturb
The good old order of the earlier days?
Why should this flood of vexing questions come,
Disturbing all our peace, and making life
One weary struggle after distant joy,
One painful journey through a trackless waste?

And yet the world was evil. This I know,
Though I have seen but little: I have heard
In distant Attaleia, by the sea,
Of those great cities of the western world
Corinth the rich, and Rome magnificent,
And Athens, home of Wisdom; and the tales
Men told me made me shudder. Lust and greed,
Envy and hate, and all things rank and vile,
Grew rampant in their baseness. None were true,
None brave or pure; before an emperor's throne,
Adoring as a god the tyrant lord,
Baser than all his slaves, men bowed their heads
In self-debasing homage. Truth was crushed;
And those who might have helped her silent stood,
Or, wrapt in idle musings, reasoned much
Of destiny, and happiness, and chance,
(None wiser for their talk), perplexing more
The tangled problems of this life of ours.

We, too, have seen in our Galatian fields
What that great world was like. To these our hills
Prætors have come to snatch from toil-worn hands
Their scanty earnings, and the locust brood
Of those fierce legions ravaged all our vales.
We dared not murmur: we could only bear
Our ills in silence, or at best might bribe
The shameless ruler, glad enough to keep
The little that he left us, shuddering still
As the proud Roman's wandering glance surveyed
The goodliest and the noblest of our youth,
Our sons and daughters, picking out his slaves,
That they, too, might be vile, and eat the bread
Of loathsome bondage. Yes, the world went wrong;
Hope's dreams had faded; what the poets sang
Of great Augustus was belied by time.
No golden age had come: the old disease
Was still unhealed, the old crimes re-appeared.
A change was needed; yet the skies were dark,
And no bright streaks of dawn were in the East;
The oracles were silent, and the gods
Seemed waxing feeble; and our faith grew weak,
According to their weakness. Hymns of praise
Were but an idle rending of the air;
And as for prayers—who dreamt the gods would hear?
Who feared their vengeance? Could we hope that they
Would rouse the world from its decrepit age,
And make it young again? And so decay
Went on to rottenness; and mists of doubt
Hung over all our souls, as o'er a fen
The dank fog clings, and poisons while it chills;
And when we asked the question, “What is truth?”
No voice made answer from the eternal depths.