The Vision of Prophecy and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The moon on Corinth's temples shone,
When from the bay, Timoleon,
Thy galleys with a favouring breeze
Bore out into the silent seas.
From mole and rampart rose the prayer
That Heaven upon your course might smile,
For freedom is the boon you bear
To Sicily's long-ravaged isle.

The people watch the ships, and tell
The omen which of late befell:
How when, within the Delphic shrine,
He prayed for some auspicious sign,
A sacred wreath,—some conqueror's crown,
The pledge of an accomplished vow,—
From the high temple-roof fell down,
And rested on Timoleon's brow.

143

“And thus,” they cry, “Apollo leads
Our captain crowned to lofty deeds;
He leads him on, and sends the gale
That murmurs softly in the sail.”
They said, and sudden through the sky
A pale, unearthly radiance streamed,—
A mystic light, to every eye,
Upon the foremost galley gleamed.

It narrowed to a steadier glare,
Then, meteor-like, it clove the air,—
Clear as the torch the vested priest
Waves in Eleusis at the feast.
Before the ship it glided bright,
The ship behind it followed free;—
Heaven hung that cresset on the night
To guide their path across the sea.

They saw it, and their hearts were cheered,
And by the luminous sign they steered,—
Till, ranked on the Sicilian strand,
They shouted freedom o'er the land.
The people rose in strength sublime,
In fragments fell the oppressor's chain;
The glories of the ancient time
Revived for Sicily again.

144

Her children blessed Timoleon's name,
City to city spoke his fame:
The golden fruits of his success
He reaped in joy and quietness.
Yet vows of deadly hate were breathed
Against the great deliverer's life,
And tyranny her falchion sheathed
To grasp by stealth the assassin's knife.

In Etna's shadow lies a town
Where stood a temple of renown,—
The ground was holy, every tree
Was clothèd round with sanctity.
Here, after war, Timoleon dwelt;
Here, with a simple heart and pure,
He laid aside his state, and felt
The freedom of a mind secure.

Unarmed, ungirt with guards, he moved
Among the people whom he loved;
Serene in virtue's generous trust,
He bared his breast to treason's thrust:
For power in innocence abides
To bear it on through snares unharmed,
And the firm soul that conscience guides
With mail of proof is always armed.

145

Hired to do the deed of shame,
Two strangers to the city came;
A festival is near,—a time
That yields occasion for the crime;
Timoleon to the temple goes,
By sacrifice his vows to pay,
And, in the solemn rite, his foes
Their nobler victim swear to slay.

Slow-stepping o'er the sacred ground,
The victim comes with garlands crowned,—
The white-robed boys the hymn begin,
Pipe, flute, and cymbal chiming in.
They sing of Providence that guards
The good by secret-working power,
And righteous doom to guilt awards
When strikes the inevitable hour.

And they were there,—the hymn they heard,
Yet no relenting thoughts were stirred,—
They brace their hearts to hardy guilt,
Their hands are on the poniard's hilt.
Slow through the crowd, in crafty guise,
They wind like vipers through the grass,—
Their bloody thoughts watch from their eyes,
And silent signs between them pass.

146

Behind him now, a longer breath
They draw against the act of death,—
One moment, and a caitiff's knife
Makes havock of a noble life,
When, swift as light, an arm concealed
Has cloven the one with ghastly wound,—
Hard by Timoleon's feet he reeled,
And sank in death upon the ground.

A shout of horror, angry cries
Of vengeance, from the crowd arise,—
While from the temple, with the red
And reeking sword, the avenger fled
Toward a neighbouring rocky height:
The fellow-ruffian from his place
Rushed to the altar, pale with fright,
And clasped its ledge, and sued for grace.

“But spare my life,” the wretch besought,
“And I will open all the plot.”
The promise given: “This man,” he said,
“Who here before you lieth dead,
Had joined me in a wicked vow
Timoleon's blood this day to spill.
What hand has dealt the avenging blow
I know not,—Heaven has done its will!”

147

Loud shouts are heard,—a gathering sound
Proclaims the fugitive is found;
The crowd comes thronging through the door,—
The bloody weapon borne before,—
And round by armèd men beset,
A youth comes on with tranquil pace;
He sees his victim at his feet,
But not a change is on his face.

Timoleon waves his hand, and stills
The tumult that the temple fills,—
All stand as in the hush of death.
“Now, in the eye of Heaven,” he saith,
“And over this pale corse, declare
Why he was slaughtered where he stood;
Look on him, as he lieth there,—
Make answer to the cry of blood!”

“I hear the cry, and will reveal
That which shall stifle its appeal.
Listen and ponder, every one,
What by my hand just Heaven hath done.
Against the wretch, whose life I spilt,
More righteous blood has long complained;
His soul was black with damning guilt,
His hands my father's murder stained.

148

“No grace was shown to hoary hairs,
That heart was steeled against his prayers,—
Leontium of his crime still keeps
The record. Long I tracked his steps,
And long my restless hopes were crushed;
But here, when first I saw him stand,
The image of my father rushed
Upon my heart, and nerved my hand!”

Some voices cried, “We know the youth,
And vouch that what he tells is truth.”
Timoleon heard him, and approved,
And deeply was his spirit moved:
Heaven's secret work he saw revealed,
That Providence which sets the time,
And in a moment turns its shield
On virtue, and its sword on crime.

Deep is the judgment which conceals
The working of its mystic wheels,
But Wisdom guides them in their grooves,
A pulse of life within them moves.
They roll in circuits vast and dim,
Their springs are noiseless and unknown;
But, swift or slow, they toil for Him
Who on the ages builds His throne.