 | A Tale of True Love and Other Poems |  |
52
IN THE FORUM
I
The last warm gleams of sunset fadeFrom cypress spire and stonepine dome,
And, in the twilight's deepening shade,
Lingering, I scan the wrecks of Rome.
II
Husht the Madonna's Evening Bell;The steers lie loosed from wain and plough;
The vagrant monk is in his cell,
The meek nun-novice cloistered now.
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III
Pedant's presumptuous voice no moreVexes the spot where Cæsar trod,
And o'er the pavement's soundless floor
Come banished priest and exiled God.
IV
The lank-ribbed she-wolf, couched amongThe regal hillside's tangled scrubs,
With doting gaze and fondling tongue
Suckles the Vestal's twin-born cubs.
V
Yet once again Evander leadsÆneas to his wattled home,
And, throned on Tiber's fresh-cut reeds,
Talks of burnt Troy and rising Rome.
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VI
From out the tawny dusk one hearsThe half-feigned scream of Sabine maids,
The rush to arms, then swift the tears
That separate the clashing blades.
VII
The Lictors with their fasces throngTo quell the Commons' rising roar,
As Tullia's chariot flames along,
Splashed with her murdered father's gore.
VIII
Her tresses free from band or comb,Love-dimpled Venus, lithe and tall,
And fresh as Fiumicino's foam,
Mounts her pentelic pedestal.
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IX
With languid lids, and lips apart,And curving limbs like wave half-furled,
Unarmed she dominates the heart,
And without sceptre sways the world.
X
Nerved by her smile, avenging MarsStalks through the Forum's fallen fanes,
Or, changed of mien and healed of scars,
Threads sylvan slopes and vineyard plains.
XI
With waves of song from wakening lyreApollo routs the wavering night,
While, parsley-crowned, the white-robed choir
Wind chanting up the Sacred Height,
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XII
Where Jove, with thunder-garlands wreathed,And crisp locks frayed like fretted foam,
Sits with his lightnings half unsheathed,
And frowns against the foes of Rome.
XIII
You cannot kill the Gods. They stillReclaim the thrones where once they reigned,
Rehaunt the grove, remount the rill,
And renovate their rites profaned.
XIV
Diana's hounds still lead the chase,Still Neptune's Trident crests the sea,
And still man's spirit soars through space
On feathered heels of Mercury.
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XV
No flood can quench the Vestals' Fire;The Flamen's robes are still as white
As ere the Salii's armoured choir
Were drowned by droning anchorite.
XVI
The saint may seize the siren's seat,The shaveling frown where frisked the Faun;
Ne'er will, though all beside should fleet,
The Olympian Presence be withdrawn.
XVII
Here, even in the noontide glare,The Gods, recumbent, take their ease;
Go look, and you will find them there,
Slumbering behind some fallen frieze.
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XVIII
But most, when sunset glow hath paled,And come, as now, the twilight hour,
In vesper vagueness dimly veiled
I feel their presence and their power.
XIX
What though their temples strew the ground,And to the ruin owls repair,
Their home, their haunt, is all around;
They drive the cloud, they ride the air.
XX
And, when the planets wend their wayAlong the never-ageing skies,
“Revere the Gods” I hear them say;
“The Gods are old, the Gods are wise.”
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XXI
Build as man may, Time gnaws and peersThrough marble fissures, granite rents;
Only Imagination rears
Imperishable monuments.
XXII
Let Gaul and Goth pollute the shrine,Level the altar, fire the fane:
There is no razing the Divine;
The Gods return, the Gods remain.
Rome, 1899.
| A Tale of True Love and Other Poems | |