PR4603.R 6 O TI^ nlVerSl,yL,brary 
 
 Th MiHiiEii* dramatic Poem.By Sydney Yend 
 
 3 1924 013 453 968 
 
a Cornell University 
 9 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3453968 
 
THE ROMAN. 
 
 % Sutntofc Jfmu 
 
 BY SYDNEY YENDYS. Vi^±4_ 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EICHAED BENTLET, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 
 
 1852. 
 
 e x 
 
ioK uoir : 
 
 *• CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD sfrRERT HILL. 
 
NOTE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 That I suffer this Second Edition to go forth without the 
 customary revision and correction, requires, in modesty, a 
 word of explanation. 
 
 Of the faults of the book I am fully conscious. I knew 
 them when it went to press, I never forgot them in the ap- 
 plause of a generous reception, and if I ever look into it 
 again they will, doubtless, be additionally offensive. 
 
 But I did my best in 1849 ; and in 1852 I will not alter 
 what was done. Whether I can yield purer poetry at eight 
 and twenty than when I wrote " The Eoman" at twenty-five, 
 my readers may in due time have occasion to consider j but — 
 classic authority to the contrary notwithstanding — I hold that 
 to beautify the work of that day by passing some of its 
 members through the mind of this, were to borrow the ex- 
 pedient of that ambitious artisan, who recast the limbs of 
 Cupid in the mould of Psyche. i 
 
 What I have written I have written. The words " Dramatic 
 Poem " in the Title are not mine. " Poetry " and "A Poem" 
 are not necessarily sequipollents. In the next few years I 
 hope to write more " Poetry •" ten years hence, if God please, 
 A Poem. 
 
 S. Y. 
 
 Feb. 1852. 
 
THE ROMAN. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 A Plain in Italy — an ancient Battle-field. Time, Evening. 
 
 Persons. — Vittorio Santo, a Missionary of Freedom. He 
 has gone out, disguised as a Monk, to preach> the Unity of 
 Italy, the Overthrow of Austrian Domination,, and the 
 
 Bestoration. of a great Roman Republic. A number of 
 
 Youths and Maidens^ singing as they dance. " The Monk " 
 
 Enter Dancers. 
 
 Dancers. Sing lowly, foot slowly, oh why should we chase 
 The hour that gives heaven tothis earthly embrace? 
 To-morrow, to-morrow, is dreary and lonely ; 
 Then love as they love who would live to love only J 
 ' Closer yet, eyes of jet, — breasts fair and sweet ! 
 No eyes flash like those eyes that flash as they meet! 
 Weave brightly, wear lightly, the warm-woven chain, 
 Love on for to-night if we ne'er love again. 
 
2 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Fond youths ! happy maidens ! we are not alone ! 
 Bright steps and sweet voices keep pace with our own. 
 Love-lorn Lusignuolo, the soft-sighing breeze, 
 The rose with the zephyr, the wind with the trees. 
 While Heaven, blushing pleasure, is full of love-notes, 
 Soft down the sweet measure the fairy world floats. 
 
 The Monk advances, meets the Dancers, and points to the 
 turf at their feet. 
 
 The Monk. Do you see nothing there, 
 
 There, where the unrespective grass grows green, 
 There at your very feet? Nay, not one step ! 
 'Twould touch it ! 'twould profane it ! Palsied be 
 The limb that treads that ground! There is a grave — 
 There is a grave ; — I saw it with these eyes — 
 A grave ! I saw it with these eyes ! It holds — • 
 It holds — oh Heaven! — my mothee! 
 
 One of the Revellers. Peace, good Padre, 
 Look to thy beads. The turf is level here. 
 Comrades I strike up ! " Sing lowly, foot " 
 
 The Monk. Who steps, 
 
 Steps first on me. I say there is a grave, 
 I say it is my mother's : that I loved her, 
 Ay, loved her with more passion than the maddest 
 Lover among ye clasps his one-day wife ! 
 And I steal forth to keep my twilight vigil, 
 And you come here to dance upon my heart. 
 You come and — with the world at will for dalliance, 
 The whole hot world — deny me that small grave 
 Whose bitter margin these poor knees know better 
 
THE ROMAN. 
 
 Than your accustom'd feet the -well-worn path 
 To your best harlot's bower. The turf is fair ! 
 Have I not kept it green with tears, my mother % 
 You lustful sons of lax-eyed lewdness, do you 
 Come here to sing above her bones, and mock me, 
 Because my flesh and blood cry out, " God save them 1 ?'' 
 May the Heaven's blight 
 
 One of the Revellers. Nay, holy father, nay, 
 
 We would not harm thee. Be it as thou wilt. 
 Holy Madonna ! there is little dust 
 In this old land, but has been son or mother 
 In its own day. What ho ! my merry friends, 
 Come, we must dance upon some other grave. 
 Farewell, good father ! 
 
 Another Reveller. Save you, father I 
 
 Another. Think not, 
 
 We would insult thy sorrow, 
 
 The Monk* Well, forgive me. 
 
 I pray you listen how I loved my mother, 
 And you will weep with me. She loved me, nurst me, 
 And fed my soul with light. Morning and Even 
 Praying, I sent that soul into her eyes, 
 And knew what Heaven was though I was a child. 
 I grew in stature, and she grew in goodness. 
 I was a grave child; looking on her taught me 
 To love the beautiful ;• and I had thoughts 
 Of Paradise, when other men have hardly 
 Look'd out of doors on earth, (Alas ! alas [ 
 That I have also learn'd to look on earth 
 When other men see heaven.) I toil'd, but ever 
 
4 THE EOMAN. 
 
 As I became more holy, she seem'd holier; 
 
 Even as when climbing mountain-tops the sky 
 
 Grows ampler^ higher, purer as ye rise. 
 
 Let me believe no more. Ho, do not ask me 
 
 How I repaid my mother. thou saint, 
 
 That lookest on me day and night from heaven 
 
 And smilest, I have given thee tears for tears, 
 
 Anguish for anguish, woe for woe. Forgive me 
 
 If, in the spirit of ineffable penance 
 
 In words, I waken up the guilt that sleeps. 
 
 Let not the sound afflict thine heaven, or colour 
 
 That pale, tear-blotted record which the angels 
 
 Keep of my sins. We left her. I and all 
 
 The brothers that her milk had fed. We left her — 
 
 And strange dark robbers, with unwonted names, 
 
 Abused her ! bound her ! pillaged her ! profaned her ! 
 
 Bound her clasped hands, and gagg'd the trembling lips. 
 
 That pray'd for her lost children. And we stood 
 
 And she knelt to us, and we saw her kneel, 
 
 And look'd upon her coldly and denied her ! 
 
 Denied her in her agony— and counted 
 
 Before her sanguine eyes the gold that bought 
 
 Her pangs. We stood— 
 
 One of the Eevellers. Nay, thou cowl'd ruffian! hold ! 
 There's vengeance for thee yet ! Dost thou come here 
 To blast our hearing with thy damned crimes 1 
 Seize on him, comrades, tear him limb from limb ! 
 
 The Monk. Yes, seize him ! tear him ! tear hi™ t he will 
 bless thee 
 If thy device can work a, deeper pain 
 
THE ROMAN. 5 
 
 Than he will welcome and has suffer'd. Tear him 1 . 
 
 But, friends, not yet. Hear her last tortures. Then 
 
 Find, if ye can, some direr pang for me. 
 
 The Bobbers wearied, and they bade us hold her, 
 
 Lest her death-struggles should get. free. She look'd 
 
 Upon me with the face that lit my childhood, 
 
 She call'd me with the voices of old times, 
 
 She blest me in her madness. But, they show'd us 
 
 Gold, and we seized upon her, held her, bound her, 
 
 Smote her. She murmur'd kind words, and I gave her 
 
 Blows. 
 
 One Auditor. Fiend ! 
 
 Another. Hound ! 
 
 Another. Demon! 
 
 Another. Strike him! 
 
 Another. Hold him down ! 
 
 Kill him for hours ! 
 
 The Monk. Why how now, countrymen ? 
 
 How now, you slaves that should be Bomans % Ah! 
 And you will kill me that I smote my mother ? 
 Well done, well done, a righteous doom ! I smote 
 My mother? Hold ! My mother, did I say ? 
 My mother? Mine, yours, ours ! 
 
 One Auditor. Seize him. 
 
 All, Die, liar ! 
 
 Die. 
 
 The Monk. But my brothers — will you seize my brothers? 
 What ! will you let that cursed band escape 
 That hoard the very gold that slew her? Make 
 A full end. Finish up the work. You cowards ! 
 
6 THE ROMAN, 
 
 What ! you can pounce on an unarm'd poor man, 
 But tremble at the gilded traitors ! 
 
 All. Name them! 
 
 They shall die ! Point them out ! where are they ? 
 
 The Monk. Here! 
 
 You are my brothers. And my mother was 
 Yours. And each man among you day by day 
 Takes, bowing, the same price that sold my mother, 
 And does not blush. Her name is Komh. Look round, 
 And see those features which the sun himself 
 Can hardly leave for fondness. Look upon 
 Her mountain bosom, where the very sky 
 Beholds with passion : and with the last proud 
 Imperial sorrow of dejected empire, 
 She wraps the purple round her outraged breast, 
 And even in fetters cannot be a slave. 
 Look on the world's best glory and worst shame. 
 You cannot count her beauties or her chains, 
 You cannot know her pangs or her endurance. 
 You, whom propitious skies may hardly coax 
 To threescore years and ten. Your giant fathers 
 Call'd Atlas demigod, But what is she, 
 Who, worn with eighteen centuries of bondage, 
 Stands manacled before the world, and bears 
 Two hemispheres — innumerable wrongs, 
 Illimitable* glories. Oh, thou heart 
 That art most tortured, look on her and say 
 If there be any thing in earth or heaven, 
 In earth or heaven — now that Christ weeps no longer — 
 So most divinely sad. Look on her, Listen 
 
THE ItOMANi 7 
 
 To all the tongues with which the earth cries out. 
 
 Flowers, fountains, winds, woods, spring and summer incense, 
 
 Morning and eve — these are her voices — hear them ! 
 
 Remember how, in the old innocent days 
 
 Of your young childhood, these sang blessings on you. 
 
 Remember how you danced to those same voices, 
 
 And sank down tired, and slept in joy, not doubting 
 
 That they would sing to-morrow; and remember 
 
 How when some hearts that danced in those old days, 
 
 And worn out laid them down, and have not waken'd, 
 
 Gave back no answer to the morning sun, 
 
 She took them to her mother's breast and still 
 
 Holds them uuweary, singing by their slumbers, 
 
 And though you have forgotten them remembers 
 
 To strew their unregarded graves with flowers. 
 
 Oh those old days, those canonized days ! 
 
 Oh that bright realm of sublunary heaven, 
 
 Wherein they walk'd in haloes of sweet light, 
 
 And we look'd up, unfearing, and drew near 
 
 And learnt of them what no succeeding times 
 
 Can tell us since of joy;— for so, being angels, 
 
 They suffer'd little children. Oh those days ! 
 
 Why is it that we hear them now no more ? 
 
 And the same destiny that brought us pangs 
 
 Took every balsam hence? Did we wake up 
 
 From infancy's last slumber in a new 
 
 And colder world 1 ? My mother, thou shalt answer ! 
 
 I hear thee — see thee. The same soul informs 
 
 The present that look'd once through undimm'd eyes 
 
 In Childhood's past. What though it shines through tears ? 
 
8 THE JROMAN. 
 
 It shines. What though it speaks with trembling lips, 
 Tuned to such grief that they say bright words sadly'? 
 It speaks. And by that speech thou art the mother 
 That bore us ! Oh you sons of hers, remember 
 When joy had grown to passion, and high youth 
 Had aim'd the shafts that lay in Childhood's quiver, 
 If you have ever gone out, (and each Roman 
 Heart must have note of one such better day,) 
 Full of high thoughts, ambitionB, destinies, 
 And stood, downcast, among her ruin'd altars, 
 And fed the shameful present with the past ; 
 And felt thy soul on the stern food grow up 
 To the old Roman stature : and hast started 
 To feel a hundred nameless things, which Kings 
 Call sins, — and Patriots, virtues : and self-judged, 
 Conscious and purple with the glorious treason, 
 Hast lifted flashing eyes, bold with great futures, . 
 And in one glance challenged her earth, seas, skies, 
 And they have said, " Well, Done." And thou hast felt 
 Like a proud child whom a proud mother blesses. 
 Ah! your brows kindle ! What! I have said well? 
 What ! there are some among you who have been 
 The heroes of an hour? you men of Parma, ' 
 What ! you were Romans once ! you worse than slaves, 
 Who, being Romans once, are men of Parma ! 
 Tried on the Roman habit, and could wear it 
 But a short hour on your degenerate limbs ! 
 Sons of the empress of the world, and slaves 
 To powers a Roman bondman would not count 
 Upon his fingers on a holiday ! 
 
THE ROMAN. 
 
 Do not believe me yet. She is no mother, 
 
 Who has hut nursed your joy and pride. Remember, 
 
 If thou hast ever wept without a heart 
 
 To catch one tear, and in the lonely anguish 
 
 Of thy neglected agony look'd out 
 
 On this immortal world, and seen — love-stricken — 
 
 Light after light her shadowy joys take up 
 
 Thy lorn peculiar sorrow, till thy soul 
 
 Seem'd shed upon the universe, and grief, 
 
 Deponent of its separate sadness, clung 
 
 To the stupendous dolour of all things, 
 
 And wept with the great mourner, and smiled .with her 
 
 When she came back to sunshine — with the joy 
 
 Of a young child after the first great grief 
 
 Wherein a mother's holy words first spake 
 
 To the young heart of God. But I am dreaming ; 
 
 You have not wept as I have. Yet remember, 
 
 If she hath shown you softer signs than these — 
 
 If there are none among you who have given 
 
 To her chaste beauty, to the woods and mountains, 
 
 And lone dim places, sorrowfully sweet, 
 
 Where love first learns to hear himself, and blush not — 
 
 Thoughts which you would deny me at confession, 
 
 Thoughts, which although the peril of a soul 
 
 Hung on their utterance, would have gone unborn 
 
 In silence down to hell* unblest, unshriven, 
 
 And, in despairing coyness, daring all, 
 
 Because they could dare nothing. Like the shy 
 
 Scared bird, to which the serpent's jaws are better 
 
 Than his rude eyes. And yet you gave them to her, 
 
10 THE ROMAN. 
 
 And these same trembling phantasies went forth, 
 
 To meet the storms that shake the Apennines, 
 
 And did not fear. And so you call'd her mothbh, 
 
 And so the invisible in you confest 
 
 The unseen in her ; and so you bore your witness 
 
 To her august maternity, and she 
 
 Keflected back the troth. Kemember, so 
 
 Great Eomulus and those who after him 
 
 Built the Eternal City, and their own 
 
 Twin-born eternity — even as the workman 
 
 Is greater than the work — stood at her knee, 
 
 And brighten'd in her blessing ; and remember 
 
 If they were sons like you ! What ! can dead names 
 
 Stir living blood t Fear not, my countrymen ! 
 
 They are not German chieftains that I spoke of. 
 
 Tremble not, brethren, they are not our lords. 
 
 Our lords ! they conquered men. They are some souls 
 
 That once took flesh and blood in Italy, 
 
 And thought it was a land to draw free breath in, 
 
 And drew it long, and died here ; and since live 
 
 Everywhere else. What ! your brows darken ! what ! 
 
 I wrong'd you foully; 'twas no fear that daubed them : 
 
 What ! your cheeks flush as some old soldier's child, 
 
 Glows at inglorious ease when a chance tongue 
 
 Speaks of the triumph where his father fell ! 
 
 What then ! these dead are yours ! Men, what are they 1 
 
 What are they 1 — ask the world and it shall answer. 
 
 And you ? True, true, you have your creed ; you tell me 
 
 That twice a thousand years have not outworn 
 
 The empire in that blood of theirs that flows 
 
THE ROMAN. 1] 
 
 In your dull veins. You tell me you are Komans ! 
 
 Yet they were lords and you are slaves ; the earth 
 
 Heard them and shook. It shakes, perchance, for you ; 
 
 Shakes with the laugh of scorn that there are things 
 
 Who lick the dust that falls from. Austrian feet, 
 
 And call the godB their fathers ! Bear with me, 
 
 I am not here to reckon up your shames, 
 
 I will know nothing here but my wrong'd mother. 
 
 I cry before heaven she is yours. That you 
 
 May kill me for the part I bore, and then 
 
 Do judgment on yourselves. Look on that mother 
 
 Whose teeming loins peopled with gods and heroes 
 
 Earth and Olympus — sold to slaves whose base 
 
 Barbarian passions had been proud to swell 
 
 In death a Boman pageant. Every limb 
 
 Own'd by some separate savage — each charm lent 
 
 To some peculiar lust. The form that served 
 
 The world for signs of beauty, parcell'd out 
 
 A carcase on the shambles, where small kings, 
 
 Like unclean birds, hang round the expected carrion, 
 
 And chaffer for the corpse which shall not die ! 
 
 Look on that mother and behold her sons ! 
 
 Alas, she might be Borne if there were Bomans ! 
 
 Look on that mother ! Wilt thou know that death 
 
 Can have no part in Beauty 3 Cast to-day 
 
 A seed into the earth, and it shall bear thee 
 
 The flowers that waved in the Egyptian hair 
 
 Of Pharaoh's daughter ! Look upon that mother — 
 
 Listen, ye slaves, who gaze on her distress, 
 
 And turn to dwell with clamorous descant, 
 
12 THE ItOMAN. 
 
 And prying eye, on some strange small device 
 
 Upon her chains. In no imperial feature, 
 
 In no sublime perfection, is she less 
 
 Than the world's empress, the earth's paragon, 
 
 Except these bonds. These bonds ? Break them. Unbind 
 
 Unbind Andromeda ! She was not born 
 
 To stand and shiver in the northern blast, 
 
 Or fester on a foreign rock, or bear 
 
 Rude licence of the unrespective waves. 
 
 She is a qtieen ! a goddess ! a king's daughter i 
 
 What though her loveliness defied the heavens ; 
 
 Unbind her, she shall fill them ! Man, unbind her, 
 
 And, goddess as she is, she owns thee, loves thee, 
 
 Crowns thee ! And is there none to break thy chains, 
 
 My country 1 Is there none, sons of my mother 1 
 
 Strike, and the spell is broken. You behold her 
 
 Suppliant of suppliants. Strike ! and she shall stand 
 
 Forth in her awful beauty, more divine 
 
 Than death or mortal sorrow ; clothing all 
 
 The wrecks and ruins of disastrous days 
 
 In old-world glory — even as the first spring 
 
 After the deluge. Why should we despair 1 
 
 The heroes whom your fathers took for gods, 
 
 Walk'd in her brightness, and received no more 
 
 Than she gives back to you, who are not heroes, 
 
 And have not yet been men. They toil'd and bled, 
 
 And knew themselves immortal, when they hung 
 
 Their names upon her altars ; ask'd no fate 
 
 But that which you inherit and disdain 
 
 To call it heritage — subdued the world, 
 
THE KOMAN. 13 
 
 And with superior scorn heard its lip-service, 
 
 And bade it call them Eomans, and believe 
 
 Earth had no haughtier, name. Be not deceived. 
 
 They stood on Boman, you on Barman ground, 
 
 But yet this mould is the same ground they stood on. 
 
 The evening wind, that passes by us now, 
 
 To their proud senses was the evening wind., 
 
 These are the hills, and these the plains, whereby 
 
 The Boman shepherd fed his golden flocks, 
 
 And kings look'd from their distant lands,, and thought him 
 
 Greater than they. The masters of the world 
 
 Heard the same streams that speak to you, its slaves. 
 
 These rocks were their rocks, and their Boman spring 
 
 Brought, year by year, the very self-same blossoms, 
 
 (The self-same blossoms, but they stood for crowns.) 
 
 The flowers beneath their feet had the same perfume 
 
 As those you tread on — do they scorn your tread % 
 
 They saw your stars ; and when the sun went down, 
 
 The mountains on his face set the same signs 
 
 To their eyes as to yours. thou unseen 
 
 Borne of their love, — immaculate and free ! 
 
 Thou who didst sit amid the Apennines, 
 
 And looking forth upon the conscious world, 
 
 Which heard thee and obey'd, beheld thy children 
 
 From sea to sea ! Yes, we are here, my mother, 
 
 And here beside thy mountain throne we call thee 
 
 Ascend, thou uncrown'd queen ! Yet a few days, 
 
 Yet a few days, and all is past. Behold 
 
 Even now, the harvest seedeth, and the ear 
 
 Bends rich with death. Yet a few days, my mother, 
 
14 THE EOMAN. 
 
 And thou shalt hear the shouting of the reapers, 
 
 And we who sharp the sickle shall ring out 
 
 The harvest-home. Nay, look not on me, mother, 
 
 Look not on me in thy sublime despair; 
 
 Thou shalt be free ! I see it all, my mother, 
 
 Thy golden fetters, thy profaned limbs, 
 
 Thy toils, thy stripes, thine agonies, thy scars, 
 
 And thine undying beauty. Yes, all, all, 
 
 And all for us and by us. Look not on me. 
 
 Ay ! lift thy canker'd hands to heaven, earth hath not 
 
 Room for so vast a wrong. Thou shalt be free, 
 
 Thou shalt be free, before the heavens I swear it ! 
 
 By thy long agony, thy bloody sweat, ' 
 
 Thy passion of a thousand years, thy glory, 
 
 Thy pride, thy shame, thy worlds subdued and lost, 
 
 Thou shalt be free ! By thine eternal youth, 
 
 And coeternal utterless dishonour — 
 
 Past, present, future, life and death, all oaths, 
 
 Which may bind earth and heaven, mother, I swear it. 
 
 We know we have dishonour'd thee. We know 
 
 All thou canst tell the angels. At thy feet, 
 
 The feet where kings have trembled, we confess, 
 
 And weep ; and only bid thee live, my mother, 
 
 To see how we can die. Thou shalt be free t 
 
 By all our sins, and all thy wrongs we swear it, 
 
 We swear it, mother, by the thousand omens 
 
 That heave this pregnant time. Tempests for whom 
 
 The Alps lack wombs — quick earthquakes — hurricanes 
 
 That moan and chafe, and thunder for the light, 
 
 And must be native here. Hark, hark, the angel ! 
 
THE ROMAN. 15 
 
 I see the birthday in the imminent skies ! 
 
 Clouds break in fire. Earth yawns. The exulting thunder 
 
 Shouts havoc to the whirlwinds. And men hear, 
 
 Amid the terrors of consenting storms, 
 
 Floods, rocking worlds, mad seas and rending mountains, 
 
 Above the infinite clash, one long great cry, 
 
 Thou shai/f be free ! 
 
 [The audience have one by one stolen away, The Monk, 
 recovering from his enthusiasm, finds himself alone. 
 The Monk. Ah solitude ! and have I 
 
 Eaved to the winds 1 [A Pause. 
 
 Bow not thy queenly head, 
 Beat not thy breast ; they do not leave thee, mother ! 
 We have no strength to meet the offended terrors 
 Of thy chaste eyes. Yet a few days, my mother, 
 And when the fire of expiation burns, 
 Thou shalt confess thy children. Oh, bear with us. 
 Hath the set sun forsaken thee? We know 
 All that thou art, and we are : and if, mother, 
 The unused weight of the ineffable knowledge 
 Bendeth our souls, forgive us„ [Another long pause. 
 
 Yes, all gone ! 
 And not one word — one pitiful cheap word — . 
 One look that might 'have brighten'd into promise ! 
 All faint, pale, recreant, slavish, lost. No cur 
 That sniffs the distant bear, and sneaks downcast 
 With craven' tail and miscreant trepidation, 
 To kennel and to collar, could slink home 
 With a more prone abasement, [Another long pause. 
 
 Kill me ! kill me I 
 
16 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Thine hour is not yet come. Then give me mine ! 
 
 Thou must endure, my mother, I have taken 
 
 A meteor for the dawn. Thou must endure, 
 
 And toil, and weep. 
 
 Oh, thou offended majesty! my heart 
 
 Beats here for thee. Strike it ! Thou must endure. 
 
 I may not, at the peril of my soul, 
 
 Give thee aught other counsel ; and I would not 
 
 For many souls that any man should dare 
 
 To give thee this and live. Alas ! when truth 
 
 Is treason, and the crime of what we do 
 
 Transcends all sins but the more damning guilt 
 
 Of doing aught beside. [Another pause 
 
 Or is it, mother, 
 That thou hast chosen ill? That I, the dreamer, 
 Catch not the language of these waking men? 
 With our humanity infirm upon us, 
 My God ! it is a fearful thing to stand 
 Alone, beneath the weight of. a great cause 
 And a propitious time ! [Another pause. 
 
 Mother! [A long pause. 
 
 Be patient, 
 thou eternal and upbraiding Presence, 
 Which fillest heaven and earth with witness; be 
 What thou hast been : and, if thou canst, forgive 
 What I can not forgive ; and let me be 
 What I was. Take, take back this terrible sight ! 
 This sight that passeth the sweet boundary 
 Of man's allotted world. Let me look forth 
 And see green fields, hills, trees, and soulless waters 
 
THE ROMAN. 17 
 
 Give back my ignorance. Why should my sense 
 
 Be cursed with this intolerable knowledge 1 
 
 Let me go back to bondage. What am I, 
 
 That I am tortured to supernal uses, 
 
 Who have not died ; and see the sights of angels 
 
 With mortal eyes 1 Unhand me, mother ! why 
 
 Must I, so many years removed from death, 
 
 Be young and have no youth 1 What have I done 
 
 That all thy millions look on thee with smiles, 
 
 And I with madness 1 Why must I be great ? 
 
 When did I ask this boon 1 Why is the dull, 
 
 Smooth, unctuous current of contented baseness 
 
 Forbidden to me only ? What art thou, 
 
 Magician ! that who serves thee hath thenceforth 
 
 No part on earth beside ? That I am doom'd — '■ 
 
 Am doom'd to preach in unknown tongues, and know 
 
 What no man will believe 1 To strive, and weep, 
 
 And labour with impossible griefe and woes, 
 
 That kill me in the birth 1 That I am thus, 
 
 That I am thus, who once was calm, proud, happy, — 
 
 Ay, you may smile, you ancient sorrows, — happy. 
 
 Stay ! happy ? And a slave 1 [A very long pause. 
 
 If I must see thee, 
 If it must be, if it must be, my mother ! 
 It it must be, and God vouchsafes the heart 
 No gift to unlearn truth ; if the soul never 
 Can twice be virgin ; if the eye that strikes 
 Upon the hidden path to the unseen 
 Is henceforth for two worlds ; if the sad fruit 
 Of, knowledge dwells for ever on the lip, 
 
 o 
 
18 THE ROMAN". 
 
 And if thy face once seen, to me, thou 
 Unutterable sadness ! must henceforth 
 Look day and night from all things ; grant me this, 
 That thine immortal sorrow will remember 
 How little we can grieve who are but dust. 
 Make me the servant, not the partner, mother, 
 Of woes, for whose omnipotence of pain 
 I have no organa. Suffer that I give 
 Time and endurance for impossible passion ; 
 Perchance accumulated pangs may teach me 
 One throe of thy distress. How canst thou think 
 My soul can contain thine ? 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Time and •place as in Scene I. 
 
 Fbanoesoa, a young girl, one of the Auditors in Scene I. 
 has remained hidden among the trees. The Monk, silent, 
 musing. 
 
 Francesca (musing) . While he yet spake I waited for a pause, 
 And now, if I could dare to hear my voice 
 In this most awful silence, it should pray 
 That he would speak 'again. You heavens, you heavens, 
 Lend me your language. This progressive thought, 
 This unit-bearing speech, whose best exertion 
 
THE ROMAN. 19 
 
 Is but dexterity, the juggler's sleight, 
 
 That with facility of motion cheats 
 
 The eye, whose noblest effort can but haste 
 
 The single ball of phantasy, and make 
 
 Succession seem coincidence, is not 
 
 For such an hour. Lend me some tongue, you heavens, 
 
 Worthy of gods : in whose celestial sense 
 
 The present, past* and future of the soul 
 
 Sink down as one ; even as these dews to-night 
 
 Fall from a thousand stars. 
 
 He hears. He turns. 
 Now, now, ye saints ! 
 
 The Monk {turning and perceiving her). Lady, what wouldst 
 thou? [She is silent. 
 
 Child, 
 What wouldst thou? 
 
 Francesco,. I have heard thee. Dost thou ask? 
 
 The Monk {pointing to the dancers in the far distance). Did 
 they not hear? Daughter, persuade me this> 
 And I will bless thee. 
 
 Francesca {taking a flower from her hreast). Is that rose- 
 bud sweet? 
 I pluck'd it from a thicket as I pass'd; 
 One day, perhaps, some cottage plot; but now 
 Given up to dominance of vulgar thorns, 
 And weeds of deadlier moral.. Yet methinks 
 'Tis still a rose. Wilt thou receive it ? 
 
 The Monk. Ay, 
 
 Francesca. I am that rose, my father, so accept 
 Me. 
 
20 THE SOMAN. 
 
 The Monk. Child, I will. 
 
 Francesco,. I have heard much to-night 
 
 Of Eoman deeds, of sages, and of heroes, 
 Of sons who loved, and sons who have betray' d. 
 Hath Eome no daughters to repeat her beauty, 
 Eenew the model of old time, and teach 
 Her sons to love the mother in the child? 
 Was Eome, my father, built and peopled by 
 One sex? The very marble of your ruins 
 Looks masculine. In heart I roam about them, 
 But wheresoe'er my female soul peers in 
 — Even to the temple courts — some bearded image 
 Cries Privilege. Doth Salique law entail 
 The heritage of glory? Is there nothing, 
 Nothing, my father, in the work of freedom 
 For woman's hand to do? 
 
 The Monk The past, that book 
 
 Of demonstrated theorems, lies open. 
 Why seek my poor unproved hypothesis, 
 When God hath solved for thee ? Child, choose thy page. 
 Here bleeds Lucretia. Eome hath now ten Tarquins 
 (Ten Tarquins, but we call them dukes and kings). 
 There, Arria. Many a Pcetus lives to-night 
 Who would have given right joyfully to freedom 
 The Eoman heart that makes a sorry slave, 
 If Arria would have shown him how to die. 
 Virginia ! Appius — nay, we have no state 
 Where Appius w^uld have deign'd to be a despot. 
 But that divine idea incarnate in 
 Virginia's corse, and teeming in the blood 
 
THE ROMAN. 21 
 
 Which quickening in your Koman ground grew up 
 A national virginity — that glory, 
 Though it reach up to heaven, may make its footstool 
 Wherever there is earth enough to die on. 
 Kemember her who 
 
 Francesco,. Hear me yet, my father, 
 
 And I will light thee to a sterner text 
 Than thou hast heart to preach from. 
 
 Yonder castle 
 Darkening the hill 
 
 The Monk. Child, the days come when where 
 
 The deadliest stronghold of its lordliest keep 
 Spreads the dank flags, tear-damp, of its most dark 
 Detested dungeon, thou — not I — shalt see 
 ' The wild thyme and the bee. 
 
 Francesco,. Is there nought writ 
 
 Of Tullia, who once drove the car of blood 
 Over her father's corse 1 Sir, from those walls 
 My father rules. 
 
 The Monk {after some silence). Shall Paul stop preaching 
 lest 
 Eutychus sleep ? In the Damascene way 
 Shall his eyes shut out light from heaven ? Not though 
 It scorch them blind ! Truth is a god, my child ; 
 Hear thou the altar, he himself provides 
 The lamb. The great judge, Truth, who takes thy verdict, 
 Avenges a^ false finding though it save 
 Thy brother's soul. Truth is the equal sun, 
 Eipening no less the hemlock than the vine, 
 Truth is the flash that turns aside no more 
 
22 THE EOMAN. 
 
 For castle than for cot. Truth is a spear 
 Thrown by the blind. Truth is a Nemesis 
 Which leadeth her belovM by the hand 
 Through all things; giving him no task to break 
 A bruisM reed, but bidding him stand firm 
 Though she crush worlds. 
 
 Francesco,. Master! I would serve Truth. 
 
 The Monk {meditates, then speaks). Oh Freedom ! ruddy 
 goddess of the hill, 
 Say, from that bree2y ledge of genial rock, 
 Where, yet ere twilight, with thine eastward face 
 Turn'd to to-morrow's sunrise, thou hast laid 
 Thy joyous limbs, dew-bathed — which day scarce tames 
 To sleep — oh say, is this pale dreamer thine 1 
 Go home, poor child, thou hast thy burden ; I 
 Add nothing. 
 
 Francesca. Thou canst speak in parables, 
 Or with stern silence stifle the poor heart 
 That breathes thy words ; but, father, I will sit 
 Here at thy feet. 
 
 The Monk. So does my dog ; but do I 
 Take him to council ? 
 
 Francesca. Yet thou givest him 
 
 To watch thee day and night. Grant me no less. 
 
 The Monk. Oh iyrant's daughter, lovest thou Eoman thus? 
 
 Francesca. Ay. 
 
 The Monk (musing). Can the heart be less than what it 
 holds? 
 The fetter'd slave that in his fetters slays 
 His lord, has strength to break them. Arms that break 
 
THE ROMAN, 23 
 
 Their chains have strength to throw them in the sea. 
 Perchance I have judged ill. Yes. Unattaint, 
 Perchance, the Arethusan blood of Rome 
 Hath coursed the conduit of a tyrant's veins, 
 And from the fetid entrails of the earth 
 Springs up Diana's fountain ! 
 
 Soul, soul, soul, 
 Wilt thou again believe ? Are figs of thistles 1 
 Hast thou not tasted of the Dead-Sea fruits ? 
 The clouds are midnight with to-morrow's storm : 
 Wilt thou launch freedom in a cockle-shell ? 
 What ! Patriot, dost thou pay the gold of Rome 
 For phantom ship to skim aerial waves 
 Or desert mirage 1 Bah ! what falconer 
 Shall man this butterfly-hawk ? Will that nice beak 
 Stoop to a bloody lure ? 
 
 Poor child, poor child, 
 The feeblest tongue that freemen use will deafen 
 These ears where every word went bowing in ! 
 These pamper'd ears, born in the purple chamber 
 Of silken state, these soft voluptuous ears, 
 Dainty and fancy-fed, that of the tribe 
 Of many-visaged language, know alone 
 That bastard and emasculated speech 
 That does court-embassies. That perfumed minion, 
 Which runs the powder'd errands of intrigue ; 
 That slave-born slave, that audible obeisance, 
 Which on the silver plate of compliment 
 Exchanges rotten hearts. That sleek thrice-curl'd 
 Prim arbiter of vile proprieties, 
 
24 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Whose wa^light days begin and end with fashion ; 
 
 That velvet impotent, whose effete passions 
 
 Wait smiling the fantastic lusts of kings. 
 
 ****** 
 
 How shall she bear the sound when a strong land 
 In the rude health of freedom shall say Home 1 
 Go home, girl, thou hast nought in me, nor I r 
 In thee. 
 
 Francesco,. Thy words stand 'twixt my home and me. 
 
 The Monk Hence ! Thou shalt pass them. Freedom's 
 sentinels 
 Challenge no feathers. 
 
 Francesco,. I have heard thy fears, 
 
 And fear not. Do the damn'd, my father, shrink 
 At voice of angel 1 Shall not the small sense 
 Of feeblest child sustain the crash of doom 1 
 
 The Monk. The day is thine. 
 There was a Greek sage once, who stood in spirit 
 Sublime beside his outraged flesh^and blood, 
 The only calm beholder. He and thou, 
 Raw girl ! have come into one heritage ; 
 He in grey hairs, weary and wise, as sage ; 
 Thou in the flush of unreflecting days, 
 As woman. With bowed head I stand before thee, 
 Child ! teach me. 
 
 Francesco. Mock me not, oh father, mock 
 
 Me not. Is it so great a boon to die 1 
 
 The Monk Have what thou wilt — do what thou wilt. 
 
 Francesco {throwing herself at his feet). He takes me ! 
 You Heavens ! he takes me. Master, Teacher, Lord ! 
 
THE ROMAN. 25 
 
 The Monk. I take thee not. 
 
 Francesco,. Thou canst not drive me from thee ! 
 
 I see it all ! He would even crush the fly 
 That hums about him. No, my father, no, 
 I die not thus. 
 
 The Monk. I take thee not, brave girl, 
 
 Thy Country claims thee. That great Borne, for whom 
 Many have fallen, but how few have died. 
 That generous country, which, while other lands 
 Build up their bulwarks of their children's dust, 
 Of her best sons, in her worst need, asks only 
 Apotheosis. Dost thou weep to exchange 
 The mortal for the eternal ? 
 
 Francesca. Teach me how 
 
 To serve her. 
 
 The Monk. Pay her tithes of the rich love 
 That bore thee to her feet, That love which triumph'd 
 In victory like his of Underwalden, 
 Who buried in his own unconquer'd breast 
 Th' opposing spears. 
 
 Francesca. Father, I am a poor 
 
 Weak ignorant. Thy voice falls on my heart 
 Like heavenly music, but alas, I know not 
 What words they sing to it in heaven. I pray thee 
 Give eyes to this blind trouble in my soul, 
 Set me some task — nay, do not spare me, master, 
 Some task at which thy bravest is not brave — 
 Teach me some lesson, in our woman's language, 
 Of action and endurance ; I will say it, 
 That thou shalt bless thy scholar ! 
 
26' THE SOMAN. 
 
 The Monk. Child! child ! child! 
 
 Thou art yet young, and foot of babe can do 
 No sacrilege. But curb these proud beliefs, 
 There comes a time, when holy bounds o'er-stept 
 May blast thee. Child, freedom hath sanctuaries, 
 Wherein the chaste hands of her best high-priest 
 Tremble to serve. Slave ! merry smiling slave ! 
 Dancing an hour since to the shameful music 
 Of thine own chains — 
 
 Francesco,. Oh father, father, spare me ! 
 
 Make me her lowest servant — 
 
 The Monk. Child, not so. 
 
 How should I judge thee ? Enoch was the first, 
 But not the last translated. To both worlds 
 — The inner and the outer — we come naked. 
 The very noblest heart on earth, hath oft 
 No better lot than to deserve. And yet, 
 What laurell'd impotent shall show his head 
 Beside that uncrown'd giant ? 
 
 No, my daughter, 
 I think thou hast a place beside the throne. 
 Behold it near the skies : the golden steps 
 Of human toil that reach it, and the angels 
 Ascending and descending. Wilt thou climb 1 
 
 Francesco,. Oh father ! 
 
 The Monk. Let me breathe thee round the ba 
 
 Of the celestial steep. I have a task 
 Such as becomes the neophyte of freedom ; 
 It shall be thine. 
 
 Francesco,. I clasp thy knees, my father. 
 
THE ROMAN. 27 
 
 The Monk. Brave girl, it is a Tyro's task ; a baptism 
 That -will not drown. The very holiday-work 
 Of glory— 
 
 Francesco,. May I do no nobler? 
 
 The Monk, Hear it. 
 
 Go forth at dawn — as they of old, go forth — 
 Carry nor purse, nor scrip, nor shoes, salute 
 By the way no man. Through this sad broad land, 
 Even from the Alps to the three seas, cry out, 
 " Borne is at hand!" 
 
 Francesca. Father, no more? 
 
 The Monk. No more. 
 
 Francesca. No word of War, Glory, Shame, Tyrants? 
 Nothing 
 Of this Bome's feature ? 
 
 • The Monk. Did John Baptist know 
 
 Whom he foreran? Daughter, thy chains lie there, 
 Not two hours off. No law forbids thee wear them. 
 
 Francesca. Forgive me, father, I am thine, all thine, 
 But — nay, frown not — what if men tire of this 
 Strange cuckoo note? 
 
 The Monk. Do two hearts hear the cuckoo 
 
 With the same beat? Lend me thy lute, dear girl; 
 There was a song that in my wanderings 
 I heard in other years. A wayward song 
 That caught the murmur of the' waterfall, 
 By which 1 sang it. But no matter. 'Twill 
 Find its way where the brawny words of manhood 
 Might be too rude. I would, my poor disciple, 
 I had some foot more fit than an arm'd heel 
 
28 THE ROMAN; 
 
 To tread the dwelling of thy woman's soul. 
 
 And while we commune, daughter, — for alas, 
 
 A patriot militant has no to-morrows — 
 
 Hear this first lesson. It may be remember'd 
 
 When I am not. Stern duties need not speak 
 
 Sternly. He who stood firm before the thunder, 
 
 Worshipp'd the still small voice. Let the great world 
 
 That bears us — the all-preaching world — instruct thee, 
 
 That teacheth every man, because her precepts 
 
 Are seen, not heard. Oh, worship her. Fear not 
 
 Whilst thou hast open eyes, and ears for all 
 
 The simplest words she saith. Deaf, blind, to these, 
 
 Despair. That worst incurable, perchance 
 
 Some voice may heal hereafter, but none here. 
 
 For before every man, the world of beauty, 
 
 Like a great artist, standeth day and night, 
 
 With patient hand retouching in the heart 
 
 God's defaced image. Reverence sights and sounds, 
 
 Daughter ; be sure the wind among the trees 
 
 Is whispering wisdom. 
 
 Now assist me, lute. 
 [The Monk sings — recitativo — touching the lute at intervals. 
 There went an incense through the land one night, 
 Through the hush'd holy land, when tired men slept. 
 
 [Interlude of music. 
 The haughty sun of June had walk'd, long days, 
 Through the tall pastures which, like mendicants, 
 Hung their sear heads and sued for rain : and he 
 Had thrown them none. And now it was high hay-time, 
 Through the sweet valley all her flowery wealth 
 
THE ROMAN. 29 
 
 At once lay low, at once ambrosial blood 
 
 Cried to the moonlight from a thousand fields. 
 
 And through the land the incense went that night, 
 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept. 
 
 It fell upon the sagej who with his lamp 
 
 Put out the light of heaven. He felt it come 
 
 Sweetening the musty tomes, like the fair shape 
 
 Of that one blighted love, which from the past 
 
 Steals oft among his mouldering thoughts of wisdom. 
 
 And she came with it, borne on airs of youth ; 
 
 Old days sang round her, old memorial days, 
 
 She crown'd with tears, they dress'd in flowers, all faded-^ 
 
 And the night-fragrance is a harmony 
 
 All through the old man's soul. Voices of eld, 
 
 The home, the church upon the village green, 
 
 Old thoughts that circle like the birds of Even 
 
 Eound the grey spire. Soft sweet regrets, like sunset 
 
 Lighting old windows with gleams day had not. 
 
 Ghosts of dead years, whispering old silent names 
 
 Through grass-grown pathways, by halls mouldering now. 
 
 Childhood — the fragrance of forgotten fields; 
 
 Manhood — the wwforgotten fields whose fragrance 
 
 Pass'd like a breath ; the time of buttercups, 
 
 The fluttering time of sweet forget-me-nots; 
 
 The time of passion and the rose — the hay- time 
 
 Of that last summer of hope ! The old man weeps, 
 
 The old man weeps. 
 
 His aimless hands the joyless books put by; 
 
 As one that dreams and fears to wake, the sage 
 
 With vacant eye stifles the trembling taper, 
 
30 
 
 THE HOMAN. 
 
 Lets in the moonlight — and for once is wise. 
 
 [Interlude of music. 
 There went an incense through the midnight land, 
 Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept. 
 It fell upon a simple cottage child, 
 Laid where the lattice open'd on the sky, 
 And she look'd up and said, Those flowers the stars 
 Smelt sweet to-night. God rest her ignorance ! 
 There went an incense through the land one night, 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept; 
 It pass'd above a lonely vale, and fell 
 Upon a poet looking out for signs 
 In heaven and earth, and went into his soul, 
 And like a fluttering bird among sweet strings, 
 Made strange ^Eolian music wild and dim. 
 
 [Interlude. 
 A haggard man, silent beneath the stars, 
 Stood with bare head, a hasty step withdrawn 
 From a low tatter'd hut, wherefrom the faint 
 Low wail of famine, like a strange night-bird, 
 Cried on the air. He had come forth to give 
 His dying child, his youngest one, repose. 
 " Father," it said, " you weep, I cannot die.'' 
 There went an incense through the land that night, 
 Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept; 
 It came upon his soul, and went down deep 
 Deep to his heart, and threw the new-made hay 
 Upon the coals of fire that ember'd there. 
 And by the rising flame came pictures fair, 
 Of old ancestral fields that strangers till, 
 
THE ROMAN. 31 
 
 And patrimony that the spoiler reaps. 
 
 Then falls the flame upon the "pallet near, 
 
 And forward on the canvas of the night, 
 
 To the wild father's eye, lights up that landscape 
 
 Of love and health and hope which yesterday 
 
 The poorest crumbs of the oppressor's feast 
 
 Might buy. Oh God ! how coarse a crust may be 
 
 The bread of life. He breathes the night-balm in, 
 
 And breathes it back the red-hot smoke of vengeance ! 
 
 [Musical interlude. 
 There was a lonely mother and one babe, 
 — A moon with one small star in all her heaven — - 
 Too like the moon, the wan and weary moon, 
 In pallor, beauty, all, alas ! but change. 
 Through six long months of sighs that moon unwaning 
 Had risen and set beside the little star. 
 And now the little star, whom all the dews 
 Of heaven refresh not, westers to its setting, 
 Out of the moonlight to be dark for ever. 
 O'er the hush'd holy land where tired men sleep, 
 There went an incense through the night. It fell 
 Upon the mother, and she slept — the babe, 
 It smiled and dream'd of paradise. 
 
 Thanks, listener. 
 I am a sorry minstrel. Had my art 
 Been echo to the nature in thy face 
 We had heard nobler strains. 
 
 Francesco, {sadly). Alas ! there only 
 
 Is thy child false. 
 
 The Monk. Ah! sighing still 1 
 
 Francesca. Dear father, 
 
32 THE ROMAN. 
 
 One more forgiveness ! Spirits half cast out 
 Tear the possess'd and cry. Indulgent master, 
 Complete thy miracle. 
 
 The Monk {severely). Hath the possess'd 
 Faith to be healed 1 
 
 Francesco. I could do all for love, 
 
 Bleed, die for it, — even to the second death — 
 I could, I would, I will — but to give flesh 
 For marble ; to be crush'd out of the earth 
 By some cold image falling from the clouds ! 
 
 The Monk. Woman, is this a place for earthly passion 1 
 
 Francesco,. Not passion, no, not passion. Human light 
 In the stern idol's eyes — a heart, a pulse 
 To sanctify the embrace — the love that throbs 
 Belief — Oh master, master ! 
 
 The Monk. I am patient, 
 
 Strange priestess — how long are these mysteries ? 
 
 Francesco {pauses). Sir, they are even now ended. I say not 
 Whether the fire be out upon the altar, 
 Or if the holy portals are self-closed 
 Against unpitying eyes ; but — they are ended. 
 
 The Monk. Child, I have wrong'd thee. 
 
 Francesco. Father, say not so. 
 
 They are not wrong'd who have no rights. And what 
 Have I before thee ? 
 
 The Monk. More, my daughter, more 
 
 Than thou or I remembered. Do the stars 
 Frown on us 1 Yet that cloud of wayward wishes 
 The world sent up at vesper-time hangs now 
 Fevering the heaven between their eyes and ours. 
 Daughter, forget my sins. Fond Hector, arm'd, 
 
THE EOMAN. Si 
 
 Smiled a paternity too terrible 
 Even for a hero's child. The earnest soul 
 Drawing a sword is warrior cap-a-pied, 
 And this voice, strife-strain'd, catches ill to-night 
 The pitch of the confessional. Brave girl, 
 Canst thou trust twice 1 
 
 > Francesco,. Do I trust God the less 
 
 For an unanswer'd prayer ? Command me, master ; 
 'Twas the Promethean madness that essay'd 
 To warm a clay heart with celestial fire. 
 I am content to serve. 
 
 The Monk. Nay, tell me all. 
 
 Francesco,. Not so, my father. No, thou shalt not cross 
 This threshold. No, thou shalt not stoop so low 
 As to the lintel of a heart like mine ! 
 Nay, tempt me not. I have received my sorrow, 
 And am content. The sin was too delicious 
 For feebler retribution. But, oh, once 
 To bear what I have borne this hour sufficeth 
 For one life. 
 
 . The Monk. Thou poor trembling child, be calm. 
 Truth, partial to her sex, made woman free 
 Even of her inmost cell ; but man walks round 
 The outer courts, and by the auspices 
 And divinations of the augur reason, 
 Knows her chaste will, her voice, and habit better 
 — With a sure science, more abstract and pure — 
 Than ye who run by instinct to her knee. 
 Answer me, child, perchance 
 
 Francesco. Nay, father, nay, 
 
34 THE BOMAN. 
 
 I am not worthy of thine auguries. 
 
 I will confess. I fear'd — forgive me, father, 
 
 I did fear that as there have been who flew 
 
 Wild with their own inevitable shadow ; 
 
 The dark monotony from day to day, 
 
 Of words that had no image in my brain, — 
 
 Great everpresent names that stand for nothing 
 
 In heaven or earth, sounds, awful, awful sounds, 
 
 For shapes I cannot see, haunting my ears, 
 
 Might drive me mad. Is not a whisper, father, 
 
 Fearful at night ? Are there not some, my father, 
 
 Who have been doom'd to drag a skeleton 
 
 Rattling behind them ? Oh, you heavens, you heavens, 
 
 I shall go mad. 
 
 The Monk (musingly). Ay, child, those rank wee= 
 words, 
 Exhaust the soul. 
 
 Francesco,. A little love, dear master, 
 
 It seem'd to me if I could know and love 
 — Though afar off — this Rome of which thou speakest, 
 It would make life of death. 
 
 The Monk. Yes, thou must love her, 
 
 There must be fire from heaven or hell to burn 
 Offerings that burnt were incense, but neglected 
 Pollute the winds. Thou must love Rome, my daughter, 
 As she loves thee. 
 
 Francesco,. Oh, can she love me ? How, 
 
 Oh, tell me how the mortal can win looks 
 From the eternal 1 How the daughters of men 
 Drew angels down? Alas, thou jestest, father, 
 
THE ROMAN. 35 
 
 She — the espoused of ages — how shall I 
 Woo her ? 
 
 The Monk. Even as thou makest other loves. 
 Watch her and wait upon her ; let her share 
 Thy morn and eve, and in the sleep of noon 
 Dream of her. Have no shame to see her by 
 Thy bed at night, and to undress thine heart 
 In her sad gaze. 
 
 In the dull ways of men 
 Sitting and walking lonely, let her image 
 Be thy attendant spirit, and interpret 
 All things into her language. Haply passing 
 A ruin'd garden, all of broken statues, 
 Temples o'er-turn'd, sweet haunts of love and pleasance 
 Defiled and trodden in the outraged earth, 
 And blossoms like the noon for radiance, trampled 
 By foul insulting feet : while over all 
 The appealing music of wronged solitudes, 
 Of shades deflower'd and sanctities profaned, 
 Hangs like a dewy exhalation — then 
 Look up and say, My country ! 
 
 Wandering through 
 The lovely ruin, if thy step should strike 
 On some fair column ; prone and moss-interr'd, 
 Fit for a god to stand on ; one of those 
 That found amid a desert's sands alone, 
 Should of the wealth of its one witness give 
 Another tome to history — be reverent, 
 Tread as thy feet were among graves — and say, 
 My country ! 
 
36 THE EOMAN. 
 
 Or, oil prince's daughter, if 
 In some proud street, leaning 'twixt night and day 
 From out thy palace balcony to meet 
 The breeze — that tempted by the hush of eve, 
 Steals from the fields about a city's shows, 
 And like a lost child, scared with wondering, flies 
 From side to side in touching trust and terror, 
 Crying sweet country names and dropping flowers — 
 Leaning to meet that breeze, and looking down 
 To the so silent city, if below 
 With dress disorder'd and dishevell'd passions 
 Streaming from desperate eyes that flash and flicker 
 Like corpse-lights, (eyes that once were known on high, 
 Morning and night, as welcome there as thine,) 
 And brow of trodden snow, and form majestic 
 That might have walk'd unchallenged through the skies, 
 And reckless feet, fitful with wine and woe, 
 And songs of revel that fall dead about 
 Her ruin'd beauty — sadder than a wail — 
 (As if the sweet maternal eve for pity 
 Took out the joy, and, with a blush of twilight, 
 Uncrown'd the Bacchanal) — some outraged sister 
 Passeth, be patient, think upon yon heaven, 
 Where angels hail the Magdalen, look down 
 Upon that life in death and say — My country ! 
 
THE HOMAN, 37 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Milan, during a popular Emeute. 
 
 A great band of Insurgents, armed, and singing, pass over. 
 The Monk stands near. 
 
 All (chanting as they march). Who would drone on in a. 
 dull -world like this? 
 
 Heaven costs no more than a pang and a sigh ; 
 Dash off the fetters that bind us from bliss, 
 
 Fair fall the freeman who foremost shall die ! 
 Death's a siesta, lads, take it who can ! 
 Wave the proud banners that wave for Milan ! 
 
 Chanted in song, and remember'd in story, 
 Sunk but to rise — like the sun in the wave — 
 
 Grandly the fallen shall sleep in his glory, 
 Proudly his country shall weep at his grave, 
 
 And hallow like relics each clod where there ran 
 
 The blood of that hero who died for Milan ! 
 
 Holy his name shall be, blest by the brave and free, 
 Kept like a saint's-day, the hour when he died ! 
 
 The mother that bore him, the maid that bends o'er him 
 Shall weep, but the tears shall be rich tears of pride. 
 
 Shout, brothers, shout for the first falling man, 
 
 Shout for the gallant that dies for Milan ! 
 
38 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Long, long years hence by the home of his truth, 
 His fate, beaming eyes yet unborn shall bedew, 
 
 Beloved of the lovely, while beauty and youth 
 
 Shall give their best sighs to the brave and the true ! 
 
 On spears ! spur cavaliers ! Victory our van, 
 
 Fame sounds the trumpet that sounds for Milan ! 
 
 [They pass ; the Monk steps forth, and stopping some of 
 the rearguard, speaks. 
 
 The Monk. Would you know 
 
 The path of that false tyrant, who enslaved 
 Your fetter'd land : and, with her outraged beauties 
 Beaming upon you, made ye glad to die ? 
 
 Soldier. Ay, holy father. 
 
 The Monk. Would you know the spot 
 
 Where, in the shoutings of his maniac triumph, 
 He calls his blood-hounds round his gory hands, 
 And cheers them on the prey ? 
 
 Soldier. Since the noon-sun 
 
 Shone on the flying Austrians, we have track'd them, 
 And burn to sup as we have dined. Speak on. 
 
 The Monk. If I could count you man by man, and horse 
 By horse, and bayonet by bayonet, 
 And point the very lurking place — 
 
 Soldier. Nay, speak ! 
 
 The sun sinks, and Milan herself goes down 
 With to-night's dews. Speak, speak good father. 
 
 The Monk. Fools ! 
 
 What ! do you take me for some Austrian trull, 
 At service of the first camp follower 
 
THE EOMAN. 39 
 
 That sues her ? Do you think I make my council 
 Of way-side danglers 1 Dost betray me, fellow ? 
 Thou pale-faced german knave, if thou art aught 
 That man may name unblushing, hence and bring me 
 The leaders of this crew. 
 
 One Soldier to another. Go fetch the captain 
 Of the tenth troop. 
 
 The Monk. Friend, fetch ten thousand captains, 
 
 And march them here to march them back again ; 
 What ! dost thou think Milan's great doom is meat 
 For mouths like thine 1 Hence, bring your general, 
 And bid him — as he values absolution 
 For all that army of unshriven souls 
 That hope to make their beds in Paradise — 
 Appear with such attendance as befits 
 The majesty of freedom. Hence, and tell him 
 I can show where Milan's great foe is flagrant, 
 And swear upon my priestly faith, this night 
 He shall behold him ! [Exit a Soldier. 
 
 Enter General and crowd of Troops. 
 
 General. Sir, and reverend father, 
 
 Thou wilt forgive me if I am deceived — 
 A straggler of our army brought — but now — 
 An imminent commandment. Was it thine 1 
 
 The Monk. Mine. 
 
 General. We do trust thou hast not wrong'd us, father ; 
 Each passing moment that goes by us now 
 Is full of lives. 
 
 The Monk. I have not wrong'd you. Hear me. 
 You say you combat for your country — mine, 
 
40 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Yours, every man's in whom the proud high blood 
 
 Of the old time still struggles with the present, 
 
 And throbs and blushes at degenerate days ; 
 
 The country of the Caesars, and the saints, 
 
 And, better still, the land of stirring deeds, 
 
 Done by rude hands, and heads as yet uncrown d 
 
 In earth or heaven ; the lady of the kingdoms — 
 
 The soil on which the gods came down, confounding 
 
 Their heaven with ours ; — restore me if I wander 
 
 From your own words — you strike for this dear country 1 
 
 All. Die for it ! , 
 
 The Monk. And the tide that flow'd from those 
 
 Old Koman veins like empire, so that where 
 The Koman bled he ruled — the blood that soak'd 
 His sovereignty into the land he fell on, 
 Flows in you, and you feel it ? 
 
 General. Eeverend father, 
 
 Times hastes — the news — thine oath — we must hence — 
 
 The Monk. Peace ! 
 
 Wilt thou direct my gifts, rebellious child ? 
 
 [Turning to the Crowd. 
 Say, will you hear me % Will you know the spot 
 Where the foe lurks I swore to show you 1 
 
 All. Speak ! 
 
 The Monk. You feel the pulses of the Roman blood, 
 You think the masters of the world begot 
 Kings, and not slaves — you come forth with the same 
 Looks, passions, sinews, souls and giant hearts, 
 Which in your sires stood round your ancient heroes, 
 And lifted them to glory on their shields, 
 
THE ROMAN. 41 
 
 — Those heroes worshipp'd by the startled earth, 
 
 Who seeing them above you, call'd them gods — 
 
 You know the same grand instinct of vast empire, 
 
 You stand upon the same Italian ground, 
 
 You stand on that same ground, the same proud people, 
 
 And the inheritors of ancient worlds, 
 
 Shout for Milan ! What ! will you pay your lives 
 
 To buy a freedom girt by fewer acres 
 
 Than your old consuls would have thrown away 
 
 Upon a birth-day gift ? What, has this land, 
 
 This Italy, grown smaller, and lacks ground 
 
 For such a temple as it once upbore? 
 
 Or in your base hearts, shrunk with shameful days, 
 
 Is there no space to build a Roman glory? 
 
 Go to ! you feebler sons of feeble days, 
 
 You that would totter with the very name 
 
 By which men call'd your sires ! Go to, you pigmies, 
 
 Who have no- more resource in your dwarf nerves, 
 
 To know the squalor of your futile limbs, 
 
 Than you have sight or soul or sense to compass 
 
 The awful stature of a Roman people ! 
 
 Why do I speak of glory? Italy, 
 
 This Italy, which in its length and breadth 
 
 Scarce served your fathers for a throne to sit on, 
 
 Confounds their children with its vast horizon ! 
 
 And the posterity of those who counted 
 
 Conquests by continents, weigh'd out dominion 
 
 By hemispheres, and cast a score of kingdoms 
 
 As dust to balance the unequal scale, 
 
 Wage comfit combats at a carnival ! 
 
42 THE EOMAN. 
 
 Coin fatherlands and farthings ; and step out 
 
 Their mimic royalties, and make toy princes 
 
 Glorious in gilt and gingerbread for kings 
 
 At school to play with. Husbandmen in crowns, 
 
 Great in the lordship of a Eoman field, 
 
 Affect the despot, and to trembling townships 
 
 Nod sovereignty; with equal hand create 
 
 A constitution, country, and court-cook, 
 
 Will loyalties, and point with awful finger 
 
 Which hedge and ditch shall bound a patriotism ! 
 
 While Eomans smile, and sons of Csesar farm 
 
 Well pleased what Csesar would have deem'd too strait 
 
 To breed his wild boars for a hunting day, 
 
 And call it Empire ! 
 
 Enter fresh crowds of Soldiers shouting. 
 
 Soldiers. Long live the republic ! 
 
 Long live the commonwealth of Lombardy! 
 
 The Monk. Long live eternal Eome ! long live that Rome 
 Which is not dead but sleepeth ! long live Rome ! 
 Men, this is the great year of resurrection ! 
 All who are in their graves shall hear his voice, 
 And come forth! That which twenty centuries hence 
 Lay down a hero, shall rise up a god ! 
 Shout, countrymen ! and wake the graves; shout, Rome ! 
 Republic ! Rise! 
 
 Many voices. Down with him, down with him. Viva 
 Milano! 
 
 General. A hearing, comrades I 
 
 Many. Peace ! the General speaks ! 
 
 General. Priest, at thy peril 
 
THE KOMAN. 43 
 
 Many. At thy peril, priest ! 
 
 General. Priest, at thy peril, cease these timeless babblings, 
 Eespect thine oath and life. Show us the foe ! 
 
 Soldiers. The foe, the foe, the foe, 
 
 The Monk. Each silent man, 
 
 When I cry Eome ! Each false, base-blooded shouter, 
 When you cry Lombardy ! 
 
 Soldiers. Base-blooded ! false ! 
 
 Base-blooded ! false ! give him a ball in the mouth ! 
 Milan ! Milan ! up muskets ! 
 
 General. Shoulder arms ! 
 
 The Monk. Each self-judged helot, pleased to toil, a Goth, 
 When he might rule, a Boman ! Borne? Borne? Borne? 
 Bah ! by what witchcraft should you know that name, 
 You Tuscans, Luccans, Florentines, Sardinians, 
 Parmans, Placentians, Paduans and — slaves ? 
 
 Soldiers. Spear him — a pike, a pike ! 
 
 Some. Hear the priest ! 
 
 Others (with great uproar). Stone him. 
 
 Stone him 
 
 The Monk. I am a Boman. Let some Vandal 
 Cast the first stone. 
 
44 THE ROMAN, 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 Moonlight. 
 
 Francesoa alone, musing, sitting on a hank beneath trees. 
 Cecco, a friend,, enters unpercevved, at the close of het 
 soliloquy. 
 
 Francesca. I will but live in twilight, 
 
 I will seek out some lone Egerian grove, 
 Where sacred and o'er-greeting branches shed 
 Perpetual eve, and all the cheated hours 
 Sing vespers. And beside a sullen stream, 
 Ice-cold at noon, my shadowy self shall' sit, 
 Crown'd with dull wreaths of middle-tinted flowers ; 
 With sympathetic roses, wan with weeping 
 For April sorrows ; frighten'd harebells, pale 
 With thunder ; last, half-scented honeysuckle, 
 That like an ill-starr'd child hides its brown head 
 Through the long summer banquet, but steals late 
 To wander through the fragments of the feast, 
 And glad us with remember'd words that fell 
 From guests of beauty; sunburnt lilies, grey 
 Wind-whispering ilex, and whatever leaves 
 And changeling blossoms Flora, half-asleep, 
 Makes paler than the sun and warmer than the moon ! 
 Was ever slave so dark and cold as I ? 
 
THE ROMAN. 45 
 
 Ah cruel, cruel night ! the very stars 
 
 Put me to shame ! I spur my soul all day 
 
 With thought of tyrants, woes and chains, and curse 
 
 As oft my pallid and ill-blooded nature, 
 
 That 'will not rage. Oh for some separate slave 
 
 To pity every vassal by ! Some tyrant 
 
 By whom I might set down of all oppressors 
 
 That they are thus and thus ! Oh that some hand, 
 
 Oh that some one hand, faint and fetter-wrung, 
 
 Would thrust its clanking wrongs before my eyes, 
 
 And I could bleed to break them ! 
 
 And thou ! country ! 
 Thou stern and awful god, of which my reason 
 Preaches infallibly, but which no sense 
 Bears witness to — I would thou hadst a shape. 
 It might be dwarf, deform'd, maim'd, — anything, 
 So it was thine ; and it should stand to me 
 For beauty. And my soul should wait on it, 
 And I would train my fancies all about it, 
 Till growing to its fashion, and most nurtured 
 With smiles and tears they strengthen'd into love. 
 But — Santo — this indefinite dim presence 
 I cannot worship. thou dear apostle, 
 Oh what a patriot could Francesca be 
 If thou wert Kome ! Oh what a fond disciple 
 Should his tongue have whose only eloquence 
 Was praise of thee ! To what a pile of vengeance 
 One look of retribution in thine eye 
 Were torch enough ! Be still, my heart, be still ! 
 Ah wilful, wilful heart, dost thou refuse ? 
 
46 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Nay, be appeased — I bid thee silence, lest 
 'Consenting cheeks attest how well thou sayest ! 
 Too late, too late. Nay, do you crave, you blushes, 
 Escort of spoken passion, to interpret 
 Your beauties to the moon, which, pale with love 
 And watching for the never-coming night, 
 Mistakes them for some rosy cloud of dawn, 
 And ends her vigil? Heart, have all thy will ! 
 Santo, I love thee ! love thee ! love thee ! love thee ! 
 Santo, I love thee ! oh, thou wild word love ! 
 Thou bird broke loose ! I could say on and on, 
 And feel existence but to speak and hear. 
 Santo, I love thee ! Hear ! Francesca loves thee, 
 Santo, I love thee ! oh, my heart, my heart, 
 My heart, thou Arab mad with desert-thirst, 
 In sight of water ! — think upon the sands, 
 Thou leaping trembling lunatic, and keep 
 Some strength to reach the well. 
 
 Cecco {approaching). What voice is this, 
 
 That calls upon a traitor 1 
 
 Francesca. Thou base stranger, 
 
 Thou coward spy ! one that will call on him, 
 Though her tongue pay the forfeit ! Yes, vile Austrian, 
 I call him, I, — I, who to save my soul 
 Would scorn to call upon the milk-eyed saints 
 That look from Heaven upon your German deeds 
 And do not blight you ! 
 
 Cecco (drawing nearer). Sister Eoman ! well 
 And timely met. 
 
 Francesca. Cecco ! thy lips are traitors, 
 
THE ROMAN. 47 
 
 And mouth to German fashions. I believed 
 The hour I sometime pray'd for, come already, 
 And thee an Austrian spy. 
 
 Cecco. Forgive me that 
 
 I show'd my passport at a friendly gate, 
 Despair is a poor courtier. I may waste 
 Only so many words as may demand 
 Assistance, if thou hast it, and if not 
 God-speed ! It wants but three short hours of dawn, 
 I swore to Santo he should have a Bible 
 Two hours before his time. 
 
 Francesco,. It wants three hours 
 
 Of dawn — thou sworest he should have a Bible 
 Two hours before his time — Cecco — 
 
 Cecco. , Be brief, 
 
 For pity. Is there any bold man near 
 Who has and who dare lend 1 
 
 Francesco.. Be brief, for pity — 
 
 Thou sworest he should have — you heavens, you heavens, 
 What do your clouds hide 1 
 
 Cecco. I must leave thee. 
 
 Francesca (to Cecco, who essays to go : she shows a poniard). 
 
 Cecco, 
 Tell me ; tell all. Ah Cecco — nay, look here 
 In the moonlight — saints ! I can use it ! 
 
 Cecco. Strange, 
 
 Wild girl, how 1 know'st thou not as well as I 
 Vittorio preaching to some Milanese 
 Who would be patriots if they knew but how, 
 Spent precious hours in which the German foe 
 
48 THE KOMAN. 
 
 Slipt from the snare? whereat brave Eoderigo — 
 
 A gallant sword — the greatest libertine 
 
 In Milan — seized him. In the castle dungeon 
 
 He lies since noon, and with the coming dawn 
 
 Dies. 
 
 Francesco,. Dies, dies, — who dies ? — pray you, friend, say on ; 
 I am not wont to wander. 
 
 [She sinks gently to the earth. Oecco reclines her on a 
 bank and hastens on. After awhile Francesca sits up. 
 This is well ! 
 That last waltz spent me. Let me see, what gallant 
 Danced young Francesca down 1 Nay, he'll boast rarely ! 
 Yet it seems, long ago — long, long ago. 
 Such dreamless sleep ! Thou melancholy moon, 
 What ! have I caught my death-damp of the dews ? 
 Death, — death, — ah ! — 
 
 [A long pause ; she sits with her head in her hands. 
 A gallant sword — the greatest libertine 
 In Milan? — yes, yes, — Roderigo, — yes — 
 
 [Another long pause. 
 He lies since noon — ay, in the castle dungeon, 
 And with the dawn — No, no, thou pitiless sun ! 
 Thou durst not rise ! Oh sea, if thou hast waves, 
 Quench him ! [Another long pause. 
 
 A gallant sword — the greatest libertine 
 In Milan. — Ah — the greatest libertine ? 
 Who says I am not fair ? Ye gods ! I curse you : 
 Why do ye tempt me ? 
 
 [A very long pause. Cecco passes in returning. 
 It is over, Cecco ; 
 
THE ROMAN. 49 
 
 Cecco, I tell thee it is past, is past. 
 
 Santo is free. Look thou that horses wait 
 
 Near the east gate by sunrise. At the ■walls 
 
 My mission ends. Doubt not. I am not mad, 
 
 I hope I am not. Yet one hour of frenzy 
 
 Would take me from this hell to heaven. But Cecco, 
 
 I would not buy oblivion, at this moment, 
 
 With a right hand that shakes. 
 
 I tell thee, haste ! 
 Gaze not on me ! with all the fiends about me, 
 I have not sat an hour stock-still for nought ; 
 Begone ! [Exit CeCco. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 The Common Room of an Inn. 
 
 Enter, by different doors, a number of Students and Burghers 
 shouting to each other as they meet and greet. 
 
 Each and all. The news? The news? The news? Th< 
 
 news ? The news ? 
 One. I've a good tale. 
 Another. I better. 
 
 Another, I the « est - 
 
 Another. Mine caps superlative. 
 Another. Hurrah ! and mine's 
 
 A feather in the cap. 
 
50 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Another. Boys ! mine's the bird 
 
 That grew the feather. 
 
 The first. Hear me for my age. 
 
 The second. Me for my honesty. 
 
 The third. Me for my beauty ! 
 
 The fourth. Me for my wit. 
 
 The fifth. Me for my eloquence. 
 
 The sixth. Me 
 
 For all these. 
 
 Another. Me for none of them, since naked 
 Beggars are best arm'd. 
 
 Enter Giacco. Halloo ! 
 
 All. Giacco ! Giacco ! 
 
 Brave Giacco ! 
 
 Giacco. Here's a tale, my comrades ! 
 
 All. Hear him ! 
 
 One. Hurrah ! trust Giacco for a pretty wench 
 And a good story. 
 
 Another. Nay, for certain, Milan 
 
 Has no such tell-tale. 
 
 Another. Lads ! a cup all round, 
 
 Giacco does best ! 
 
 One (aside). Pray Mary ! he knows mine ; 
 Every good saint ! it must be mine. 
 
 Some. Now Giacco ! 
 
 Others. Attend ! attend ! attend ! 
 
 Others. Silence ! Now Giacco ! 
 
 Giacco. There came a man — „ 
 
 One. Ay, 'tis so. 
 
 Another. Very true^ 
 
 So I say. 
 
THE ROMAN. 15 
 
 Another. Hear him ! 
 
 Another. Ay, ay, go on, Giacco 1 
 
 Giacco. There came a man dress'd like a priest — 
 
 One. The same. 
 
 Another. Yes, 'twas a priest. 
 
 Another. Said I not well 1 ah, ah ! 
 
 Trust Giacco for a tale. 
 
 Giacco. A thin pale man — 
 
 One. A pale thin man. 
 
 Another. Yes, pale and spare, I say so. 
 
 Another. Spare, very spare. 
 
 Another. The same ! the dogs snarl'd 
 
 at him 
 As he were bones. 
 
 Giacco. He pass'd down Duomo Street — 
 
 One. The very street ! 
 
 Another. Yes, yes, the place, the place, 
 
 The very place — all but the name — good Giacco !, 
 
 Another. Giacco forgets a little — Yes, yes, Giacco — 
 (Aside). My life on it, he means the place I say ! 
 
 Giacco. Walking down slowly — 
 
 One. Yes, yes, walking, slowly. 
 
 Another. Right, Giacco ! 
 
 Another. Well done, Giacco. 
 
 Another. Ay, I say so ; 
 
 Oh, 'tis my story ! 
 
 Giacco. Walking down he enters 
 
 A merchant's office hard upon the quay — 
 
 One. Wrong, Giacco ! 
 
 Another. Giacco, thou'rt beside thyself. ! 
 
52 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Another. Blind Giacco ! 
 
 Another. Saints and angels ! 
 
 Giacco. Why I saw him- 
 
 Another. Giacco, thou liest ! 
 
 Another. Turn him out ! 
 
 Another. Nay ! 'tis- flagrant ! 
 
 All. Turn him out ! 
 
 Enter a Village-Schoolmaster. 
 
 Doctor Scio. Men ! 
 
 Some. Koom for the Doctor Scio ! * 
 
 Others. Chair for the master, there ! 
 
 Others. Hats off ! the Doctor ! 
 
 All. Koom for the Doctor ! Let the Doctor judge ! 
 Take him aside, Giovanni. Tell him all ! 
 Tell him, Giovanni ! 
 
 Scio (pompously). Children agapste ! 
 Well-beloved children ! trouble not Giovanni ! 
 For as of old the mild mellifluous beams 
 Of Cytherea on the Prince of Troy 
 Stole through the broken pane, — as to Endymion, 
 Through the crack'd casement of consenting cave, 
 The star-train'd goddess came ; so from these wide 
 And vomitorial windows, belch'd your tumult 
 To me transgressing. 
 
 Some. Hear him ! 
 
 Others. Well done, Scio ! 
 
 Hear him ! 
 
 One. Oh learning ! what a treasure thou art ! 
 
 Others. Hurrah ! Speak, Doctor, speak ! 
 
 * -The leader need not be reminded that Scio is but one syllable in Italian. 
 
THE ROMAN. 53 
 
 Scio. The labourer 
 
 Is worthy of his hire. Friends, what is hire 1 
 
 All. Wages ! 
 
 Scio. And when, Sirs, does the fatigate 
 
 Pellosseous, son of sudorific toil, 
 Eeceive his wage 1 Is it not, friends, the eve, 
 The sweet stipendiar eve of Saturn's day 1 
 
 Burghers (to each other). Didst hear the like 1 What 'tis 
 to be a scholar ! 
 Scio has my boy — for one. 
 
 Scio. And shall we, friends, 
 
 Shall we degrade the majesty of Learning 
 Which I — which I — her infinitesimal 
 Exiguous representative — 
 
 Some. Bravo, 
 
 Well said ! 
 
 Scio. Which I — her representative 
 Exiguous but unworthy — 
 
 Some. No, no, Scio, 
 
 No, not unworthy. 
 
 Others. Don't be modest, Scio ; 
 
 Unworthy ! bah ! — 
 
 Others. Give us the other words — 
 
 Go on, Scio, "infinite" — 
 
 Scio. I say, my friends, 
 
 Shall I, the representative of Learning, 
 Work first and be paid after, like the plodder 
 In yonder field 1 My friends, there was a thing, 
 A tool, an article, friends, a utensil 
 Known to our fathers by. the sacred names 
 
54 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Poculum, cantharus, carchesium, scyphus, 
 Cymbium, culullus, cyathus, amystis, 
 Scaphium, batiola, and now by us 
 Their children, Sirs, albeit unworthy, call'd 
 A cup. 
 
 All. A cup, a cup, a cup of wine ! 
 Well done, old Scio ! hurrah ! a cup of wine 
 Here for the doctor, oh ! a cup of wine. 
 
 Enter a Stranger, who stands aside. A Burglier bows to 
 him and speaks. 
 
 Burgher (to Stranger). A stranger ? 
 
 Stranger. Yes. 
 
 Burgher. You come in a good time, Sir ; 
 
 Sir, you're a happy man, I give you joy, Sir ; 
 Sir, these are times ! — I take it, Sir, few men 
 Can gainsay that, Sir, — these are times, Sir, eh ? 
 
 Stranger. Sir, these are times. 
 
 Burgher (pointing to Scio). You take me, Sir, I see. 
 
 Now, Sir, behold that man. I say, Sir, mark him ; 
 Now, Sir, you see a man, a man, Sir. 
 
 Stranger. Sir, 
 
 I see a man. 
 
 Burgher. Just my idea, Sir, — Sir, 
 I crave your further knowledge, we are friends — 
 Saints ! how a patriot's eye — between ourselves — Sir, 
 A patriot's eye finds out the man of the age. 
 
 Stranger. There is a nameless something — 
 
 Burgher. Sir, you have it ; 
 
 My own idea, Sir, from a boy — a something 
 Indisputably something. Yes, a something 
 
TEE ROMAN; 55 
 
 As one might say — to speak more plainly — something, 
 A something, Sir, — something in the set of the ear — 
 
 Many shout. Scio — Doctor Scio— Silence ! The Doctor ! 
 Silence ! 
 
 Enter Lelio, a Student. 
 
 Lelio. Here's news, friends ! 
 
 Many. How now, Lelio ? 
 
 Lelio. Which man here 
 
 TeUs the best tale? 
 
 Many. I. I. I. I. I. I. 
 
 Lelio. Nay, everybody ! Write me up a nonsuch ! 
 I can beat everybody. Heroes can 
 No more. 
 
 All. A challenge, lads ; what ho ! a ring) 
 A ring, a ring, a ring ! Champion, step out ! 
 A ring ! a ring ! 
 
 A Student. Go call thy daughter, hostess, 
 Here's that will make her honest. 
 
 Hostess. Sir 1 
 
 Student. A ring. 
 
 All. Now, Lelio, now, each man that beats thee wins 
 His bottle. ' 
 
 Lelio. Done. You know the fair Francesca, 
 Count Grassi's daughter ? 
 
 All. Are we Milanese ? 
 
 Lelio. Well- 
 One. Well? 
 
 Another. Well ! . Nay, if she's well, Lelio, 
 
 Tis no such story ! 
 
 Lelio. Which man has not seen 
 
 Young Eoderigo Eossi 1 
 
56 THE EOMAN. 
 
 All. Or the sun, 
 
 The moon— a star or two. — the Duomo — well 1 
 
 Lelio. Young Rossi and a priest fell out last night. 
 Several. A priest — a priest — a priest — 
 One. My life upon it 
 
 The fellow knows my story. 
 
 Lelio. On this quarrel, 
 
 Our gallant Cavaliero dooms his man 
 To die at day-break. 
 
 Many. By the holy pope, 
 
 A foul deed — nay, a foul deed. 
 
 One (aside). Ne'ertheless, 
 
 By Heavens I'm glad on't. This is not my story. 
 My priest was a true patriot. 
 
 Lelio. At midnight — 
 
 (Count Grassi's child hath a fair face) 
 
 Several. At midnight, 
 
 Count Grassi's child hath a fair face ! Fie, Lelio ; 
 Why what a traitor art thou ! 
 
 Lelio. Attend, I say 1 
 
 Bold Rossi's lewdness is a proverb — 
 
 Several (pour badiner). Hold, 
 
 Lelio, for pity — there are bachelors here — 
 We are not all companions in misfortune ! 
 For pity, Lelio ! 
 
 Lelio. You that shout for pity, 
 
 If you be Pity's followers, do her now 
 Your best allegiance. Good friends, I, her quaestor, 
 Claim tribute from you. A few tears will pay it. 
 Listen. The young Francesoa, at the price 
 Of her fair body, bought the captive's life ; 
 
THE KOMAN. 57 
 
 The priest is free. Do not cry out. Young Eossi 
 Craved instant payment. She in her superb 
 High loveliness, whose every look enhanced 
 The ransom, sent him from her, glad to grant 
 Another maiden hour for prayer and tears. 
 Francesca wore a poniard. She is now 
 A maid for ever. 
 
 Hostess (to one standing by). How is that, Sir ? 
 Student (aside). Hush! 
 
 Dead! 
 Several. 'Tis a woful story. Poor Francesca ! 
 Scio. Kequiem seternam dona eis Domine ! 
 Several. Amen. Amen. 
 
 Hostess (aside). Dead ! 'tis against my conscience ; 
 
 Dead ! and the Signor Eossi ! why a comelier 
 Walks not Milan. Dead — nay, I couldn't have done it ! 
 Well, well, there be hard hearts that slight their blessings. 
 So comely a young man ! The saints preserve me ! 
 Nay, 'twas a sinful blindness. 
 
 Lelio. How now, hostess, 
 
 Some wine, some wine ; wine, wine. 
 
 Several. More wine ; now, Lelio, 
 
 Who was this monk? — 
 
 Lelio. Fill up your glasses, comrades, 
 
 Sorrow is thirsty fellowship — eh, hostess? 
 Several. Lelio — now, Lelio — name, name, name! 
 Others. This priest, 
 
 This lady-killing priest ! 
 
 Lelio (to one). Hast thou forgotten 
 
 A dance with Ginevra at eve? A priest — 
 
58 tUM KOMAN. 
 
 One. The same 1 ? 
 
 Lelio. The same. 
 
 One. Vittorio Santo ? speak ! 
 
 Another. Santo? 
 
 Another. Vittorio Santo? 
 
 Lelio. What! Vicenzo 
 
 Barnaba ! Ah Tomaseo ! are ye also 
 Of Nazareth ? Well done ! tell you my storyi 
 
 Many. Lelio— hear Lelio — 
 
 Others. Hear ! 
 
 Lelio. It was this Santo. 
 
 Dost thou mind, Giacchimo, how, deftly feigning 
 Sorrows about a grave, he won our ears 
 And prick'd us on to virtue with the sword 
 Of our own sympathies? With such shrewd warfare — 
 Proteus for transformation — Briareus 
 For head and hands — this strange campaigner carries 
 The fire and sword of his hot argument 
 From cot to palace, plain to mountain-top. 
 The merchant at his ledger, lifting eyes 
 Bloodshot with lack of sleep — for last night blew — 
 Sees him beside his desk at close of day, 
 And thinks the lamp burns dimmer, and believes 
 The untold loss already. The pale priest, 
 Opening his silent lips with such an omen 
 That the faint listener starts, relates how some 
 Great galleon, gallant on her homeward way — 
 A floating Ind, mann'd by the pride of Europe — 
 Storm'd by a scallop fleet of naked pirates, 
 Bestrews their savage shores, and makes each rock 
 
THE ROMAN. 59 
 
 Arabia. With keen eyes catching the throes 
 
 Of his now gasping auditor, the tale 
 
 Our stern tormentor fashions so astutely, 
 
 That each new fear, enduing, strains it to 
 
 Its several shape. Watching each rising hope, 
 
 He stings it mad with some especial horror, 
 
 And by a track of anguish feels his way 
 
 Straight to his victim's heart. In that worst moment 
 
 The messenger of doom assumes the angel ! 
 
 Looks that evangelise, eyes that beam light 
 
 Into the soul, 'till every dead hope glitters 
 
 Like a crown'd corpse ; a moment's shining silence, 
 
 Slow placid words that hurry to a torrent; 
 
 Then the gulf-stream of passion ! high command, 
 
 Entreaty, reason, adj uration ;— all 
 
 The martial attitudes of a grand soul. 
 
 The lavish wealth of infinite resource ! 
 
 Diamonds thrown broad-cast for denaros ! — ay, 
 
 That Argosy he spoke of, scatter'd on 
 
 The maddest waves of rushing rapid, surging 
 
 Headlong through foaming straits, above, below, 
 
 Tossing the wealth of kingdoms, hurtles not 
 
 With such tumultuous riches as the flood 
 
 Of his strange eloquence. And then the scared 
 
 And half-drown'd trader — lifting his blind thought 
 
 Above the waters, that with sudden ebb 
 
 Left him in silence-r-finds he is alone. 
 
 Of all the golden wreck, his struggling soul 
 
 Holds fast but this — Rome is that glorious galleon, 
 
 Now stranded and forlorn : her freight of honours 
 
60 THE EOMAN. 
 
 Strew'd up and down the world, purpling strange snows 
 
 Aud loading cold barbaric winds with incense. 
 
 That night, at home, the merchant tells his stoiy, 
 
 Wherewith, still later, madam at her glass 
 
 Stirs sleepy Abigail. Sweet Abigail, 
 
 Still nearer midnight, garrulously coy, 
 
 Twixt amorous Corydon and her warm charms, 
 
 Weaves the gauze meshes of the thrice-told tale. 
 
 Next morn on 'Change betimes the story stalks 
 
 By blind deaf faces, as a spirit might walk 
 
 Among the wooden gods of the sea-kings. 
 
 The hour of contract over, — the fierce edge 
 
 Of morning appetite now turn'd with gold — 
 
 Nature appeased, and the commercial soul 
 
 In jolly after-dinner complaisance 
 
 Eelax'd and smiling, — prosperous ears attend 
 
 The merchant never weary of recounting. 
 
 " Insured, Sir?" " I fear not.'' " Heyday, heyday, 
 
 A sorry venture!" Then the angry hum 
 
 Subsiding, all surround the man of facts. 
 
 Sage heads shook much that day. Municipal 
 
 Grave brains plagued with strange phantoms, never yet 
 
 Free of the city, in the sacred gloom 
 
 Of shades official, ached, and retched, and heaved, 
 
 To throw the incivic innovation off : 
 
 And in the pangs of labour crying out, 
 
 Betrayed the parentage. So this strange priest 
 
 Made his foes preach for him, till all Leghorn 
 
 Hung on his lips. With bold incessant presence 
 
 Whereto no shrine is sacred, no stern fastness 
 
.THE ROMAN. 61 
 
 Strong, no offended majesty majestic, 
 
 No sinner excommunicate, no saint — 
 
 Holy, no Dives rich, no Lazarus poor, 
 
 No human heart unworthy — this strange man — 
 
 This cowl'd evangelist, that Monk is not — • 
 
 (For he preach'd yesterday that not a bare 
 
 Untempled spot, unblest, unconsecrate 
 
 On earth, but is sufficient sanctuary 
 
 For the best hour of the best life ; — no cloud 
 
 In any heaven so dark that a good prayer 
 
 Cannot ascend,) — this polyglot of prophets, 
 
 Roams like a manifold infection, shedding 
 
 Through the sick souls of men the strange disease 
 
 Of his own spirit. Not an art or calling 
 
 Wherein men work'd in peace, but at his touch 
 
 Spreads the indefinite sorrow. In the field 
 
 Halting the team of early husbandman, 
 
 He chides him for the German weeds that choke 
 
 The Roman crop of glory ; bids him seek 
 
 The plough of Cincinnatus, and bring forth 
 
 Into the sunshine of the age, that soil, 
 
 That old heroic soil whence patriots spring ! 
 
 Hard by the wondering swain, sequester'd close 
 
 By summer elms and vines, the village forge 
 
 From cheerful anvil all the long day ringi 
 
 The chimes of labour. Thence at winter night 
 
 Shines to the distant villager the star 
 
 Of home ; to which the homeless wayfarer, 
 
 Trudging with fainting steps the storm-vex' d moor, 
 
 Turns hopeless eyes, as to the vestal fire 
 
62 THE EOMAN. 
 
 Of sweet impossible peace. Thereby the priest 
 
 Pausing, the sturdy smith suspends his stroke 
 
 Before the reverend stranger ; who accepts 
 
 The homage with such liquidating grace 
 
 That the stunn'd peasant, unabsolved of duty, 
 
 Benews obeisance. Then the pale intruder 
 
 Striding some stool, with hand upon the bellows, 
 
 Moves the slack fire, and bids the work go on : 
 
 Cursing the slave who stoops for prince or priest 
 
 The dignity of toil. To the rough music 
 
 Setting strong words, he sends with easy skill 
 
 Wrongs, hopes, and duties trooping through the aoul 
 
 Of the stout smith, and there on his own smithy 
 
 Blows the rough iron of his heart red-hot. 
 
 Seizing the magic time, with sudden hand 
 
 He stamps him to the quick ; — " Patriot ! the hour 
 
 Is come to beat our ploughshares into swords, 
 
 Our pruning hooks to spears ! " The brand driven home, 
 
 The apostle vanishes, lest weaker words 
 
 Efface the sign. 
 
 A Student. Lelio ! dost thou remember — 
 
 Lelio. I know thy thought, — the shopman of the» 
 vale — 
 
 Student. Nay, Lelio — 
 
 Lelio. Now I have it — the stout Tuscan 
 
 With wain o'erloaded — 
 
 Student. Not he — 
 
 Lelio. Ah ! the maid 
 
 Who sang in German — 
 
 Student. No — 
 
THE ROMAN. 63 
 
 Lelio. Stay ! she who wore 
 
 The cameo victory — . 
 
 Student. Now hear me, Lelio. 
 
 When he saw — 
 
 Lelio. What ! when meeting country boys 
 
 With laurel and. acanthus — 
 
 Student. No ! the saints ! 
 
 LeUo. True, true, the tale of the parch'd field beside 
 The aqueduct — 
 
 Student. Wrong ! Holy Mary ! 
 
 Lelio. Well— 
 
 Student. Peace, I say, Lelio ! 
 
 Lelio. Sometime hence, dear friend ; 
 
 I am not weary. 'Twas of the round tower 
 Of Vesta, whence the epicurean Time, 
 Fresh from the feasts of Rome, took but the heart, 
 And all is there but the celestial flame 
 That consecrated all — 
 
 Student. Have thine own way, 
 
 But were I Lelio — 
 
 Lelio. Tut, I know thy story. 
 
 'Twas of the eve when, meeting by the way 
 An ancient pedagogue, whose thin, time-worn, 
 And reverend features (whereabout grey locks 
 Hung lank as weeds), great names went in and out, 
 Mournfully populous, like olden heroes 
 Haunting some Roman ruin ; our fierce patriot; — 
 Say I not well 1 
 
 Student. Hast thou in truth forgotten 
 
 The village priest 1 
 
64 . THE EOMAN. 
 
 Lelio. The priest ? our priest says little 
 
 To alb and stole — whether from shrewd self-knowledge, 
 Or feeling that all tyrants are familiars, 
 And that those proud praetorians who subverted 
 The commonwealth of God would lord it over 
 An earthly heritage — therefore, good comrade, 
 Owe us thy tale. 
 
 Student. One day — 
 
 Lelio. One moment first, 
 
 (" One day" can spare it). I shall ne'er forget, 
 When falling in upon a lone wild road 
 With a fat monk, our patriot, for sheer lack 
 Of occupation, challenges a war 
 Of words. Good saints ! a firework by a fountain ! 
 A schoolboy's freak played out with cannon balls 
 And rotten apples ! As our Santo's lightnings 
 Through the thick haze of t' other's sanctity 
 Singed brow and beard, heavens ! how the reverend eyes 
 (Wrestling with, wrinkles and siesta-time) 
 Did struggle to a stare. And the good man, 
 Heaving his flesh, buzzed like a portly fly 
 In thundery weather ; our relentless Santo 
 At parting gives him for to-morrow's text 
 The whip of knotted cords that cleansed the temple. 
 " Preach, priest," he cries, " that from these sacred bounds, 
 This outraged temple Italy, each Roman 
 Scourge those that sell the sacrilegious doves' 
 Of perjured peace. O'erturn, o'erturn," he cries, 
 " The tables of those German money-changers, 
 That make this house of prayer a den of thieves." 
 
THE KOMAJNT. 65 
 
 Assaulting thus with rude declaim those ears 
 Dull with the gentle lowings of fat kine 
 And soft excitements of refectory-bell, 
 Our Santo leaves him, ere the saint disturb' d, 
 In doubt of man or demon, could revolve 
 Upon his axis. 
 All. Ah, ah ! Well done, Lelio ! 
 
 Lelio. Our friar on this — 
 
 One. Why the saints smite thee, Lelio! 
 
 Now, Lelio ! — Eh 1 nay, Sirs, as I'm alive 
 This was my story ! 
 
 Another. Give thee joy of it, 
 
 Old Giacco, 'twas a sorry tale, now mine — 
 
 Lelio. Friends ! we grow solemn. Wine, I say. A song, 
 A song. 
 
 One. Ay, something loyal — 
 Lelio. Worthy friends, 
 
 We should do well to purify the air 
 Whereof these tales were made ; forced by our lips 
 Into unwilling treason. 
 
 One. Lelio 1 
 
 Another. Shame ! 
 
 Lelio. Therefore, my merry boys, I vote a ditty, 
 A well-affected ditty — nay, some say 
 'Twas writ by Metternich and Del Caretto, 
 At Schcenbrun after dinner. Nay, no groans ! 
 Sweet friends, no groans ! Nay, hear me, friends. 
 Shouts from many. Down with him ! 
 
 Lelio. No Carbonaro — 
 Many. Down with him ! 
 
66 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Lelio. I call it 
 
 The triple crown, or the three jolly kings, 
 The Devil— 
 
 Some. Hear! 
 
 Some. Hurrah ! 
 
 Lelio. The Devil— 
 
 All. Hurrah ! 
 
 Lelio. The Pope and the Kaiser. 
 
 All. Hurrah ! Lelio ! Lelio ! 
 
 True to the backbone still ! Up with him, boys ! 
 Chair him ! a hall ! a hall ! now, Lelio, now ! 
 Shout cheerly, man — here's thunder for a chorus ! 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 A Plain. A Cottage. 
 
 The Monk (Vittoeio Santo). Two Children (a Boy and 
 Girl). Their Father and Mother (both young) sit at the 
 cottage door. The Monk draws near. 
 
 The Monk (aside). This is the spot. From hence my eye 
 unseen 
 Commands their cottage. Hither have I fared 
 Five times at this same hour, and five times learn'd 
 To love my nature better. Here I stood, 
 And felt, when passing gales in snatches bore me 
 Their evening talk, as if some wayward child 
 
THE EOMAN. 67l 
 
 Had pelted me with flowers. She is a poet, 
 Or in or out of metre. Rome must have her. 
 A mother too, 'tis well; then there is one thing 
 The poet will serve. Ah ! art thou forth to-day, 
 Thou little tyrant, that shalt rule for me ? 
 My faith ! a lovely hoy ! holy St. Mary ! 
 Hark how he carols out his royalty, 
 And, horn a sovereign, rules and knows it not. 
 The father must he mine too ; he hath bone 
 And sinew, and — if the eye's gauge deceive not — 
 A soul as brawny. Heavy deeds demand 
 Such carriers. I will win or lose this night. 
 Let me draw near. 
 
 [The Children are sporting. The Girl hides among 
 myrtles, and sings. 
 
 Girl. Whither wingest thou, wingest thou, winny wind ; 
 Where, winny wind, where, oh where? 
 
 Boy {singing). My sister, my sister, I flit forth to find ; 
 My sister, my sister, the orange-flow'r fair ! 
 
 Girl. Since thy songs thy soft sister seek, 
 What wouldst with her 1 say, oh say. 
 
 Boy. Oh, to pat her pearl-white cheek, 
 And court her with kisses all day ! 
 
 [The Child bursts from her hiding place, and the Children 
 chase each other over the plain. 
 
 The Mother. Husband ! the music in my soul would chord 
 Most sweetly with thy voice. Take down thy lute. 
 
 The Father. Nay, Lila ; bid me not do violence 
 To this calm sunset. List that golden laughter, 
 Hark to our children ! There is music like 
 
68 THE ROMAN. 
 
 The hour. From_each to each the heart can pass, 
 And know no change. 
 
 The Mother. Sing me a song about them, 
 
 Kind husband. Sing that song I made for thee, 
 When once, on a sweet eve like this, we watch'd 
 As now our joyous babes — I blessing them, 
 Thou marvelling, with show of merry jest, 
 How they could be so fair. 
 
 The Father. Even as thou wilt, 
 
 Dear Lila. If the spirit of these moments 
 Deem my voice sacrilege, let him forgive 
 The singer for the poet. [He sings 
 
 Oh, Lila ! round our early love, 
 What voices went — in days of old ! 
 Some sleep, and some are heard above, 
 And some are here — but changed and cold ! 
 
 What lights they were that lit the eyes 
 That never may again be bright ! 
 Some shine where stars are dim ; and some 
 Have gone like meteors down the night. 
 
 I marvell'd not to see them beam, 
 Or hear their music round our way; 
 A part of life they used to seem, 
 But these — oh whence are they 1 
 
 Ear hath not heard the tones they bring, 
 
 Lip hath not named their name, 
 
 Like primroses around the spring, 
 
 Each after each they came. / 
 
THE ROMAN. 69 
 
 I should not wonder, love, to see 
 In dreams of elder day, 
 The forms of things that used to be, 
 But these — oh whence are they? 
 
 Dost thou remember when the days 
 Were all too short for love and me, 
 And we roam'd forth at eve in rays 
 Of mingled light from heaven and thee? 
 
 One gentle sign so often beam'd 
 Upon us with such favouring eyes, 
 That every vow we plighted seem'd ' 
 A secret holden with the skies. 
 
 Now sometimes, in strange phantasy, 
 I think, if stars could leave their sphere, 
 And won by the dear love of thee, 
 Eenew the constellation here, 
 
 And shine here with the tender light 
 That glinted through the olden trees, 
 They would come silently and bright, 
 And one by one, like these. 
 
 How can a joy so pure and free 
 Have sprung from tears and cares? 
 I have no beauty — and for thee, 
 Thou hast no mirth like theirs. 
 
70 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Yet with strange right each takes his rest 
 Even when he will, on thy fair breast, 
 
 Nor doubts nor fears nor prays. 
 The daisy smiling on the lea 
 Comes not with kindlier trust to be 
 
 Beloved of April days. 
 
 I look into their laughing eyes, 
 They cannot have more light than thine — 
 But treasured by ten thousand ties, 
 Mine own I know thee, Lila mine. 
 
 Wistful I gaze on them and say, — 
 Fond, checking with a doubtful sigh 
 The pride that swells, I know not why — 
 These, these, oh whence are they? 
 
 [The Monk draws near. 
 The Father. Lila! the same pale priest we saw last eve! 
 The Mother. Good husband, bid him here. The dust of 
 travel 
 Tells that his way was weary. Holy Sir, 
 Will't please you sit with us? The herds are milk'd. 
 Our bread is brown, but honest. 
 
 The Monk. Do not ask me. 
 
 Are you not happy? 
 
 The Wife. Happy! reverend father? 
 
 We thank God, and say yes. This day five years 
 One whom I saw for the first time, through tears, 
 Came with the flowers. When they began to fade 
 How my heart sicken'd ! But God call'd him not 
 
THE ROMAN. 71 
 
 With them. And though the snows of winter came 
 He stayed, and held enough of summer with him 
 To fill my house. Should I not be most happy? 
 Look on my boy, my merry one ! Good father, 
 Which of the angels do they miss in heaven? - 
 Ofttimes at mass I press him close, and tremble 
 To the sweet voices, lest at " in excelsis" 
 He should remember, and go back. 
 
 The Monk. Oh mother, 
 
 That art, and art not, kind ! 'Tis a brave boy. 
 
 The Mother. And then he is so gentle and so fond, 
 And prattles to me sometimes in strange wisdom, \ 
 And asks of me in such sweet ignorance, 
 That teaching him I weep ; oft, oft, for joy, 
 But oft for very grief, that each task leaves 
 One tiny question less. 
 
 The Monk. 'Tis a sweet child. 
 
 The Father. Sir Priest, thou knowest well how poor an image 
 A mother's love will idolize ; but this 
 Dear boy hath put a woman's heart in me, 
 He is so good, so dutiful — 
 
 The Mother. And yet 
 
 When he kneels by me at his innocent prayer, 
 Oft I look down and feel that I have need 
 To learn of him. 
 
 The Monk. Let me bless him. 
 The Father. My son, 
 
 The priest would bless thee on thy birth-day; boy, 
 Come bend thee at his knee. 
 
 The Monk. Thou little child, 
 
72 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope — thou bright, 
 Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their gladness — 
 Thou little potentate of love, who comest 
 With solemn sweet dominion to the old, 
 Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged 
 With the grave embassage of that dear past, 
 When they were young like thee — thou vindication 
 Of God — thou living witness against all men 
 ' Who have been babes — thou everlasting promise 
 Which no man keeps — thou portrait of our nature, 
 Which in despair and pride we scorn and worship — 
 Thou household-god, whom no iconoclast 
 Hath broken, — if I knew a parent's joys, 
 If I were proud and full of great ambitions, 
 Had haughty limbs that chafed at ill-borne chains, 
 If I had known a tyrant's scorn and felt 
 That vengeance though bequeathed is still revenge, 
 I would pray God to give me such a son ! 
 Therefore, thou little one, mayst thou sleep well 
 This night : and, for thy waking, may it be 
 Where there are neither kings nor slaves. Of all 
 Thy playmates, mayst thou be the first to die — 
 
 The Mother shrieks. Ah! holy father! 
 
 The Monk. Smitten in the bud 
 
 Mayst thou fade on the stalk that had no thorns 
 To save thee from the spoiler — mayst thou — 
 
 The Mother. Mercy ! 
 
 The Father. Fiend ! murderer ! 
 
 Tlie Monk. Did you not bid me bless him? 
 
 The Mother. My boy ! my happy one ! my bright-eyed babe 
 
THE ROMAN. 73 
 
 The Father. Thou hooded demon! thou hell-priest ! 
 
 The Monk. ' Be patient. 
 
 I will take off the blessing; but hear me, 
 And you shall bid me pray for it again. 
 
 The Mother. Blessing? Tis blessing to behold him smile 
 With his bright, innocent, unconscious eyes, 
 Which thou wouldst close for ever ! 
 
 The Monk Is that blessing? 
 
 Too happy mother ! how thou lov'st to weep ! 
 Come hither, child. Nay, daughter, tremble not ! 
 He is a Roman, and can fear no man — 
 A child, and dreads not death. 
 
 'Tis the purblind 
 Dim sense of after years that makes our monsters. 
 The earth hath none to children and to angels. 
 Eyes weak with vigil, sear'd with scalding tears, 
 Betray us, and we start at death and phantoms 
 Because they are pale. And the still-groping heart 
 Incredulous by over much believing — 
 Walking by sight dreads the unknown, and clings 
 Even to familiar sorrow, and loves more 
 The seen earth than the unseen God. 
 
 Ay, bright one, 
 Climb near the lips that speak pf death. The word 
 Falls on the sunshine of thy face and casts 
 No shadow. Thou dost play among the flowers 
 Morning and even, and the selfsame wind 
 Fosters'and scatters them. Why shouldst thou fear? 
 Twine thy young arms, thou little budding vine, 
 Round the old barren oak; 'tis sweet to love thee, 
 
74 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Too sweet. I look upon thy brow of promise, 
 
 And see it in the future like some cloud 
 
 Uprising from the distant hills, that seemeth 
 
 To bear up heaven. This may do more. Contain it. 
 
 Contain it and the things which heaven and earth 
 
 Cannot contain. In thine unsullied eyes, 
 
 Not made for tears; in thy bright looks, sweet boy, 
 
 Wherein the blush yet sleeps which sights of shame 
 
 Shall call there, till the weary veins refuse 
 
 Their office, and endurance sends the blood 
 
 Back from the blanch'd cheeks to the terrible heart 
 
 To heave and madden there — (let tyrants tremble 
 
 Who rule pale slaves) — yes, in thy brave proud mien, 
 
 Thou baby hero, that art born in vain, 
 
 I see why Roman mothers wept for glory 
 
 And we for shame. I see the ancient beauty 
 
 Sport on the plain where Brutus watch'd his children, 
 
 And give them no supremacy. I see 
 
 Iulils* self. Cornelia would have own'd 
 
 These jewels. Regulus saw nothing fairer 
 
 When from the sands of Carthage his great thought 
 
 Walk'd by the streams of his Italian hills, 
 
 And by the well-known grove beheld his children 
 
 Play round the homeside myrtles, where their mother 
 
 Sat and look'd eastward ! Wherein art thou less 
 
 Than Roman? Oh thou hapless flower, that canst not 
 
 Fruit in this frozen land, how shall I bless thee? 
 
 Art thou not noble, gentle, beautiful ? 
 
 Hast thou one aspiration to climb aught 
 
 Beside thy mother's knee? Do they not love thee, 
 
THE ROMAN. 75 
 
 Believe thee, trust thee, hope in thee, adore thee? 
 
 Dost thou not take their cares from morn till eve, 
 
 And in the radiant alchemy of thine eyes 
 
 Transmute them into joys? Euns not their fate 
 
 In that inherited blood that warms thy cheek? 
 
 Were they not things like thee, and are they not 
 
 Tliem&elves? and do they murmur? What though, fair one, 
 
 Angels might envy — if they were not angels — 
 
 The stature that the fresh bright air of freedom 
 
 Should fan thee to? It passes the court fashion, 
 
 Breaks footstep in the Austrian ranks, and fits 
 
 No cell in Spielberg. It might even betide 
 
 That Eoman arms work'd ill in chains ; a voice 
 
 Like that which cheer'd the legions, might be guilty 
 
 Of old ancestral words which would sound strange 
 
 In German ears. Nay, there was once a Boman — 
 
 I saw him, and felt nobler ! he was like thee ! 
 
 Like thee as star to star ! If you be parents, 
 
 Fall down and pray that he may die ! 
 
 The Mother. Good padre, 
 
 Pity us. 
 
 The Father. Priest! 
 
 The Mother. Be silent, he is moved, 
 
 Perchance he was a father. 
 
 \A long pause, the Monk covers his head with his mantle. 
 
 The Monk (looking up). Evening comes 
 Apace. The tired ox slackens in the furrow. 
 The shade that on your threshold paused but now, 
 Hath climb'd the vine where from the eaves the swallow 
 Sings early vespers. My full heart prescient 
 
76 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Heaves to the falling hour. Children, kneel down, 
 
 Let holy words spread evening in your souls, 
 
 Lest they be timeless when the far bell rings 
 
 Ave Maria. - {They kneel. The Monh reads. 
 
 The Monh. And I heard a voice, 
 A voice from heaven, which said unto me, " Write, 
 Blessed are the dead." [He pauses. 
 
 Bise up ! I had forgotten ! 
 Forgive me ! 
 
 The Mother. Beverend father ! 
 
 The Father. Friend, what say'st thou 1 
 
 The Monh. That if thou wert what that proud man should be 
 Who calls this child " my son,'' this land " my country," 
 Thou hadst cried out " Amen ! " 
 
 The Father. Sir Priest, so please you 
 
 To speak in riddles — read them. 
 
 The Monh. I will read them. 
 
 And mine enigma shall be such grim pastime 
 As fiends might play at. 
 
 Pity me, this anger 
 Wrongs you. I do forget that you are yet 
 But a few moments oif from happiness, 
 And that the music of her shores is singing 
 Still in your ears. We dwellers in the dark 
 Forget the weakness of your daylight eyes. 
 I should remember that the twilight stands 
 'Twixt night and day. My fierce and tropical fancy, 
 Hot with swift pulses, saw the sun go down, 
 And look'd up for the stars. I had a brother — 
 I had ? Oh heaven ! there is no Lazarus 
 
THE ROMAN. 77 
 
 So poor as Dives fallen ! You -whose portion 
 
 In the abounding present is unspent — 
 
 You with whose friendships and familiar joys 
 
 Earth is still populous — you who have not 
 
 Learn'd yet, when stranger lips descant of love, 
 
 Unconsciously to look upon the turf — 
 
 You who are pnly of this upper world, 
 
 You know not what it costs to say " I had." 
 
 But there shall come a time when ye shall sit 
 
 Safe in this cabin, yet shall feel the rain 
 
 Falling upon you, though your limbs be dry, 
 
 And your hearth warm. And then you shall forgive me, 
 
 And feel that I have something to forgive ! 
 
 Then you shall know how sickly and distract 
 
 Thoughts grow, that pass their days beneath the sod, 
 
 And sit whole nights by graves. 
 
 I had a brother, 
 We were twin shoots from one dead stem. He grew 
 Nearer the sun, and ripen'd into beauty ; 
 And I within the shadow of my thoughts, 
 Pined at his side and loved him. He was brave, 
 Gallant and free. I was the silent slave 
 Of fancies ; neither laugh'd, nor fought, nor play'd, 
 And loved not morn nor eve for very trembling 
 At their long wandering shades. In childhood's sports 
 He won for me, and I look'd on aloof; 
 And when perchance I heard him call'd my brother, 
 Was proud and happy. So we grew together, 
 Within our dwelling by the desert plain, 
 - Where the roe leap'd, 
 
78 THE ROMAN. 
 
 And from his icy hills the frequent wolf 
 Grave chivalry to slaughter. Here and there 
 Rude heaps, that had been cities, clad/the ground 
 With history. And far and near, where grass 
 Was greenest and the unconscious goat browsed free, 
 The teeming soil was sown with desolations, 
 f As though Time — striding o'er the field he reap'd — 
 Warm'd with the spoil, rich droppings for the gleaners 
 j Threw round his harvest way. Frieze, pedestal, 
 Pillars that bore through years the weight of glory, 
 And take their rest. Tombs, arches, monuments, 
 Vainly set up to save a name, as though 
 The eternal served the perishable ; urns, 
 Which winds had emptied of their dust, but left 
 Full of their immortality. In shrouds 
 Of reverent leaves, rich works of wondrous beauty 
 Lay sleeping — like the children in the wood — 
 Fairer than they. Columns like fallen giants, 
 The victor on the vanquish'd, stretch'd so stern \ 
 In death, that not a flower might dare to do ' 
 
 Their obsequies. And some from sweet Ionia, 
 With those Ionia bore to Roman skies 
 Lay mingled, like a goddess and her mother, 
 Who wear, with difference, the co-equal brightness 
 Of fadeless youth. The plain thus strew'd with ages 
 Flower'd in the sunshine of to-day, and bore me 
 The Present and the Past. But there were some 
 Proud changeless stones that stood up in the sun, 
 And with their shadowy finger on the plain 
 Drew the same mystic circle day by day, 
 
THE ROMAN. 79 
 
 And these I worshipp'd. Honouring them, because 
 It needs must be they knew the sense that sign 
 Bore in the language of Eternity ; 
 And fearing them for that dark hand which ever — 
 When I drew near their awful face at noon, 
 And, spent with wondering, sank down unconscious, 
 And slept upon the turf — came back at even 
 And cast me shuddering out. 
 
 So days wore on, 
 And childhood. And the shade of all these ruins 
 Fell on my soul. And he, my pride, grew up, 
 With, and without me. And we were such brothers 
 As day and night. We me t at morn and eve. 
 Each sun uprose to find us hand in hand, 
 And see a tender parting. Each first star 
 Led back the shades and us. He flush'd with conquest, 
 Eich in the well slain antelope, and all 
 That feathery wage youth loves to take for labour ; 
 I laden with_nej£_thoughts. Pale, travel-worn, 
 Sp'ent with fierce exercise and faint with toil, 
 I, who — theshjpherd of thejolain would tell you — 
 Since sunbreak upon one same broken column 
 Sat like a Caryatid. So youth was mine, 
 And seasons crown'd it manhood. 
 
 Manhood came, 
 And with it those fierce instincts of strange combat, 
 That hurtle in the heart wh en th e newjpowers, 
 Like eager vassals on Ascension-day, 
 Crowd round the throned will. Childhood and youth 
 May own unwritten law, and kiss the rod 
 
80 THE KOMAN. 
 
 That strikes, but parleys not. But man must be 
 
 A subject, not a slave. And manhood stood 
 
 Before the shadows that had awed the child, 
 
 And bade them answer. And they spoke. My heart 
 
 Stood up. A thousand senses ran to arms, 
 
 To guard the revelation ; but it came not. 
 
 Like a mask'd guest, the voice went through my soul, 
 
 And wandering there long days and nights, made all 
 
 My hours alarums. So the phantom knight, 
 
 In awful legend of the old Romaunt, 
 
 By a proud castle winds his ghostly horn, 
 
 And blows his challenge in at every gate, 
 
 And through the chafed halls stalks the unearthly sound, 
 
 And fills with strange ubiquitous defiance 
 
 Turret and dungeon, battlement and keep, 
 
 Which groan back answering War. While at the blast 
 
 Grim sudden furies fill the martial place, 
 
 Helm rings with hauberk, scutcheon'd gonfalons 
 
 Wave in no wind. Shields rattle. Chargers neigh 
 
 To unblown clarions. Weapons clash unhid 
 
 On the vex'd walls, and men, with swords half-drawn, 
 
 Start up and stare into the troublous air. 
 
 Not otherwise the voice disturb'd my soul, 
 
 Till spectral nights and strange unnatural days 
 
 Beckon'd their neighbour, Death. I felt him chill 
 
 The sunshine round me. But I only look'd 
 
 More fondly for my brother. 
 
 When day went, 
 And we met by the well-known spot at even, 
 And by the kindred moon, he saw the pale 
 
THE ROMAN. 81 
 
 Faint life that lean'd upon his stalwart beauty, 
 I was a dearer burden than the spoils 
 Of his best hunting field. With tender pain 
 He led me forth at sunrise, and came back 
 Before the dews. And, with moist eyes, I mark'd 
 Daily he brought home less and less at even, 
 With forethought of the day's sad robbery, 
 Keeping in fond economy more strength 
 To lend mine indigence. And thus I measur'd 
 My life's receding tide. 'Twas beautiful 
 To see, as each wave^ebb'd from earth, the sands, 
 Purple with flowers from heaven. He gave me cares, 
 I paid him from t he alms the hills, and vales, 
 Plains, ruins, waters, fields, and skies had thrown me 
 Through my long hours of waiting. I beheld him — 
 And so you shall behold your child one day — 
 Sublime as if a god of old had stepp'd 
 'Warm from his marble pedestal. I gave him 
 Nectar for gods. I saw his eyes light up, 
 And into his heroic hand I put 
 
 The weapon of my thoughts. And he smote with it — 
 Look to your boy, he will smite so — he smote 
 And struck such flashes from a despot's helm 
 As might set thrones on fire. And some who winced 
 Complain' d. When the lamb bleats in the Abruzzi, 
 The wolf is silent — 'tis the tyrant's music ; 
 But let one miscreant yelper howl, and mark 
 How all the pack gives tongue. An outraged people 
 Cries out for ages, and the sacred sound 
 Broods o'er our land, and finds no wind to bear 
 
 6 
 
82 THE ROMAN. 
 
 The thankless burden hence. A tyrant yells, — 
 
 Though but the very meanest starveling hound, 
 
 The most distemper'd cur that feeds upon 
 
 The garbage thrown from palaces — no matter — 
 
 A thousand echoes tell it in Vienna, 
 
 And fill the air with German. Oh my brother, 
 
 Would I had been content to be thy debtor, 
 
 Nor paid thee in a coin that bore the stamp 
 
 Of freedom in a captive land ! They seized him, 
 
 They seized ! Who seized 1 Some Roman lictor — one 
 
 Beneath whose reverend hand it would be glory 
 
 To think that heroes suffer'd so, and counted 
 
 The touch no shame? Goths, whose barbarian sires 
 
 Made holiday for ours. Vandals and Huns, 
 
 The cubs of dams more savage than our mothers 
 
 Deign'd to enslave ; all that rank Northern growth, 
 
 By whose rude hands the might of bones and thews 
 
 Bearded our conscript fathers in the forum, 
 
 And beards their children here, — who sit like them, 
 
 Silent, but not like them sublime. Camillus ! 
 
 What ! can we lounge upon our curule chairs, 
 
 And play the Roman only in endurance ? 
 
 Earth ! what hast thou of vigour less than Greece, 
 
 That in that genial soil the serpent's teeth 
 
 Sprang up arm'd men ; — and here we have sown heroes 
 
 And reap — grass 1 Yes. He fell. Behold your son : 
 
 Picture him nobler than the noblest vision 
 
 Of thy day-dreams, poor mother ! See, the bloodhounds 
 
 Have track'd him to your cot. A faded face 
 
 Lies with dark uprais'd eyes of love before 
 
THE ROMAN! 83 
 
 t 
 The fond heroic brother. Heavenly calm 
 Warders the room, and of the sweet emotions 
 Of the rejoicing world without, lets in 
 Only the silent sunshine. The door bursts ! 
 A shriek ! a shout ! they seize him ! The pale form 
 Springs at the first and falls. Now see your hero 
 Like an inspired colossus striding o'er him. 
 With either hand he hurls a savage hence, 
 Foots each bare neck, with twice another twain 
 Acquaints the sounding walls. Falls by some blow 
 From unseen hand. Sinks by the yelling weight 
 Of crowds. A moment more, and like dead game 
 Slung by some trooper's side, mother, he greets thee, 
 And leaves thee baptized in his sprinkled gore, 
 To faiths kings dream not of. Oh brother, brother, 
 Oh memory ! that canst bring me back such woes 
 And break not ! Thus they tore him from me. Ah, 
 Poor tender child, why doth thy baby heart 
 Look up through saddening eyes ? What ! little one, 
 And canst thou read the future ? Dost thou know 
 That he was like thee ? Ay, poor mother, clasp him, 
 Clasp him while yet thou may'st ! Secure as thou 
 That morn I clasp'd my brother ! Dost thou ask 
 What tidings fell upon the failing ear 
 Of him who in the cottage by the plain 
 Lay weeping ? Be it as thou wilt, poor mother, 
 It concerns thee ; — what if of all thy tears — 
 Thy fated tears — a few are shed too soon ? 
 For me I am a rock which, long years hence, 
 The storms stripp'd rudely, and with my few flowers 
 
84 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Took all that nursed them, and to after tempests 
 Left but the eold bare stone. In earth or heaven 
 I have no more to fear. But for thee, mother 
 I will read out this story, and perchance 
 Teach thee to strike the fire that yet may burn 
 The page ere it be thine. 
 
 The Mother. Oh that thou wouldst ! 
 
 The Monk. Not of the dungeons, those dark catacombs 
 Where our oppressors heap'd their sins for ages, 
 Wrong after wrong, till the o'er-surfeited rock 
 At the great day of reckoning' shall belch up 
 A thousand years to cry for vengeance. No, 
 Those Roman limbs were purchased far too dearly 
 To rot in Spielberg. He was tall of stature, 
 And fair to look upon. So shall your son 
 Be tall and fair. It pleasured some small tyrant 
 To see such goodly slaves. The shameful trappings 
 Of a detested loyalty, the fillets 
 That deck the sacrifice, the fearful gewgaws 
 Thajt ratify the compact, when the body 
 Serves what the soul abhors, and with the bribe 
 Tricks out the whoredom, these worse chains replaced 
 The felon's fetters, and the outraged Roman 
 Rose up an Austrian soldier ! The plot thickens — 
 The shadow of the end is on my soul — 
 Count tears for words — nay, you are parents — I . 
 Was but a brother — wherefore should I speak ? 
 Poor mother ! in this Jordan I have need 
 To be baptized of you. My soul is wise 
 In grief. Yet a few years and you shall smile — 
 
THE ROMAN. 85 
 
 If you can smile — to think I taught ye. Tell me, 
 
 What would your gallant boy, if tyrants bade him 
 
 Shed Eoman blood like rain 1 Look on your Eoman ! 
 
 Mine was no less ! — Was — Oh my heart ! He hurl'd — 
 
 His proud looks prouder than his words of pride, — 
 
 With desperate hand the execrated sword 
 
 Flagrant before the despot and defied him ! 
 
 Kent from his breast the gilt dishonour, spurnd it 
 
 Into Italian dust. Erect, defiant, 
 
 Before the host cried Freedom ! and was doom'd, 
 
 Doom'd to a coward's death. They led him forth, 
 
 They led him forth a pace upon the Lea, 
 
 Scourged, buffeted, reviled, and only asking 
 
 To die unbound, with his unconquer'd face 
 
 Turn'd to the south and home. And they denied him. 
 
 By a rude trench where fresh-turn'd earth lay dark, 
 
 He stood a passing moment, and since then 
 
 I say " I had a brother." 
 
 If I weep 
 To see your child, forgive me, and remember 
 When I drew near his sport this eve, and you 
 Look'd on with smiles, and I with sighs, you marvell'd. 
 Why marvel, when we saw not the same scene 1 
 Before you lay the happy evening world, 
 O'er-joyous in the promise of more joy, 
 And there he sported like a merry voice 
 Singing of morrows. Mine eyes sought the same 
 Point of the compass, but for me the shades 
 In my dark soul went forth to meet the night, 
 The night that look'd from grove and thicket, calling 
 
86 THE ROMAN. 
 
 By missionary winds and twilight birds 
 All earth to that meek face wherein she payeth 
 Her duties to the moon. He sported, too, 
 In my world, and 'twas sweet to look on him. 
 But to my eyes, in ambient atmospheres 
 Of tints and hues that brighten'd other days, 
 Floated round smiling — like a choir of angels 
 About a cherub — that old dreamy past. 
 In which he plays my brother. Near his feet 
 There was a long sad mound, and by the mound 
 Dark drops of blood. And when he prattled out 
 His childish joy, my heart heard distant muskets, 
 And to my ear the heavy earth fell dead 
 Into a coffinless grave. 
 
 [The vesper bell sounds from the distant convent. 
 Ave Maria ! 
 
 The Mother (throwing herself passionately to the ground). Ave 
 Maria ! Happy evermore, 
 Oh Mater Unigeniti — save, save, 
 Oh save my child ! 
 
 The Father. Ave Maria ! Queen 
 
 Of judgment that went forth to victory ! 
 Bemember desolation blights the hills 
 That slew the Crucified ! Mother avenged ! 
 If my first-born must be like thine, grant vengeance 
 Like thine ! 
 
 The Mother. If it must be — 
 
 The Monk. Ave Maria ! say 
 
 It shall not be ! Thou who didst bear salvation ! 
 Oh Virgin ! thou who in thy breast didst carry 
 
THE KOMA.N. 87 
 
 The fate of worlds unfainting — give, give strength 
 To these ! 
 
 The Father and Mother. Oh Mother, pity us ! — 
 
 The Monk. Oh Mother, 
 
 Pity our country ! Mater benedicta ! 
 Thou who three days didst watch a tomb in tears, 
 Pity our vigil of a. thousand years, 
 And hid the dead arise ! 
 
 The Father and Mother. Oh Queen of sighs, 
 Look down on us from thy fair heaven with eyes 
 Softer than evening ! 
 
 The Mother. Mater casta, pia, 
 
 Quondam afflicta — take him to thy skies ! 
 Even what thou wilt for me, but oh, for him 
 Hast thou no place among thy seraphim ? 
 Is he not thine % Thou gavest him. Take, oh take 
 The bright gift back, for a sad mother's sake, 
 Oh Mother ! 
 
 The Monk. Ah? 
 
 The Father. Amen ! 
 
 The Monk. Ave Maria ! [They rise. 
 
 The Father. Priest, hast thou no Amen 1 
 
 The Monk.. Did I not tell you 
 
 That you should crave my blessing, though it. fell 
 Black as a curse 1 
 
 The Mother. Alas ! 
 
 The Monk. Says the priest ill 
 
 Who torays the mother's prayer 1 
 
 The Mother. Be merciful. ! 
 
 The Monk. Nay, be you merciful. I look upon 
 
88 THE ROMAN. 
 
 This gentle boy, and every blushing feature 
 Of his young beauty cries for mercy — 
 
 The Mother. Priest, 
 
 If thou art false in all things as in this, 
 God help thee. I have been a tender mother ! 
 
 The Monk. Thou filiacide ! Why should he die 1 This land, 
 Hath it no place for him 1 This Roman sunshine, 
 Doth it fall strangely on his cheek 1 
 
 These flowers, 
 Twine they not kindly with his hair, and peep 
 With fondness in his brighter face 1 
 
 The Boy. Oh, mother, 
 
 Tell him they love me. 
 
 The Mother. Hush ! my beautiful ; 
 
 What is there loves thee not 1 
 
 The Monk. Why should he die, 
 
 Whom the whole world surrounds, and with chaste voices 
 Woos to sweet life ? You craven hearts I Who slew 
 My brother, and shall slay your son ? TheBe hills 1 
 These woods that frown on you ? The sun and. moon, 
 That look down on their ancient shrines, and smile- 
 That you adore their God 1 Tell me,, what lot 
 Is desperate which the heaven and earth condemn not t 
 Did this land, which bore gods, spend all its strength 
 In the sublime conception, and birth-worn 
 Bring pigmies forth in these last days 1 What, fate 
 Made only Romans mortal ? Is it written 
 That when the oppressor meets the oppress'd, and one 
 Dies, it must be the slave I You Romans ! — stay, 
 I have o'ershot myself. You will betray me. 
 
THE ROMAN. 89 
 
 You have look'd on this child for five long years, 
 Five long fond loving years, and never wish'd 
 To save him — -why should I — 
 
 The Mather. Oh father, save him ! 
 
 Bid me die — on my knees — ■ 
 
 The Father. Peace. Priest, the cloud 
 
 Is silent till it lightens; dost thou take me? 
 
 The Monk. Thou hast a fearless eye. 
 
 The Father. Priest, try my heart ! 
 
 The Monk. Ah, traitor! what? 'tis well. Yes, he for whom 
 That fair boy prattles hath a lifelong preacher 
 No father yet sat under unconverted. 
 We men are calm or hurricane. The heart 
 Fills silently, and at the last wrong bursts. 
 He laughs his merry creed out at all hours, 
 And day and night looks treason. 
 
 The Father. Come the day 
 
 When deeds shall back his looks ! 
 
 The Monk. Well said, brave Eoman ! 
 
 Thy hand ! and we are brothers. Shall we brook 
 To see ,this Italy Our fathers left us 
 Held for an Austrian garden ? 
 
 The Father. Noble priest, 
 
 Some say the garden bears strange fruit ere long, 
 But the old soil is cropr-sore, and craves fatting 
 With German blood. 
 
 The Monk. Ah? 
 
 The Father. Hast thou heard some whispers 
 
 The wind brings from Sardinia? Is it well? 
 
 The Monk. All things are well, but silence and endurance^ 
 
90 THE ROMAN. 
 
 The Father. Bend here ! the very spider on the wall 
 Must not hear this — 
 
 The Monk. (Ay, -what so pitiful, 
 
 So loathsome, but it may connive with kings?) 
 
 The Father. Hark in thine ear. The jolly lords of Naples 
 Florence, Turin, Verona, ay, Modena, 
 And some too near to name, ride bravely, — eh? 
 What if the horse kick? 
 
 The Monk. Ah? 
 
 The Father. This is fair weather; 
 
 Worse grubs have grown to butterflies. How now, 
 If these same Duchies spread their wings Republics? 
 What then, my Carbonaro? Is it well? 
 
 The Monk. 'Tis well. The poorest living face hath grace 
 Beside a death'shead. That fierce king did well 
 Who slew the priests of Baal, hew'd down his groves, 
 And spoil'd his altars. But that king did better 
 Who crown'd Moriah. 'Tis a zealot's faith 
 That blasts the shrines of the false god, but builds 
 No temple to the true. 
 
 The Father. Ay, what is Truth? 
 
 Pilate lacks answer. 
 
 The Monk. The bold man like thee, 
 
 Who lays his life in a strange hand — 
 
 The Father (starting). Ah, Priest ! 
 
 His life — how now? 
 
 The Monk. Jestest, my gentle Roman? 
 
 Wronged men like us, sworn to such deeds as ours, 
 Leave courtly phrases when they speak of treason. 
 Alas, poor Italy! to tell his fortune 
 
THE ROMAN, 91 
 
 To -whom a priest's lips can bring home rebellion, 
 Merits no sorcerer's fee. A truce to trifling. 
 What wasted words are these ! Thou art a father, 
 Have I not said to thee this boy that is 
 To die, may live — what more? 
 
 The Father. No more. Sir Priest, 
 
 Thou takest me ill. There is no wild rebellion 
 So fierce I have not fire enough to light it. 
 If I had rather chosen to be free, 
 Of all men — so. Thou hast my faith, who holdest 
 My halter. 
 
 The Mother. And, by Heaven, thou hast it, Priest, 
 Though we were freer than a thousand winds ! 
 Ay, and our lives a million million times 
 Lived and died over, so thou wilt but save 
 My child. 
 
 The Monk. Have I not said it? Wherefore, friends, 
 Is this unseemly turbulence of passion? 
 Did you not call me to your solemn council? 
 Had I not told you how my brother died? 
 Had you not wept with vision of those pangs, 
 Which in that boy's face yet shall rack your eyes? — 
 
 The Mother. Shall? Oh, my father! Oh, my father ! 
 
 The Monk. Shall. 
 
 He who would conquer kings, himself must be 
 The first king conquer'd. Shall a rebel start 
 To hear rebellion? Shall I have my counsel 
 Cried up and down the earth, like the small will 
 Of vulgar majesty? He who would creep 
 To sleeping game is silent. Will they stand 
 Firm, think you, at the judgment and the scaffold, 
 
92 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Who start beneath the lintel of their homes, 
 And rave at evening chat? No. He must die. 
 
 [The Mother starts up, seizing a knife that lies near. 
 
 The Mother. Priest ! I am but a woman, and a weak one ! 
 I think thee faithful, and in that thought bless thee. 
 I am a wife, a wife, Priest, and a true one ; 
 I think him brave, and in that thought revere him ; 
 But let me doubt ye — only let me doubt ye — 
 And I would wash that hearthstone in your blood, 
 If but the p'oorest spatter on the wall 
 Would save my child! 
 
 The Monk (aside). Then by that chain I lead thee, 
 Wild lioness. 
 
 (Aloud). There heaves a bosom meet 
 To suckle Freedom. Calm thee, Roman mother, 
 That yet shalt smile in Eome. The day may come 
 To strike; till then seal up thine own hot lips, 
 As thou wouldst seal thy foe's. Be true, a hero 
 Shall call thee " mother !" Fail but in thy fealty 
 To the least word of mine, my, heaviest grief 
 Is bliBS beside thy lightest. Peace. This seal 
 Makes the bond perfect. Now to calmer counsel. 4 
 Thou say'st, brave Roman, that our lords ride fiercely, 
 That the steed chafes already — see ! he throws them. 
 Who vaults into the saddle? Every flock 
 Has slain its pigmy swain — salvete greges ! 
 But, patriot, who shall lead the sheep to pasture, 
 And keep the wolf at bay ? 
 
 The Father. Each separate state 
 
 Must crown the sovereign people. 
 
 The Monk. By what name 
 
THE EOMAN. 93 
 
 Will men speak, think ye, of that seven-hill'd city, 
 Within whose catacombs dominion sleeps, 
 And in -whose ruins Time himself walks lightly, 
 Lest she should stir below ? 
 
 The Father. Eome. 
 
 The Monk. And the rest, 
 
 How do you name them ? 
 
 The Father. By the names they found 
 
 Noble enough to strike in ; thus, Milan. 
 
 Tlie Monk And why? Is the sky bluer at Milan 
 Than where we stand? Are the clouds red at noon ? 
 Or by what mystic omen doth the world 
 Call for this christening ? Doth Dame Nature, old, 
 And yearning" to be fruitful in her dotage, 
 Breed names, and call them children ? 
 
 When you dream 
 Of our Italian fatherland, it glitters 
 With half a hecatomb of palaces, 
 Each royal. Your free heart is sad. You frown. 
 Strike off their crowns. Salute them commonweals, 
 And wake up shouting " Glory" ! How now, Koman, 
 If some strong arm stretching from sea to sea 
 Sweep all your pasteboard kickshaws to the ocean, 
 And leave us the broad field of Italy 
 To build up Bomb ? 
 
 Marvel not, gentle friends, 
 Sprung out of yesterday, poor hearts, and growing 
 Like creeping plants, even to the size and fashion 
 Of what ye lean on — marvel not that we 
 Who worship Freedom with one soul, adore her 
 
94 THE KOMAN* 
 
 In different deity. As I have told you, 
 
 Dark fanes and reverend trophies, stones that might 
 
 Be portals to the world ; the fossil limbs 
 
 By which we build the giants of old time ; 
 
 Grey wonders stranger for decay; strange fragments 
 
 Of forms once held divine, and still, like angels, 
 
 Immortal everywhere ; lone hermit columns, 
 
 Whereto the ideal hath no space to add 
 
 The pile they bore ; stern pediments that look'd 
 
 On altars where antipodes burnt incense, 
 
 And the three arms of the great globe piled up 
 
 Their several tribute ; all the sacred shades 
 
 Which the great Past receding from the world 
 
 Casts out of heaven 6n earth ; — these and like these, 
 
 The high, the deep, the eternal, the unbounded, 
 
 Were sponsors to my soul : and if my thought, 
 
 Where your more nice and neoteric fancy 
 
 Labours with townships, deals out continents, 
 
 Think it no marvel. Listen. 
 
 The sunrise 
 Of that dread day which found me brotherless, 
 Saw a pale face on a low bed. Despair. 
 Gave life by taking it. That evening's sun 
 Fell on the empty pallet, and beside it ' 
 An arm'd man, flush'd to wildness. 
 
 Lost, alone, 
 Every sweet structure of my heart in heaps, 
 With the one terrible shock ; mazed, ignorant 
 Of all things but the one which cast them forth, 
 The desolation in my soul cried out, 
 
THE ROMAN. 95 
 
 And rushing to the ruins T fell down, 
 
 The darkest ruin of all. I knelt and wept, 
 
 And was a child before them, with the madness 
 
 Of a man's heart. I fell upon my face. 
 
 Strange sleep possess' d me. Through the hot short night, 
 
 Across the hotter desert of my brain 
 
 My life went past. All seasons new and old, 
 
 All hours of day and night, all thoughts, fears, fancies, 
 
 Born on this spot, met as in after-death 
 
 About me ; and of each my tatter'd heart 
 
 Begg'd healing and found none. At each new face 
 
 I look'd up wild with hope, and look'd down fierce 
 
 With chafed expectance. Then I rose and cursed 
 
 All hope, all thought, all knowledge, all belief, 
 
 And fell down still believing. With each hour 
 
 In my spent soul some lingering faith went out, 
 
 Woes that began in fire had burnt to blackness, 
 
 The very good within me had grown grim, 
 
 The frenzy of my shipwreck'd heart had thrown 
 
 Its last crust overboard — then, then, oh God ! 
 
 Then in the midnight darkness of my passion, 
 
 The veil was rent which hid the holy of holies, 
 
 And I beheld and worshipp'd. Mad despair 
 
 Rung out the desperate challenge — " What art thou, 
 
 Unpitying presence ! which for years beside 
 
 These stones hast stood before me, pass'd me, touch'd me, 
 
 Shook my blind sense, and seal'd my eyes from seeing ? 
 
 Tell me, that I may curse thee !" 
 
 The sun rose. 
 Forth towards me as in awful adjuration 
 
96 THE ItOMAN. 
 
 Each ruin stretch'd appealing shades. There came 
 Soft lightning on my soul, and by a voice 
 Ineffable, and heard not with the ears, 
 " Rome." At that sound a thousand thousand voices 
 Spread it through all things. Each imperial column, 
 Each prone grey stone, touch'd by the eloquent winds, 
 Heard it and gave it back. Trees, woods and fountains 
 In musical oonfusibn, leaves, buds, blossoms — 
 Even to small flowers unseen, with voices smaller 
 Than treble of a fay — atoms of sound 
 Whereof a thousand falling on one ear, 
 The unwitting sense should count them troubled silence- 
 Birds, brooks, and waterfalls, — all tongues of dawn, 
 The very morning hum of summer time, 
 Swell'd the sweet tumult ; early mists that lay 
 Silent on hill-tops, vocal in the sun 
 Roll'd off like waves of voices, the stirr'd air 
 Sung with bright ecstasy. Down came the thunder, 
 Like a vast hull cleaving the sea of sound, 
 That lash'd up louder ; then the hills cried out, 
 And emulous the valleys ; all the earth 
 Shook with the sounding ardour, and methought 
 My flush'd soul, drunk with zeal, leap'd high and shouted, 
 Rome ! With that name, incomprehensible beauty 
 Fill'd the still gratulate air from earth to heaven, 
 And knowing I knew not. Even as one dead 
 I fell. As though that one great sight accomplish'd 
 All consciousness, and the progressive sense 
 Reaching the goal stood still. 
 
 Ere I awoke, 
 
THE ROMAN. 97 
 
 The sun had mounted the proud throne of noon, 
 Eeceived the homage of the world, and stept 
 From his high-place well-pleased. 
 
 Calm, brave, serene! 
 Eefresh'd as from a sleep of ages, weak 
 As a birth- weary mother, but yet strong 
 In cast-out sorrows, I stood up and gazed 
 With long looks of sweet wonder. The fierce craving 
 In my lank hungry soul had ceased. The thirst 
 That burn'd my heart ^vas quench' d. The mystic yearning 
 For something ever near, and ever far, 
 That made my life one dream of wasting fever, 
 Was over. All those indistinot strange voices 
 Wherein, like waters underground, great truths 
 Were heaving in my heart, and lash'd its sides 
 To bursting ; those dim tones wherein, like fragrance 
 From troubled flowers at midnight, unseen balm 
 Went up in my dark soul, all the forerunners, 
 The thousand messengers by which this night 
 Had told me it would come, — all partial knowledge 
 Before the consummation fell away 
 As things that had no office ; wither'd up 
 Like blossom on the fruit. Thus it must be 
 That noble man who deems his nature born 
 As vast as truth, must sweat, and toil, and suffer, 
 And overcome— enduring. When the heart 
 Adds a new planet to its heaven, great portents 
 Clash the celestial. influence ; strange signs 
 Of coming dread, mysterious agencies, 
 And omens inconceivable convulse 
 
 H 
 
98 TEE ROMAN. 
 
 The expectant system, while the stranger sails 
 
 Still out of sight in space. Dim echoings 
 
 Not- of the truth, but witnessing the truth — 
 
 Like the resounding thunder of the rock 
 
 Which the sea passes — rushing, thoughts like heralds, 
 
 Voices which seem to clear the way for greatness, - 
 
 Cry advent in the soul, like the far shoutings 
 
 That say a monarch comes. These must go by, 
 
 And then the man who can out-watch this vigil 
 
 Sees the apocalypse. Oh that first hour 
 
 Within the Eden of a quiet soul ! 
 
 Oh for that bounteous hour, to him whose youth, 
 
 Bred up in grief's sad penury, hath found 
 
 Joy's daily pittance all too poor to lay 
 
 One pleasance by ; oh that Pierian hour 
 
 When first the plenteous life o'erwelling sends 
 
 Its irrigating streams before the face 
 
 Of the young hope, and decks, in frondent distance, 
 
 To-morrow with the verdure of to-day. 
 
 That hour when first the slipping foot grows firm 
 
 Upon some plot of present, and we gaze 
 
 From the sufficient rock with softening eyes 
 
 Across the green sweet pastures of the future, 
 
 And for the first time dare to look on them > 
 
 As heritage. How the exulting thoughts, 
 
 Like children on a holiday, rush forth 
 
 And shout, and call to every humming bee, 
 
 And bless the birds for angels ! Oh that hour ! 
 
 In the reflected sunshine of remembrance 
 
 My heart is melting. Twilight and the dews 
 
THE ROMAN. '99 
 
 Proclaim me parlous. 'Tis a sorry string 
 
 That, being struck, is silent. Farewell Eomans. 
 
 Meet me to-morrow here. This is no mood 
 
 To plan stern deeds. Farewell. Eemember, courage, 
 
 Truth, silence. If you fail in either, look 
 
 Upon your boy. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 A lonely Spot. The turf-grown site of some old Roman. 
 Amphitheatre. 
 
 A meeting of Minstrels. An aged Bard presides. 
 The Monk enters. 
 
 The Monk (to a Minstrefy. Sir, 
 
 I have walk'd far and crave a seat. 
 
 Minstrel (to another). His reverence 
 
 Is weary and would sit. Is it against 
 The statutes of our order 1 
 
 Second Minstrel. Holy Sir, 
 There are good feet that do not walk Parnassus. 
 Behold us here a minstrel convocation, 
 And deem it no irreverence if we say, 
 That in that company of bards a priest 
 Lacks civic rights. 
 
 The Monk. Sir, thou art not yet free 
 
 Of that most holy guild. Thy soul hath yet 
 
100 THE EOMAN. 
 
 To learn the instinctive flight which cleaves the air 
 -Of immortality. I do perceive 
 As yet it wings by sight. The dove that bears 
 The poet's message starts from that pure height 
 Where earthly fashions fade. Let common eyes 
 Eead men in frock and cowl. The creeping thing 
 That harbours in the bark knows not the region 
 Where the fruit hangs. I hoped, Sirs, to find here 
 A nobler estimation. 
 
 Another Minstrel. And thou shalt. 
 Others. Bravo ! Well said. Hear Giulio ! 
 Another. This guitar, 
 
 Its face, Sir Priest, like mine, is brown with age ; 
 Find me the newest dainty from Cremona 
 That dares a bar with it ! 
 
 Another. Or mine, and yet 
 
 'Twas the sole heritage my grandsire left. 
 
 Another. Would we, Sir Priest, exchange these twisted 
 entrails 
 For chords of gold ? 
 
 Another. Faith, I would string my lute 
 
 With hangman's hemp, if it made music. 
 
 Others. Ay, 
 
 And I. And I. And I. 
 
 The President. Sir and good father, 
 
 You see us here a humble company — 
 I speak the language of the world, Sir, nor 
 Affirming nor denying — (the wayfarer 
 Of many lands is not responsible 
 For each vernacular) — Sir, in what stature 
 
THE EOMAN. 101 
 
 We may be seen by the renewing angel 
 Some few years hence I say not, but you see us 
 Being what we are, met to pursue an art 
 Lightly esteem'd, but which to name divine 
 Is not the filial rapture of a son, 
 Since in the change of time it hath not changed; 
 Indigenous to all the earth. A spirit 
 Evoked by many, but a bound familiar 
 To no magician yet. The equal tenant 
 Of loftiest palace and of lowliest cot, 
 Treading the rustic and the royal floor 
 To the same step and time. In every age, 
 With all the reverence that man claims as man, 
 Preaching to clouted clown, and with no more 
 To thrcraM kings. The unrespective friend — 
 In such celestial wise as gods befriend — 
 By turns of haughtiest monarch, humblest swain; 
 And with impartial love and power alike 
 Ennobling prince and peasant. Giving all, 
 Receiving never. What else makes a god? 
 What human art looks so divine on earth? 
 And, as you tell us, seraphs in high heaven 
 Find nothing worthier. Sir, accept me well, 
 Let not these lutes, pipes, harps, and dulcimers, 
 And outward signs of the musician's trade, 
 Mis-teach you of us. Reverend Sir, believe not 
 That — priests of Harmony — our service knows 
 One only of her temples. Sir, we hope 
 One day to serve her where the ears of flesh 
 Cannot inherit ; where material sounds 
 
102 THE ROMAN, 
 
 Enrobe no more her pure divinity* 
 A"ndTwe, imcumber'd by the aids of sense, 
 Shall see, and in the silent universe 
 Adore her. Holy Sir, each minstrel here 
 Is poet also* 
 
 The Monk. Canst thou tell me, friend, 
 What 'tis to be a poet? 
 
 President. Such the theme 
 
 Of this day's contest. 
 
 The Monk. Let me strike a string 
 
 In such a strife. 
 
 President. Kead thou this riddle for us, 
 And, father, this my chair I abdicate, 
 And crown thee king of bards. 
 
 The Monk. Nay, friend, forbear— 
 
 Prithee no kings. I would believe, good brother, 
 All honest here. Have you a kind harp, friends, 
 That for a stranger's sake will do sweet duty 
 In unaccustom'd hands? 
 
 One. Take mine. 
 
 Another. Or mine. 
 
 Another. Or mine. 
 
 Another (aside). Now, Saekcloth ! 
 
 Another (aside). Look to hear ApolL 
 
 Discourse Church music ! 
 
 Another (aside). To the buttery-hatch, 
 
 Ye strolling thrummers. 'Tis alms-giving day, 
 My life the godly almoner is good 
 At broken victuals. How many stale masses, 
 Crusts scriptural and classic bones — 
 
THE KOMAN. 103 
 
 Another. Fie, Henri, 
 
 Thy wanton ditty ! 
 
 Henri. Ingrate! wot I not 
 
 The priest was coming ? 
 
 Another (aside). Hush, clean ears, clean ears, 
 
 A psalm at least ! 
 
 Another. Surely the Song of Songs. 
 
 Henri. Ay, but no Solomon's. 
 
 Others. Friends, friends, friends, 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Tlie Monk sings. The poet bends above his lyre and strikes — 
 No smile, no smile of rapture, on his face ; — 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes, — 
 No fire, no fire of passion, in his eye ; — 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes, 
 No flush, no prophet's flush, upon his cheek ; — 
 Calm as the grand white cloud where thunders sleep, 
 Like a wrapt listener — not in vain to listen — 
 Feeing the winds with every sense to catch 
 Some far sound wandering in the depths of space, 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. 
 
 [Interlude of music. 
 The poet bends above his lyre and strikes. 
 Ah Heaven ! I hear ! Again. Ah Heaven, I hear ! 
 Again : — the vacant eyes are moist with tears ! 
 Again : — they gleam with vision. Bending lower, 
 Crowdmgjujjsouljiponjhe strings. — Again. 
 Hark, hark, thou heart thSt~leapest! Ye thrill'd fibres ! 
 See the triumphant minstrel in the dust, 
 To his own music. Hark ! Angels in heaven 
 
104 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Catch it on golden harps ! Down float their echoes 
 
 Bicher than dews of Paradise. Inspired, 
 
 Tuning each chord to the enchanted key, 
 
 The poet sweeps the strings and wakes, awe-stricken, 
 
 The sounds that neyerjlie. From hill to hill 
 
 They vibrate round the world of time, as deep 
 
 Calleth to deep. [Sere the Monk ceases to sing 
 
 But note like this stirs not 
 The wind of every day. And 'tis the ear 
 To know it, woo it, wait for it, and stand 
 Amid a Babel deaf to other speech, 
 That makes a poet. And from ear like this, 
 That troubling of the air which common men 
 Call harmony, falls unrespected off, 
 As balls from a charm'd life. 
 
 Hear yet again 
 A better parable. The good man hears 
 The voice in which God speaks to men. The poet, 
 In some wrapt moment of intense attendance, 
 The skies being genial and the earthly air 
 Propitious, catches on the inward ear 
 The awful and unutterable meanings 
 Of a divine soliloquy. 
 
 Soul-trembling 
 With incommunicable things, he speaks 
 At infinite distance. So a babe in smiles 
 Bepeats the unknown and unknowable 
 Joys of a smiling mother. 
 
 President. Victor, hail ! 
 
 How say you, friends — a triumph 1 
 
THE ROMAN. 105 
 
 Many. Crown him, crown him f 
 
 The Monk. Good friends, fair brothers, how have I 
 deserved this ? 
 Whose chattels have I seized, whose hearth profaned 
 Whom have I slain, whose daughter have I raviBh'd, 
 That you should cry of crowns ? 
 
 President. Sir, reverend Sir, 
 
 This chair of state is yours. 
 
 All. Ascend, ascend ! 
 
 The Monk. Friends, brother bards, since thus you bid me 
 call you, 
 With a long weary journey must I buy 
 The honours of this moment % When I spent 
 Those labours— all my wealth — they were disbursed, 
 In the shrewd estimate that so much outlay 
 Invested in your wisdom could but yield 
 A goodly increase. Only on such venture 
 Prudence, the soul's stern sacristan, paid down. 
 The perils of this pilgrimage. Which of you, 
 Receiving wherewithal to buy a harp, 
 Shall spend it on a chaplet 1 Which among you, 
 Playing the overture to some mild air 
 Of sweet attendance and humility, 
 Succeeds it with a march 1 My gentle friends, 
 Let me go even as I came, — as much 
 Wiser as you may please — in all things else 
 No wit less humble. Sir, and my good father, 
 Resume the place of honour. These grey hairs 
 And time-taught looks beseem it. I beseech you, 
 Speak more at length. Methinks the chorister years 
 
106 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Must needs chant nobly in such reverend walls. 
 
 For me, I claim the seat of a disciple, 
 
 And if in any wise I have exceU'd, 
 
 And I yet fear, dear friends, you do mistake 
 
 The stature of your courtesy for that 
 
 Of my desert — reward me, ere we part, 
 
 With one more hearing. 
 
 Many shout. Ten ! Agreed. Agreed. 
 
 Agreed. Long live the Monk. Well said ! 
 
 President. Companions, „ 
 
 You have heard the conqueror. While we have forgotten 
 Our wonted duties for this episode, 
 The unoblivious sun hath paused not once ; 
 Our time is far spent, and five harps are still 
 Unstruck. Hath any brother yet unheard 
 Any unbaptized child of voice or lute 
 Born since our last song-feast, whereon he craves 
 Fraternal benediction ? Let each such 
 Stand forth. 
 
 A Minstrel. I have a tale of rural pity, 
 Set in a rustic measure to such music 
 \ As the uncertain winds, and rustling leaves, 
 i And devious sounds of night made round the heads 
 . Of them it sings. A very simple sorrow, 
 To be heard only in the silent hours 
 It sigh'd in. Use it gently, Sirs ; I call it 
 "The Winter's Night." 
 
 President. Acquit thee, brother ! 
 
 All. Hear ! 
 
THE ROMAN. 107 
 
 Minstrel sings. And she stood at its father's gate, 
 At its father's gate she stood, 
 With her baby at her breast ; 
 'Twas about the hour of rest — 
 There were lights •within the place — 
 The old moon began to sink, 
 (Long, like her, upon the wane,) 
 It grew dark ; she drew her hood 
 Close about her pallid face ; 
 At the portal down she sate, 
 Where she will not sit again, 
 " Little one," she slowly said, 
 Bending low her lowly head, 
 " In all this wide world only thee, 
 And my shame, he gave to me. 
 When thou earnest I did think 
 On that other gift of his — 
 Hating that I dreaded this. 
 Thou art fair — but so was he ; 
 'Tis a winning smile of thine, — 
 Ah ! what fatal praise it is ! — 
 One such smile once won all mine. 
 Little one, I not repine, 
 It befits me well to wait 
 My lord's will, till I be dead — 
 Once it was a gentler will ! " 
 
 With that, a night-breeze full chill, 
 Shook some dead leaves from the lime ; 
 At the sad sound, loud and burly 
 
108 THE KOMAN. 
 
 Like a warder, went the blast 
 Bound about the lordly house ; 
 Hustled her with menial wrath, 
 Much compelling forth her cast, 
 Who was all too fain to go ; 
 She sank down upon the path — 
 She cower'd lower, murmuring low, 
 " What was I that I should earn, 
 For I loved him, more return 
 Than I look'd for of the sun, 
 When he smiled upon me early 
 In our merry milking-time ?" 
 
 Then was silence all ; the mouse 
 Rustled with the beechen mast, 
 The lank fox yelp'd round, the owl 
 Floating, shriek'd pale horror past ; 
 Strange and evil-omen' d fowl 
 Croak'd about her, and knew not. 
 Eound her had the last bat fed. 
 "Little one," she said, "the cot 
 Where I bore thee was too low 
 For a haughty baron's bride. 
 Little one, I hope to go 
 Where the palace-halls are wide ; 
 When thou prattlest at his knee, 
 Wilt thou sometimes speak of me ? 
 Tell him, in some eve," she said, 
 " Where thou knowest I shall be. 
 When he hears that I am grand, 
 
THE BOMAN. 109 
 
 In those mansions ever fair, 
 
 Will he look upon me there 
 
 As a lady of the land, 
 
 And think no more in scorn 
 
 Upon thee and on the dead i" 
 
 All below the garden banks, 
 
 Where the blighted aspens grew, 
 
 Faded leaves faint breezes blew, 
 
 As in pity, round her. Then 
 
 Low whispering in her plaintive plight, 
 
 Her shivering babe she nearer nurst. 
 
 " 'Tis a bitter night," said she, 
 
 " Little one, a dreary night. 
 
 Little shalt thou bless the first, 
 
 Pass'd upon thy father's ground. 
 
 Ay ! cower closer in thy nest, 
 
 Birdie ! that didst never build 
 
 There is warmth enough for thee, 
 
 Though the frost shall split the tree 
 
 Where it rocks." 
 
 " Little one," she said again, 
 
 " Babe," she said, " my little son, 
 
 Thou and I at last must part ; 
 
 There is in my freezing heart 
 
 Only life enough for one. 
 
 By the crowing of the cooks, 
 
 Early steps will tread the way, 
 
 Could mine arms but wrap thee round 
 
 "Till the dawning of the day ! " 
 
 Silent then she seem'd to pray, 
 
 Then she spoke like one in pain, 
 
110 THE ROMAN. 
 
 " Little one, it shall be done, 
 
 I will keep thee back no more ; 
 
 It were sweet to go together, 
 
 If thou couldst be mine alone ; 
 
 As it is I must restore 
 
 Treasure not mine own. 
 
 All the gift and the sweet thanks 
 
 Will be over by to-morrow. 
 
 He must weep some tears to see 
 
 What at morn they will bring in 
 
 Where she dared not living come. 
 
 He will take thee to his home, 
 
 And bless the mother in the child. 
 
 Little one, 'tis sweet to me, 
 
 Who once gave him all I had — 
 
 Hoped it duty, found it sin — 
 
 Once more to give all, but now 
 
 Take no shame, and no more sorrow 
 
 Than a death-pang sets at rest." 
 
 Closer then her babe she prest, 
 
 Chiller sank the wintry weather. 
 
 Once again the owl cried near, 
 
 Once more croak'd the strange night-bird ; 
 
 From the stagnance of the fosse 
 
 Lorn pale mists, like winding-gear, 
 
 Hung about her and look'd sad ; 
 
 Then the blast, that all this while 
 
 Slumber'd by a freezing fountain, 
 
 Burst out rudely, like a prince 
 
 From a midnight revel rushing, 
 
 In his train a thousand airs, 
 
THE ROMAN. Ill 
 
 Each ambitious of bis guilt, 
 
 Each as cruel, cold and wild, 
 
 Each as rugged, chill and stark, 
 
 Hurtled round their leader crushing 
 
 All the fretwork of the dark ; 
 
 Frosty palace, turret and tower, 
 
 Mosque and arabesque, mist-built 
 
 By winter fairies. Then, grown gross 
 
 With the licence of the hour, 
 
 They smote the mother and the child ! 
 
 Dark night grew darker, not a smile 
 
 Came from one star. The moon long since 
 
 Had sunk behind the mountain. 
 
 At the mirkest somewhat stirred 
 
 The sere leaves, where the mother sate ; 
 
 For a moment the babe cried, 
 
 Something in the silence sigh'd, 
 
 And the night was still. Oh fate ! 
 
 What hadst thou done ? Oh that bard sight 
 
 Which morn must see ! When Winter went 
 
 About the earth at dawn, he rent 
 
 His locks in pain, and cast grey hairs 
 
 Upon it as he past. So when 
 
 Maids, poor mother, wail thy lot — 
 
 Mournful at the close of day — 
 
 By that legendary spot 
 
 Oft they tell us, weeping, how 
 
 Hoar frost lay on thy pale brow 
 
 When they found thee, and was not 
 
 Paler than the clay. 
 
112 THE ROMAN. 
 
 A Minstrel. A grievous tale ! 
 
 The Monk. Where's he that dares to say so i 
 
 Liar ! thou art not grieved. Any vile Austrian 
 May serve thy sister so to-morrow night, 
 And he that wears the longest sword among ye 
 Shall fear to draw it ! 
 
 A young Minstrel. Here's my blade ! Show me 
 The bloodless German ! 
 
 The Monk Youth ! respect thy master ! 
 
 Dost thou talk treason 1 What, boy, if the German 
 Be bloodless ? He hath blood enough to rule thee ! 
 Tut ! sheath thy maiden sword — leave pantomime 
 To puppets — I but said thou art not grieved. 
 And I said well. Such thews as thine being grieved 
 Ne'er yet were idlers. Tut, tut, man, be grateful, 
 Thine owner feeds thee well. T never saw 
 A sleeker slave. , 
 
 The Minstrel. Slave ! 
 
 President. Friends, friends, friends, I pray you, 
 
 Silence. Benvolio's song ! 
 
 A Minstrel. I have a fancy 
 
 About a rose ; sung on the morn I saw 
 My mother's first grey hair. Let your harsh thoughts 
 Breathe gently on it — it is overblown. 
 
 Oh maiden ! touch gently the rose overblown, 
 \l And think of the mother thy childhood hath known ; 
 Smile not on the buds that exult from her stem, 
 Lest her pallor grow paler that thou lovest them. 
 From their beauties, oh maid, each bright butterfly chase, 
 'Till his duties are paid to that dew-faded face, 
 
THE ROMAN. 113 
 
 And forbid the gay bee one deceitful sweet tone, 
 Till bis Vows are all said to the rose overblown. 
 Sorrow, oh maid, is more grateful than bliss, 
 Eosebuds were made for the light breeze to kiss. 
 And woo how thou wilt in the soft hope to see 
 Some bright bursting blossom that blooms but for thee, 
 Weep thy fond wish, thou shalt look up to find 
 Thy tears worn as gems to beguile the next wind. 
 Turn then thine eyes to the rose overblown, 
 Speak of its place in a tremulous tone, 
 Sigh to its leaves as they fall one by one, 
 And think how the young hopes the heart used to own 
 Are all shedding fast — like the rose overblown. 
 Yes, turn in thy gloom to the rose overblown, 
 Reverently gather each leaf that hath gone, 
 Watch every canker and wail every streak, 
 As thou countest the lines on thy mother's dim cheek ; 
 Twilight by twilight, and day after day, 
 Keep sweet attendance on sweeter decay. 
 When all is over weep tears — two or three — 
 And perchance long years hence, when the grass grows o'er thee, 
 Fond fragrant tribute to days long by-gone, 
 Shall be shed on thy grave by some rose overblown. 
 The Monk. We are a wealthy people 
 
 In all the faculties of woe. We have 
 Our sighs for roses, elegies for sparrows, 
 And seas of salt tears for deceased gold-fish ; 
 We eat our pet-lambs in a mourning robe, 
 And bury game-cocks with " the point of war." 
 And since we weep no tears for thee, my country, 
 
 I 
 
114 THE ROMAN. 
 
 It needs must be thou hast deserved thy death. 
 
 Home, Rome ! I was deceived ; I thought thee murder'd 
 
 Ay, foully, foully murder'd ! 
 
 A Minstrel. Thou hast thought 
 
 Well. 
 
 Others. Bravo, Pietro! 
 
 Others. Hear him ! 
 
 The Monk. This is treason. 
 
 A priest, I cannot hear my sovereign slander'd ! 
 One word more, I denounce you ! 
 
 The President. Friends, attend ! 
 
 Silence ! 
 
 Vicenzo, venerable brother, 
 Methinks I heard thy harp. Its youthful strings 
 Sound to me through the music of those years, 
 Those threescore years, since first we play'd together, 
 ^ As the dear voice of a beloved girl, 
 In virgin throng of louder choristers, 
 While all the troop contend before the ear, 
 C. Passeth alone and free to the hid heart. 
 
 Dreaming of youth doth make me young again ! 
 Friend, thou hast been a man of grief, and though 
 My dream of thy first music be a dream, 
 Thy sounds to-day are sweeter. Such a touch 
 Hath gracious wisdom. The great harmony \ 
 Of a most sad sweet life hath been play'd out ] 
 Upon those strings, and sympathetic chords / 
 Repeat it. Holy brother, there are some / 
 In this good company who know thee not. 
 Forego the privilege of years, and lift, 
 
THE ROMAN. ]15 
 
 A moment, all the mantle from thine heart. 
 Our eyes are blind with noonday, and our brows 
 Ache with the tropics. Let us with chaste awe 
 Stand in the mellow evening of thy voice, 
 Before the old man's soul — the rayless sun 
 Seen through the mist of sorrows. 
 
 Thanks, dear brother, 
 That strain replies. I hear it, like a chime 
 To vespers. 
 
 Vicenzo. Friend, why is thy speech of " brothers 1 " 
 My brother died. I heard last night, in the dark, 
 How the first Christians spake to one who went 
 Where I shall soon behold him. 
 
 Some. Good Vicenzo! 
 
 Others. Hear! 
 
 Others. Hear Vicenzo. 
 
 Vicenzo. Clamorous sirs, you are wise. 
 
 Give your praise now. You will need all your silence 
 When I have sung. The men of whom I speak 
 Lived by the prime tradition, ere the hands 
 Of ages soil'd it, or the guilt that shrunk 
 Before that bare intolerable witness 
 Bound it in gems and purple. Sirs, my lay 
 Is simple as their faith. 
 
 [He sings: 
 
 Brother, there is a vacant spot within our holy band, 
 And poorer is our earthly lot by one strong heart and hand. 
 Yet, brother, it were ill to weep, when life hath been so drear, 
 That we are left alone to keep its painful vigil here. 
 'Twere ill if thou hast trod the way to count the labouring 
 hours, 
 
116 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Or mourn that sorrow fill'd thy cup with hastier hand than 
 
 ours. 
 Sleep softly by thy bending tree, till death's long sleep be o'er, 
 That thou canst not remember, we remember thee the more. 
 Sleep softly, — that thine heart hath pass'd through all death's 
 
 deep distress, 
 To such calm rest as now thou hast, shall make us dread it 
 
 less. 
 Sleep softly, brother, sleep. But, oh, if there are hopes more 
 
 blest 
 Than sleep, where seasons come and go about a dreamless 
 
 rest; 
 If we may deem this grave a shrine which summer rites 
 
 observe, 
 Where autumn pours the votive wine, and white-robed winters 
 
 serve ; 
 If we may think that those who now sit side by side with God, 
 Have sent for thee to ask thee how we tread the path they 
 
 trod; 
 Oh, brother, if it be not sin when God hath broke the chain 
 Of earthly thought, to bind thee in its fever'd links again, > 
 This much of all that earth did know, and all that life hath 
 
 given, 
 The sadness of our love below bequeathes thy bliss in heaven; 
 Remember what the bounden bear, though thou for aye ait 
 
 free, 
 And speak of us as kindly there, as here we think of thee. 
 
 The Monk. "Remember what the bounden bear!" Old man, 
 We cannot sing this song. There may be lands 
 Where chains are heavy. Here in Italy 
 We wear them as the draught-ox wears his bells — 
 
THE ROMAN, 117 
 
 One. Priest! 
 
 The Monk. Hark that martial strain ! Ye Gods, do all 
 Dead tongues cry out at once 1 
 
 A Minstrel. You Komans ! see 
 
 The vision of Quirinus ! 
 
 The Monk. Ha, ha, ha ! 
 
 The Minstrel (sings). Who shall say what thoughts of glory 
 
 life's mean paths unhonour'd tread, 
 Like those rays of distant suns, that pass us, viewless, overheard ? 
 For the heaviest heart that sleepeth hath its heavy sleeping 
 
 dream, 
 Like the dull light on the ripple of a duller twilight stream ; 
 But, oh poet, if the dullard hath a soul beyond thy ken, 
 Who shall paint the hero's vision, who among the sons of 
 
 men? 
 Who shall paint him, wrapt and lonely, when the god within 
 
 him speaks, 
 And the passing skirts of Fate smite the blood into his cheeks ; 
 When the future on the ocean of his great soul hangs like 
 
 night, 
 And some hull of thought comes ploughing all its midseas 
 
 into light 1 
 Who shall paint him leaning on the Present, standing on the 
 
 Past, 
 Gazing o'er the furthest Future deep into the stormy Last; 
 Gazing where on the remotest verge the nether mists are 
 
 riven, — 
 A giant with an oak-tree staff, looking from sea-sands to 
 
 heaven ? [Interlude of music. 
 
 One dull day of indolence, the new-thatch'd city being all, 
 built, 
 
118 THE ROMAN. 
 
 On his sheath'd sword bent Quirinus, with his hand upon the 
 
 hilt. 
 Eound the sun's hid place on high all the stolid heaven was 
 
 dead, 
 All the flat-floor'd earth below him look'd a temple domed 
 
 with lead ; 
 Not a voice from all the forests ! not a beam from all the 
 
 floods ! 
 Sadder for that early autumn, like cold sunshine, lit the woods. 
 Far, the arms of Latian hills held on high a city of power; 
 With the eye of lust Quirinus burnt its beauties tower by 
 
 tower, 
 Till the conscious Latian hills, jealous of the conqueror's mien, 
 Proudly drew the mists of morning, decent, round the ravish'd 
 
 scene. 
 Waking frotn the imperial dream, said Quirinus, looking 
 
 towards Home, 
 " So the mist of time descending hides me from the years to 
 
 come ! " 
 Near, below, a rushing torrent its long dance of beauty led, 
 And a forest-beast of grandeur cross'd it with a stately tread ; 
 Golden ran the rapid river gleaming though the skies were 
 
 cold, 
 Far into the Sabine distance, mantling with its sands of gold. 
 Said Quirinus, sad, but proudly, gazing with a look sublime, 
 " Gods ! so fording life, would I send golden sands down 
 
 streams of time ! " 
 He look'd up to heaven, and he look'd down upon the river 
 
 strand : 
 Smiling through the crystal water, shining lay the untroubled 
 
 sand. 
 
THE ROMAN. 119 
 
 Said Quirinus, proud, but sadly, gazing upon frith and firth, 
 " Gods ! so shall the tide of ages rase my footsteps from the 
 
 earth!" 
 Sat the sun in his pavilion ; the dark drapery, stern and even, 
 Hanging earthward. Before noon the west winds dancing 
 
 through high heaven, 
 Fill'd with sudden mirth, drew back the giant folds with 
 
 hands profane ; 
 Pleased he saw the earth, and like a young hot' prince began 
 
 to reign. 
 All this while Quirinus bent heroic eyes that could not weep, 
 On a tear of dew that lay dull amid the grass asleep; ■ 
 Even while he gazed a sunbeam, slanting from its radiant 
 
 path, 
 Dipt into the dew, and came forth like a goddess from the 
 
 bath. 
 Then Quirinus — " That such lot were mine, ye arbiters afar ! 
 Gods ! ye touch the sleeping water and it wakens to a star ! " 
 While he looks the sun is higher, while he looks the star 
 
 grows old, 
 While he looks, the dews are lying, as the dews lie, dead and 
 
 cold. 
 Then Quirinus — all the hero looking sadness while he said, 
 " Gods ! so shall the sun of glory one day leave me cold and 
 
 dead!" 
 Then he gazed, as heroes gaze, upon whom, — conscious, — 
 
 earth and skies 
 Seem gazing back. To their live silence all his living soul 
 
 replies, 
 " Thou who knowest me, whom thus I know, — Eternal as 
 thou art, 
 
120 THE HOMAN. 
 
 Oh thou visible ! how is it with me in thy silent heart J" ■« 
 Then the rock beside him crumbled in the noon-heat stone 
 
 by stone, 
 " Gods ! the very earth may rot ere a fame like mine be 
 
 grown ! " 
 Then a salt wind — like a sea-ghost sick of land — faint voices 
 
 bore, 
 " Gods ! but once to hear the ages booming on the future 
 
 shore ! " 
 Then he look'd the sun in the face, like an eagle in his death- 
 sorrow. 
 " Gods ! the very stars themselves are nearer to us than to- 
 
 morrow ! 
 Then in rapture, all the godhead of his line about his brow — 
 " Mother ! Dionsean Mother ! that the years to come were 
 
 now!" 
 Soft Idalian incense laid him languid on the amorous sod, 
 At the softest a great thunder shook the mountain like a god 
 Starting from the Paphian trance, the hero leap'd in the 
 
 sunlight, 
 All his sudden soul o'erlooking the dull sense of mortal sight ; 
 Staring, staring in the air, high over the Roman town, 
 Staring, staring pale and deadly where the future years came 
 
 down. 
 
 Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a great mist sinking 
 
 slow, 
 With the unborn dead o'er-pictured, and the things that shall 
 
 be 9 Lo, 
 Woes that throw no shade on joy ; joys that shed no light on 
 
 woe, 
 
THE ROMAN. 121 
 
 Flush'd with being yet to be, full of soul that makes no sign, 
 Tarquin chaste beside Lucretia, Tullius mute by Catiline. 
 
 Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a haze upon the sky, 
 Painted with dumb agonies, and woes that neither strive nor 
 
 cry; 
 Spell-bound victors unpursuing, routed hosts that do not fly; 
 Lifeless in the form of life, with ineffectual grandeur great, 
 As thefoemen, Good and 111, twin-slumber in the womb of Fate? 
 
 Dost thou see them, as I see them, dread as when the demon 
 
 of rain 
 From cloudland verge shakes out a veil of storms across the 
 
 lower plain ? 
 Dost thou see them, wider, wider, from the mountains to the 
 
 main, 
 Peopling, peopling either heaven, till troubled with the 
 
 infinite sight, 
 Both horizons flush'd at once attest them in distemper'd light ? 
 
 [Interlude of music. 
 
 Dost thou see them, as I see them, like a great mist sinking 
 
 slow, 
 From the everlasting height, floating in celestial show, 
 Silent vast, like heaven unroll'd, to the eternal hills below? 
 
 Lo ! they touch the earth. Ye Gods ! are mine eye-balls 
 
 crazed with wine ? - 
 Shock of life, like midnight lightning, shouts along the 
 
 leaping line. 
 
122- THE ROMAN. 
 
 Lo ! the children of the ages on the fields of fame beneath, 
 Each in clamour springs from sleep as one day he shall spring 
 from death. 
 
 Gods ! that cry of startled being ! Gods ! that din of life 
 
 sublime, 
 Each convulsive form begins the many-colour'd work of time, 
 Each in agony of action flashes through his frenzied part, 
 As in deadly moments years of life gleam through the 
 
 heaving heart, 
 Gods ! I shall go wild with sight ! Whirling arms and 
 
 lambent eyes, 
 Eaging, clash in sounds that mock the sadder surge of shrieks 
 
 and sighs ; 
 Each assumes the sudden future, each in turn defied defies, 
 Stream in air the Sabine tresses, Brutus strikes and Csesar 
 
 dies! 
 So some host of rayless meteors smite our air, and mad with 
 
 might, 
 Burst in storms of stars, and charge in flaming legions through 
 
 the night. 
 All this while Quirinus stood, wrapt as the Python, grand as 
 
 Jove, 
 His face a microcosm, wherein the passions of the ages strove. 
 Downward, downward, solemn and slow, the dreamy pageant 
 
 dim descends, 
 A man's height upward life, — no more. In heaven the dead, 
 
 on earth the fiends. 
 Downward, downward, till the valley, line unconscious line 
 
 succeeds, 
 
THE ROMAN. 123 
 
 Mingling yet a moment lifeless with the life that strives and 
 
 bleeds. 
 See the insatiate plain engulf ! See the still renew'd array, 
 Touching earth, explode with life, and hurtling sink out of the 
 
 day. 
 Gods ! the tapestries of heaven o'erwrought with fate, 
 
 majestic, fell, 
 And burnt upon the earth, and dropt their flaming fragments 
 
 into hell ! 
 See on high incessant hosts, to where the heavenly vistas 
 
 close, 
 And the very height of heights with a higher advent glows, 
 Dyed with change : as I have seen when wild meridian moons 
 
 are bright, 
 Stormy dreams of rainbows colour all the troubled soul of 
 
 night. 
 See below exhaustless life — hark the still-renewing roar 
 Of successive being kindling from the mountains to the shore ! 
 Tumult as of full-grown nations starting into crashing birth ; 
 Tumult, tumult, wide as heaven, wild along the rocking earth ; 
 Tumult, tumult, from the dizzy maddening mounts' distracted 
 
 crowd, 
 Pealing out till both horizons own it like a bloody cloud ! 
 With such flame and thunder, in the Gallic madman's vision 
 
 dark, 
 So the ordnance of the world, drawn up, might hail the 
 
 Omniarch ! 
 All this while Quirinus stood, gazing with a wilder gaze, 
 Heaving with a Delphic fury, shouting to the coming days! 
 Warm'd into the gait of time, he springs before the march of 
 
 things, 
 
124 IHB ROMAN. 
 
 Imperial with an age of empire, royal with a world of kings!.' 
 Stand, Quirinus ! Hold thine own ! Reel not, giant drunk 
 
 with power ! 
 Did no demigod come down to stay thee in that desperate" 
 
 hour, 
 When Fortune blew her loudest blast, and, mindful of the ills 
 
 in store, 
 Play'd a flourish ere she changed her awful stop for evermore 5. 
 And Rome, upon the hill of fame, above whose height the 
 
 thunderer nods, 
 Culminated like a globe, and paused before the gasping gods, 
 Awhile in dreadful poise. One moment suns smiled on it dark. 
 
 and cold, 
 And lit a star. It shone. And then (like that tremendous 
 
 stone of old) 
 Recoiling to infernal depths shook heaven, down-whirling as 
 
 it fell, 
 Through red storms of molten glories lash'd up from the soil 
 
 of hell ! 
 How shalt thou behold that hour 1 for ah ! the generous and 
 
 the brave 
 Spring upon the surge of fate, but ebb not with the ebbing 
 
 wave. 
 In that Lour the Dionsean caught him up to heaven ; that he 
 Beholding as a god beholdeth, seeing, might survive to see ! 
 
 The Monk (stepping forward). Ye spell-bound men, 
 Who stand and stare each other in the face 
 As though it were an auspice, do you dare 
 Behold on earth what your translated Sire . 
 Saw from the heavens 1 Didst thou not even there, 
 Oh hero ! with thy strong humanities 
 
THE ROMAN. 125 
 
 Startle the impassive gods ; with mortal cries 
 Stir the still air of immortality, 
 And with thine earthly faculty of tears 
 Distain the empyrean ? 
 
 [Silence. They whisper among themselves. 
 
 President. Sir, and brother, 
 
 Show us this vision. 
 
 The Monk. Doth the heart speak there 1 
 
 Wot you there have been sights ere now which turn'd 
 The seer into stone ? There have been words 
 Which made graves tenantless, and hunt the dead 
 Shrieking through hell. There have been tongues that smote 
 The lazy air wherein the gnat did dance, 
 And it hath dropp'd down molten on a soul, 
 And branded it for ever. You know this, 
 And you will hear 1 
 
 A Shout. And we will hear ! 
 
 The Monk. Your blood 
 
 Be on your heads ! 
 
 A Shout. Be on our heads and thine ! 
 
 The Monk. And mine. If ye be brothers, I shall die 
 With you, and if not, by you. Death is death. [He is silent. 
 
 The President (after awhile). My brother, we attend thee. 
 
 The Monk. You will hear me 1 
 
 You will behold 1 I do beseech that man 
 Who owns a faint heart, friends, to bear it forth 
 Beyond your patriot circle ; half a bowshot 
 Will save him. I shall speak low. By the gods, 
 It should be sung in whispers. 
 
 What ! not one ? 
 
126 THE ROMAN. 
 
 What ! you draw nearer ? Be not rash, my brothers, 
 Those Cretan mazes that outlie the heart 
 Can no man tread so swiftly. I shall pause. 
 
 \He is silent — then continues. 
 It is a fearful thing to stand in the path 
 Of destiny. Here on this bridge am I, 
 And you, poor souls, upon the fateful bank 
 Eoam up and down, and cast your wistful eyes 
 To the Cimmerian shores, whose twilight reign 
 Your sense, acclimated to Acheron, 
 Mistakes for day. I hold ye back, poor shades, 
 And with a right hand blister'd with the flames, 
 Point to a way of fire. You cannot see 
 The Elysian fields beyond it, and what god 
 Commands you to believe me i 
 
 My poor brothers, 
 Pass. 
 
 Some. This is madness ! 
 
 Some. Hush ! behold him. 
 
 Others. Wake, 
 
 Dreamer ! 
 
 The Monk. I can see nothing in the heaven 
 Or earth why next year should be worse than this ; 
 I do not learn from any sign in the sky 
 That you shall dance less lightly at the fair, 
 Or drink your pottle weaker at the wake, 
 Or find the wench less willing at the wedding, 
 Or sing less often in the castle hall, 
 Or think the rich man's nod a poorer fee, 
 Or sit less thankful at the menial's fare, 
 
THE SOMAN. 127 
 
 Or rear one chubby slave the less or more, 
 Or share their mother on worse usury 
 With yonder German — 
 
 Some. Shame — 
 
 Others. Hold! 
 
 Others. Are we clowns 1 
 
 Others. Peace. Hear him out — hear the priest out. Down 
 with him. 
 Hear him. Hear, hear, hear, hear him out. Down with him. 
 
 The Monk. 'Tis a hard fate. As yet you are not guilty ; 
 As yet the "dull Maremma of the future 
 From the mephitic stagnance of the past 
 Stretches as unforbidden. But hear me, 
 And the Egyptian curse turns it to blood ! 
 Yet you might tread it — with the march of life 
 Stir the pestiferous slime of days, till weak 
 Or sturdy vitals, soon or late, drop each 
 In his appointed hole. Why should I speak 1 
 Friends, 'tis a fearful time. As yet your eyes 
 Have not been open'd to know good from evil. 
 The dread of the great hour before the fall 
 Gathers upon my soul. Now must I do 
 The miracle which paints the universe. 
 You stand before me here all men, all brothers, 
 And I must give you sight. And, seeing, he 
 Who is not straight transfigured to a saint, 
 Must blacken to a fiend. This is that water 
 That rots the adulteress — dare ye drink ? 
 
 Some. Now mercy I 
 
 Others. Ay, ay, ay, to the dregs. 
 
128 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Others. Pour, priest, pour, pour. 
 
 One. S'death ! do you mock us 1 Speak ! 
 
 The Monk I pray you, patience, 
 
 I pray you, patience. These are times, my brothers, 
 When the grand Roman habit is a dress 
 For no man's masquerade. [They continue to shout]. Beseech 
 
 you, patience, 
 Patience, sweet friends ! The cap of liberty 
 Is not a carnival wear. There are laws, friends, — 
 You have not read them — they are writ in German, 
 But they are laws. And by the laws the blush 
 Of shame is disaffected and forbidden, 
 The proud tears of a patriot are not loyal, 
 The thoughts of good men are against the statute ; 
 Who would speak like a freeman must content him 
 To walk a chain or two more like a slave. 
 I break no laws. I tell you by the laws 
 To inherit from your sires is robbery, 
 To think what you are thinking is rebellion, 
 To take the counsel of the brave is treason, 
 To strike a despot on his throne is death. 
 I do entreat you, friends, obey the laws ! 
 If you were heroes I must hold my peace. 
 I should have sinn'd already. By the laws 
 You should not see this sight if you were heroes ; 
 But slaves ! behold ! 
 
 [The Monk sings. 
 Some sad slow strain — 
 
 Deep wails and plaintive pain, •* 
 
 With thy most sorrowy soul, my harp, remember ! 
 
THE EOMAN. 129 
 
 Hie where in some lone spot, 
 By the cold hearth of a forsaken cot, 
 A dying orphan cowers by the last emher ! 
 
 To some unseen green space 
 
 Of a deserted place, 
 Where the pale grass and the lorn flowers are holy; 
 
 And of remorseless wrong, 
 
 In mournful gusts and long, 
 Winds cry at eve, where the betray'd lies lowly : 
 
 And with them, as they float — 
 
 The wail and the wind note — 
 Thy woes most sweet bewilderments entwine ; 
 
 And, harp ! thou hast not found 
 
 One desolate sad sound 
 That does not ring like laughter on a grief like mine. 
 
 My harp ! how oft, when cold 
 
 And worn with cares untold, 
 With hearts untrue, stern looks, and sunless brows, 
 
 Thy first sweet breath that stole 
 
 Stirr'd incense in my soul, 
 Like the south wind among the myrtle boughs. 
 
 But there are in our lot 
 
 Thoughts where earth's sounds come not — 
 Like the eternal calm of the mid-seas — 
 
 And all that might have been 
 
 And all that is, — oh Queen 
 Of minstrelsy, thou hast no voice for these. 
 
 K . 
 
130 THE ROMAN. 
 
 I hear, soul-wrapt, thy song 
 
 In stirring notes and strong, 
 High wandering in the years for ever flown ; 
 
 To my exulting sight 
 
 The gorgeous Past comes bright ! 
 In the broad earth too poor for her renown, 
 
 Italia great and wise, 
 
 Sits, and to golden skies 
 Lifts the grand brow which clouds contend to crown. 
 
 But, oh! if in that hour 
 
 Of calm unchallenged power, 
 Some vision of prescient fate supreme 
 
 Forewarn her in mid-pride 
 
 Of all that must betide, 
 Who, who may sing the anguish of that dream ? 
 
 Thy straining strings should start 
 
 As breaks her bursting heart, 
 And all thy broken chords confess the unconquer'd theme I 
 
 Return, my harp, return 
 
 Beside this broken urn, 
 Count the long days low lying where it lies j 
 
 Have all thy wandering will ! 
 
 With fitful fancies fill 
 
 Long interludes of ill ! 
 With sweeping blasts and strange unearthly cries, 
 
 Swift laughter, hurrying fears, 
 
 Madness, and joys, and tears, 
 And every mood that wayward wildness tries, 
 
 These are the winggd years ! 
 They pass. And where is she whose greatness claims the skies? 
 
■THE ROMAN. 131 
 
 Behold her ! -wan and fair, 
 
 Her pale arm soil'd and bare, 
 That trembles in the intolerable chain — 
 
 Behold the woes that rise 
 
 To her undying eyes, 
 Too proud to faint and too imperial to complain; 
 
 Behold her bend and grieve 
 
 From shameful morn to eve, 
 And till, with captive hands, the graves that hide her Slain ! 
 
 Behold the toil that lives 
 
 And strives, and sinks and strives ! 
 Her outraged looks to every heaven addrest ! 
 
 Her pride, grown fierce by fate, 
 
 Her mien deject and great, 
 Her violated bosom's wild unrest ; 
 
 Behold her — travail-torn — 
 
 Endured but still unborne 
 Behold what fetters load her queenly breast. 
 
 Behold the glittering cares 
 
 Her brow, in mockery, wears, 
 The crowns of thorn and tinsel, tear-empearl'd ; 
 
 Hark the unwonted names 
 
 That consummate her shames ! 
 They dare not call her Eomb — no, not down hurl'd 
 
 And chain'd ! — lest at the sound 
 
 Each Vandal bond they bound 
 Fall from her and confess the empress of the world ! 
 
132 THE SOMAN. 
 
 Thus with untiring plaint 
 
 How oft thy fancies paint 
 Each changing mood of her unchanging woe. 
 
 Before my sadden'd eyes 
 
 Obedient dolours rise, 
 A thousand subject passions pale and glow !■ 
 
 And each new wrong she hears 
 
 Thou actest in mine ears, 
 And ill complains to ill, and blow resounds to blow! 
 
 But what shall paint the power 
 
 Of that disastrous hour, 
 When coarse oppression struck with ruder hand, 
 
 And, at some worst disgrace, 
 
 She raised her bleeding face, 
 And saw with folded arms her sons consenting stand? 
 
 My harp ! at that last gaze 
 
 Her eyes, dishonoured, raise, 
 Thou, with Timanthean woe grown utterless, 
 
 Changing the unequal key 
 
 Of slaves that might be free> 
 But rot and smile in unavenged duresse, 
 
 Thy descant of disdain 
 
 Loud liftest, till our pain 
 Shows us the shade of her ineffable distress. 
 
 Then the mists are breaking ! 
 Then our hearts are waking ! 
 We call her " mother " ! and she answers ! Then 
 
THE EOMAN; 133 
 
 The blood that won these plains 
 
 Boils in our modern veins, 
 Years are unlived ! Italia ! once again, 
 
 Where thy proud eagles shine 
 
 All Koman, and all thine, 
 We rise and — bah ! I dream'd that we were men ! 
 
 [Great confusion and outcry ; in the midst of which the 
 Monk disappears. 
 
 SCENE VIII. 
 A Dungeon. 
 
 The Monk, Vittoeio Santo, and a few of his chosen followers 
 (among them the "Mother" o/Scknb VI.) who are admitted 
 to see him for the last time. They are conversing. His 
 trial, by Austrian Court-martial, takes place at day-break. 
 
 The Monk. I grant you there must be for every man 
 Some hill, plain, valley, or familiar tree, 
 Beside whose sweetness his young soul beholding, 
 Grew till the invisible within put on 
 The outward beauty. As your Eoman mothers 
 Conceiving gazed upon their marble gods, 
 And brought forth sons like them. But if these homesteads 
 Contain that wealth of utterless affections, 
 
134 THE ROMAN." 
 
 Hopes, fears, traditions, duties, memories, 
 Inborn respects, instincts of good and evil, 
 That creature faith, that visible religion, 
 Which my soul utters when I say " My country," 
 Then the best sight makes the best citizen, 
 The horizon of our rights shuts in with age, 
 Each day of weeping leaves us less to weep for, 
 Infirmity makes outlaws, and the blind 
 Are aliens everywhere. 
 
 A Youth. Beloved master, 
 
 For thus — sublime in the near neighbourhood 
 Of death — I must behold thee, even as men 
 On hill-tops seen against the heaven beyond 
 Seem giants — 
 
 The Monk. Friend, forbear. Who made me ruler 
 And judge among you — or who gave thee licence 
 To be a slave ? Beloved, thou art young : the time 
 May come when thou shalt tremble to create 
 Or to depose a master. In dominion — 
 The universal idol — the world worships 
 The unknown God. Sometimes in these last hours 
 I have had visions of a more divine 
 Iconoclast, who shall demand, " Will God 
 Be worshipp'd in the noblest image 1 " Let 
 That pass. I feel it has not pass'd for ever. 
 Meanwhile learn this. Drawing near authority 
 To make or to unmake — Man, put thy shoes 
 From off thy feet, for the place where thou standest 
 Is holy ground. 
 
 A Friend. Who then shall dare rebel ? 
 
THE ROMAN. 135 
 
 The Monk. "Well ask'd, brave patriot, where is that 
 blasphemer 
 Who dares rebel ? Let us obey. But, Eoman, 
 Shall we obey the living or the dead ? 
 "The powers that be !" By what sign will ye know 
 The powers that be % My friends, we are the fools 
 Of eyesight and the earthly habitudes 
 Which cannot look aloft. Walking the plank 
 Of life o'er the abyss, we fear to glance 
 Or upward to the stars, or downward to the grave. 
 Our souls, yoke-strain'd, in attitude of toil 
 Bend earthward. Oft the wraworshipp'd angel passeth 
 While we, with eyes fix'd on the ground from which 
 We came, adore his footsteps in the sand. 
 And God, this while, is in the heaven of heavens ! 
 Stand ! Christian ! thou who hastest towards a throne 
 By that old pathway which our fathers wore 
 When a king sat there. Traitor ! yon blood-stain'd 
 Mad sans-culotte, whose godless feet are rattling 
 Among kings' bones, — yon vulture of the nations, 
 Yelling instinctive through the fateful air 
 To deathstruck dynasties, — yon maniac serf 
 Ringing his broken chains, and piling, wild 
 With freedom, hills of courtly slain to reach 
 The thronSd effigy to which thou kneelest, 
 And strew the imperial tatters to the wind- 
 That outlaw is no rebel 1 What art thou 
 Who bendest to the empty rags which once 
 Enrobed dominion, and with stiff knee passest 
 That uncrown'd presence, unbegilt, unfeather'd, 
 
186 THE EOMAN. 
 
 Naked and full of God, whose step disturbs 
 The centre of the world 1 
 
 Friends ! Gessler's hat 
 Two centuries hence had more divinity 
 Than any crown to-day. Is aught on earth 
 Eternal 1 Man has rights ;. but is a corpse 
 A man 1 Doth the heir rob the dead ? The stars 
 Themselves burn out. Spring, summer, autumn, winter, 
 Each traitor to the past, and each in turn 
 To its own season loyal. Are these things 
 Dumb % Look on high. That which you call rebellion 
 Is but the changed obedience which we pay 
 To changing dispensations. The true rebel 
 Is he who worships for the powers that are 
 Powers that are not. 
 
 (Enter a Jailor secretly disposed to favour the Monk.) 
 
 Jailor. The hour, most reverend Sir, 
 
 Of which you bade me warn you struck but now. 
 One more is all the grace I dare. Even that 
 Discoverd, would be bought with all my own. 
 
 The Monk. Good friend, we thank thee. Did we not know 
 jailor, 
 That the time cometh when to have done this service 
 To these and me this night shall more avail thee 
 Than an imperial signet, we would speak 
 Of recompence. Yet wear this, [taking a ring from his 
 
 finger, ] and forget not 
 When it was given and why. Enough. We count 
 The moments. 
 
 Gentle Romans, when ye enter 
 
THE ROMAN. 137 
 
 The land of milk and honey, recollect 
 
 That God spared JRahab. The great day of reckoning 
 
 Is not so far hence that ye shall forget 
 
 Vittorio Santo's keeper. 
 
 A Friend. Show me why 
 
 It does not dawn to-morrow. 'T.may suit well 
 Thy monk's disguise to draw the sword of the Spirit, 
 And wrestle not with flesh and blood, but hath 
 Home one arm only 1 How shall he whose tongue 
 Fate hung awry be eloquent ? My comrades, 
 Thus I [With a gesture.'] In truth, Santo, my right worthy 
 
 friend, 
 Methinks thou hast even offer'd up thyself 
 And thy good cause on a cold altar — 
 
 The Monk. So 
 
 Did Abel. 
 
 The Friend. Yes, 'tis well, 'tis very well, 
 Noble no doubt and wondrous heavenly, but — 
 
 An elder Friend. Peace, stripling ! Friend revered, thou 
 hast wrought out 
 Thy chosen path to freedom. It ends here. 
 
 The Monk (pointing up). There. I am no such royal 
 guest, dear Cosmo, 
 But I can stand a moment at the gate. 
 
 Cosmo. We, reverent of thy martyr zeal, but hearing 
 A voice which calls us by a shorter road 
 To be cut out by hands, ask if the sword 
 That patriot draws be guilty 1 
 
 The Monk. When the Baptist 
 
 Call'd to repentance, did he weigh the dust 
 
138 THE ROMAN. 
 
 And measure out the sackcloth 1 Let a prophet 
 Wait upon silence. Who can hold his peace 
 Hath said his message. Things that once have dwelt 
 In heaven will make that prison, a man's heart, 
 Glad to release them. Let the seer see 
 And he will cry. Herein I have not seen. 
 The image that for me fills earth and heaven 
 Shuts out the shapes beyond. 
 
 A Woman (" The Mother " in Scene VI.) Yet, father, — oh 
 Let me still call thee so ! — are there not hard 
 Unripen'd times, when the gold sickle of angels 
 Reaps not the harvest — early dawns of truth, 
 When we must burn a grosser light than day 1 
 
 The Monk. If the true man were of the world, and had' 
 
 The sun of his great, orbit in its centre, 
 
 And kept the measure of its seasons, then, 
 
 Daughter, thou hadst said well. But he who steps 
 
 Forth from the radiant chambers of the future 
 
 To show us how the unseen ages look ; 
 
 He who comes forth a voluntary hostage 
 
 Of the supreme good-will of times to come ; 
 
 He who grew up among your children's children, 
 
 And calls by name the years you never knew ; 
 
 He who takes counsel of the things that yet 
 
 Are not, and answers with his kindling eyes 
 
 Questions ye cannot hear ; he who is set 
 
 Among us pigmies, with a heavenlier stature 
 
 And brighter face than ours, that we must leap. 
 
 Even to smite it, — that man, friends, must have 
 
 The self-existence of a god. From him 
 
THE ROMAN 1 .- 139 
 
 The poor necessities, hopes, fears, and fashions 
 
 Of the expedient Present, fall like waves 
 
 From adamant. Friends ! learn a prophet's patience. 
 
 Do you remember how, in backward years, 
 
 Night after night the patient harvest-moon 
 
 Climbs her high seat above the silent fields, 
 
 In act to reign 1 Bating no majesty 
 
 For her great solitude. Unmann'd, below, 
 
 The golden plenty spreads, unwarn'd of change,; 
 
 Ample repose. From corn-crown'd hill to hill, 
 
 From waving slope to slope, where sickly winds 
 
 Disturb'd flit blind from sudden sleep to sleep, 
 
 From calm auriferous deeps and from the broad 
 
 Pale distance, drowsy in the genial light, 
 
 From all the dull expanse of voiceless plains, 
 
 O'er which, unscared, the midnight curlew cries, 
 
 No answering horn salutes her. Smile on, pale, 
 
 Prophetic queen ! Know ere thy wane, thine hosts, 
 
 Thy sounding hosts, shall darken all the vales ! 
 
 Not otherwise the poet and the prophet, 
 
 The patriot and the sage. 
 
 The Youth. This is well said. 
 
 And if we desperate men had calm or leisure 
 To seek the fruit of knowledge where it hangs 
 Through all the fair wide gardens of the soul, 
 Doubtless 'twere reverend idlesse. But, good Sir, 
 A partisan in war time must needs carry 
 His daily meed of duty in his hand. 
 We have no time — we freemen — 
 
 The Monk. Ah, young friend, 
 
 Dost thou too die to-morrow 1 
 
140 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Oonzalo (a friend). Noble Sir, 
 
 Forgive him ! 
 
 The Monk. He spake not amiss, Gonzalo, 
 A little out of tune, no more. I thank him. 
 And if I could dismiss you from this last 
 Communion, with no ampler utterance 
 Than yet hath pass'd between us ; if I left you 
 Here upon earth, and with the clouds above, 
 To the dim sayings of the sibylline stars, 
 And now, at midnight, gave your tear-blind eyes 
 No compass but the landmarks, which serve angels 
 Journeying heaven and earth, Eezzio's rebuke 
 Flying before would shut against my soul 
 The gates of paradise. I have come short 
 Of my high calling, friends, but (I thank God) 
 Not thus far. The old Castellan, just now, 
 Came not unbidden. I desired, my brethren, 
 To ask of you, this our last mutual hour, 
 A death gift, — if you like it — laid upon 
 My funeral pile. Somewhat I had to say. 
 
 A Friend {aside). Son. 
 
 The Son (aside). Father. 
 
 The Friend (aside). Mine own chaplain — hasten— 
 
 The Monk (observing them). Marquis, 
 
 Are we such strangers 1 Sirs, ye do me wrong. 
 What chrysm can hold, what hand of flesh can spread 
 The unction of a soul t I bear in me 
 The priesthood of a Christian man, and do 
 My own death-rites. What sins I have, are written 
 On high : and that angelic record needs 
 No death-bed supplement. Son ! let us brighten 
 
THE ROMAN. 141 
 
 This last best hour with thoughts that shining through 
 
 To-morrow's tears shall set in our worst cloud 
 
 The bow of promise. In my life, long past, 
 
 There is a passage, friends, which set apart 
 
 From our rich confidence, I have reserved 
 
 As burden for this hour. Ye are just, brethren, 
 
 And will believe me that I dig this dust 
 
 Of personal remembrance as the sands 
 
 Of golden shores. In giving you the wisdom 
 
 Which I received, and now commit to your 
 
 Chaste hands, with prayers, ye may be better stewards, 
 
 I wish, if I may speak thus^ to transplant, 
 
 Not the fruit only, but the tree whereon 
 
 It grew ; that so they may have life in you, 
 
 Unto a goodlier increase. And for this 
 
 Awful and mystic husbandry I chose 
 
 The climate of the grave. And if, dear friends, 
 
 I stray some moments from my history, 
 
 Through the sideways of sterile circumstance, 
 
 Be gracious to the old man garrulous. 
 
 The old man, friends. Age is the shadow of death, 
 
 Cast where he standeth in the radiant path 
 
 Of each man's immortality. What age, 
 
 To the dumb infant of eternity, 
 
 Bring threescore years and ten ? Brother Gonzalo, 
 
 Prithee that prison water-jar. My lips 
 
 Are feverish with to-morrow. [He drinks. 
 
 Wells the spring 
 
 Pure even here 1 Oh nature, nature, thou 
 
 Hast done thy part ! Thanks, gentle friends. 
 
142 .THE ROMAN. 
 
 Now soul, 
 I turn thee loose among the fields of old. [He pauses 
 
 Imperial Summer in hot luxury 
 
 Eeign'd like a new-crown' d caliph. Heavy Noon, 
 
 Golden and dead-asleep, oppressive lay, 
 
 Athwart the sated world. I, book in hand, 
 
 Wander'd since dawn, it was my wont, those fair 
 
 Campanian fields where ancient poets went 
 
 To learn the fragrance of ambrosial air, 
 
 And every nymph was Hebe — but where now, 
 
 When the serf makes his lair where Eomans dwelt, 
 
 Nature, disdainful of the hideous trespass, 
 
 Teaches, retributive, the wasting cheek 
 
 How slaves should look. From early morn to eve 
 
 My feet had roam'd these plains, my heart the ages. 
 
 And burden'd with the brightness of the hour, 
 
 I sought the shade which old Vespasian built. 
 
 Those walls which, lest degenerate tongues disturb 
 
 The indignant dead, we call the Colisseum — 
 
 Those wondrous walls which, like the monument 
 
 Of some old city of the plague, stand up 
 
 Mighty in strength and ruin, with no more 
 
 Decay than serves for epitaph, and takes 
 
 Impiety from pride, and breaks the crown'd 
 
 Pillar of triumph on the conqueror's grave. 
 
 Those walls whose grey infirmities seem only 
 
 The mood of an imperishable face, 
 
 Awful as scars upon a Titan's brow, 
 
 Dread as a strong man's tears. Small marvel, truly, 
 
THE ROMAN. 143 
 
 With that eternal witness looking on, 
 That thou, Campagna ! art for very shame 
 True to the days of old ! 
 
 Entering, I sat 
 Refresh'd in shadow, and like some high wizard, 
 In wayward hour, call'd with a god's caprice 
 Spirits of new and old. In that doom-ring 
 Of time, who would not be magician 1 Now, 
 I sought old chronicles for Nero's house, 
 That golden crown that made mount Palatine 
 Eoyal. And those imperial halls wherein 
 Csesar is still august. Now, pensive, sitting 
 Within the very shade of destiny, 
 I saw their ruins strew the hills of Eome. 
 And looking forth through rents, by which the years 
 Pass in and out, I gazed as one should gaze 
 Upon some battle-field of the old gods. 
 And the Olympian slain lay there, unearth' d, 
 With whitening limbs — like bark'd oaks, thunder-scarr'd, 
 Loading the fearful ground, ghastly and gaunt, 
 In all the dreadful attitudes of death. 
 So sojourning — a pilgrim of the past — 
 Kind sleep o'ertook me, travel-worn of soul. 
 My eyes, unconscious, closed to scenes without, 
 And at a shout I opened them within 
 Upon the world of dreams. With strange recoil 
 As at a nod, the extended scroll of time 
 Eoll'd up full fifteen ages. That Honorius 
 Who cut the world in two, gave holiday 
 To all the pride of Eome. The new arena, 
 
144 THJB EOMAN. 
 
 (For in old Eome three hundred years seem'd new,) 
 
 Which great Vespasian, working for all time, 
 
 Built up with Jewish hands, (as he would, sweat 
 
 Their immortality into the stone,) 
 
 Teem'd to the parapet. The sun of noon 
 
 Shed golden evening through a silken heaven, 
 
 Fair floating, which for clouds received the incense 
 
 Of all the Arahies. Luxurious art 
 
 Ensnared the unwilling winds, and like toil'd eagles, 
 
 Held them through all the hot Italian day, 
 
 Flapping cool pleasures. Ever-falling waters 
 
 Solaced the ear, themselves beheld through fragrance, 
 
 Till the lapp'd sense in soft confusion own'd 
 
 Redolent light. Behind a hedge of gold 
 
 In the elysian field, imperial state 
 
 Purpled the ring. High, high, and higher rose 
 
 The babel tower of heap'd up life, and o'er 
 
 This strange rich arras, rainbow-hued and vast, 
 
 The eternal marble, imminent, look'd down, 
 
 And the cyclopean mass of the huge walls 
 
 Frown'd from the arches. And before their stern 
 
 And monumental grandeur, the up-piled 
 
 Mortality was as this hand beside 
 
 This rock-hewn dungeon. In the midst stand I, 
 
 On that tremendous theatre condemn'd 
 
 To play the last red scene of a short life, 
 
 Lest Csesar yawn. You heavens 1 
 
 While I draw sword 
 And do the hideous courtesies of war, 
 My senses, quick with fate, learn all the scene, 
 
THE ROMAN. 145 
 
 And snuff, prescient, on the heavy air 
 
 The perfumed death. My foe, a Spartacus 
 
 In make and weapon, took with careless scorn 
 
 The languid challenge ; and with his fiat sword 
 
 Spurn'd me to action. So have I beheld 
 
 At the unequal pleasure of the winds, 
 
 Some poplar giant — tyrant of the plain— r 
 
 Fall foul of some slim cypress. Point to point, 
 
 And blade to blade, and hilt to hilt opposed, 
 
 The glittering mazes of the gleaming glaive 
 
 Coil and recoil. The waxing strife has shrunk 
 
 The earth to standing-ground. The whole wrapt being 
 
 Sent hot into the hand, spares not one sense 
 
 Beyond the sword-arm's circle. Into which 
 
 Half-understood, the dreadful seas of clamour 
 
 Thunder their surges. So, meseems, a soul 
 
 Falling through mid-space hears the passing shout 
 
 Of unseen worlds. And now the giant, stung, 
 
 Casts off his sword craft. Striding like a storm, 
 
 Uproots me, lightening. See my blade fly up 
 
 Like a flung torch; myself into the dust 
 
 Hurl'd like a spear; and the goliath folding 
 
 His untask'd arms upon his unbreathed breast, 
 
 Look up without a flush for the well-known 
 
 Signal of doom. Two hundred thousand hands 
 
 Gave it. He saw. While the sword rose and fell, 
 
 Up from the podium to the beetling height 
 
 I turn'd one dying look to the mute nation 
 
 Which — stretching neck and nerve with sanguine strain 
 
 To catch the bloody joy — through all its legions 
 
146 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Held such a stifled horrible expectance, 
 As if the greed of anguish could not spare 
 The groan a sigh might cover. Eound the vast 
 O'er-peopled hell the terrible haste of death 
 Took my mad eyes, and, in the indistinct 
 Wild glance, its serried thousands glared on me 
 Like one tremendous face. 
 
 Consenting sat 
 That day, all that the world most loved, fear'd, worshipp'd 
 Sages whose household words, caught up, made proverbs 
 For far-off nations ; grey proconsuls, warriors 
 Whose mere names stood for victory in all 
 The tongues of Europe ; senators whose title 
 Ennobled kings ; priests of all orders, bishops 
 Whose heavenly treasure was not lent, as yet, 
 To earthly usury ; great merchants, men 
 Who dealt in kingdoms ; ruddy aruspex, 
 And pale philosopher, who bent beneath 
 The keys of wisdom ; artists, and whatever 
 In Eome claimed to be poet ; woman, too, 
 And passing fair, — not that mine eye had note 
 Of any separate loveliness, or knew, 
 More than a sense of exquisite relief, 
 A more or less in hate, an intuition 
 That in the living mountain which rose round 
 All was not adamant ; a milder mood 
 In a most terrible destiny. I saw it, 
 As when upon the fretful parapet 
 Of some vast cloud that doth engird the west, 
 Flush'd and distemper'd with the angry hues 
 
THE ROMAN. 147 
 
 Of passionate sunset, oft at eve there shineth 
 
 A line of purer light. All these sat there 
 
 Consenting, and with them the purple pride 
 
 To which all these bow'd down ; — and I must die. 
 
 Swept through the silence a great wind of voices, 
 
 " Look to the podium ! " Breaking from the ranks 
 
 A christian priest — I knew him by his habit — 
 
 Cleaves the gold fences, — lion-proof — with more 
 
 Than lion's heart, and, as the sword fell, stands 
 
 'Twixt me and slaughter. Abdiel with such gesture 
 
 Held Satan off. The rude barbarian, scorning 
 
 The feeble game, flings down his sword. That moment 
 
 Methought hell burst, and in a death-trance heard I 
 
 The outcry of the damn'd. The observant host 
 
 Eose like the simultaneous tide when hid 
 
 Volcanos heave the ocean, and a long 
 
 Vast wave engulfs an island. Not the war 
 
 Even of those seas drowning the blasphemies 
 
 Of shrieking sinking cities, storms the ear 
 
 Like what I heard. Tremendous rushing life 
 
 Yell'd round the place, and, as the howling vortex 
 
 Belch'd up its sounds, the screaming horrors struck 
 
 The impassive walls, and like caged fiends came back 
 
 Convulsed with madness. Then the tempest turns 
 
 Inwards, and with one gust, as at a sign, 
 
 Guts the stone entrails of the awful tower 
 
 In whirlwind of revenge. Like an explosion 
 
 Down hails the hurricane fury. So Vesuvius 
 
 With mountains wrench'd from her own bowels, piles 
 
 Shouting the blasted plain. 
 
148 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Slain, slain and buried 
 By the same act, under one terrible heap 
 Lay martyr, victor, vanquish'd. Last to die 
 I felt the growing weight and heard through all 
 The exulting thousands. How the sounds dash'd down 
 Like stamping furies. Here the vision ends : 
 With the death-pang I woke. 
 
 Absolute calm, 
 A silence like the silence of the desert, 
 Silence beyond repose, lone, lifeless, stagnant, 
 Muter than any grave. Silence too dead 
 For living tongue to name. Silence more placid 
 Than peace or night or death ; (for these are strings 
 Unstruck but to be stricken ;) idiot silence, 
 Sterile, and blank, and blind. A breathless pause 
 In heaven and earth ; held till the moving thought 
 Seems turbulence, this human nature grows 
 Unseemly on us, our life's common functions 
 Impertinent and gross, and conscious cheeks 
 Excuse the beating heart with blushes. Silence 
 As of a listening world. Such strange defect, 
 Such lean and hungry quiet, such keen sense 
 Of absence grown effectual, that the ear 
 Faints as for breath, and even the very substance 
 Of latent sound seems dead. Alas ! for language, 
 We sing the healing darkness of sweet night, 
 But for Egyptian darkness that was felt 
 Have names no blacker. When you speak of silenoe, 
 'Tis as the sweet content of voiceless woods 
 After the nightingale — as the home-genius 
 
THE ROMAN. 149 
 
 Sole watching by the sleep of happy babes 
 With finger at her lip, and shows of stillness, 
 Meanwhile the sleeper smileth and the air 
 Stirs with dream-music. When / use the word 
 Think of some other silence. In that other 
 I woke. 
 
 From sound to stillness as when stormy hearts 
 In passion break. From tempest to dead calm, 
 As when at some strange portent clashing hosts 
 Halt in mid-shock. From all to nothingness, 
 A soul from chaos shot into the void 
 Beyond the universe. 
 
 In my short rest 
 From imminent heights, the dust of slow decay- 
 Sands from the glass of time shaken of winds — 
 Crumbs from the feast of desolation — strew'd 
 My slumbering face upturn'd. The Gorgon Sleep 
 Made them a shower of stones. My wondering eyes 
 O'er-charged with sense, in shuddering unbelief 
 Unclose upon the lone inane expanse 
 Of summer turf, from which the mouldering walls 
 Shut not the sunshine ; like a green still lake 
 Girt by decaying hills. Urging my gaze 
 Bound the tremendous circle, arch on arch, 
 And pile on pile, that tired the travell'd eye, 
 I saw the yawning jaws and sightless sockets 
 Gape ,to the heedless air. Like the death'shead 
 Of buried empire. And the sun shone through them 
 With calm avoidance that left them more dark,. 
 And pleasured him with some small daisy's face 
 
150 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Grass-grown. As though even from the carrion of gods, 
 
 The instinct of the living universe 
 
 Held heaven and earth aloof. All through the lorn 
 
 Vacuity winds came and went, but stirr'd 
 
 Only the flowers of yesterday. Upstood 
 
 The hoar unconscious walls, bisson and bare, 
 
 Like an old man deaf, blind, and grey, in whom 
 
 The years of old stand in the sun and murmur 
 
 Of childhood and the dead. From parapets 
 
 Where the sky rests, from broken niches — each 
 
 More than Olympus, — for gods dwelt in them, — 
 
 Below from senatorial haunts and seats 
 
 Imperial, where the everpassing fates 
 
 Wore out the stone, strange hermit birds croak'd forth 
 
 Sorrowful sounds, like watchers on the height 
 
 Crying the hours of ruin. When the clouds 
 
 Dress'd every myrtle on the walls in mourning 
 
 With calm prerogative the eternal pile 
 
 Impassive shone with the unearthly light 
 
 Of immortality. When conquering suns 
 
 Triumph'd in jubilant earth, it stood out dark 
 
 With thoughts of ages : like some mighty captive 
 
 Upon his deathbed in a christian land, 
 
 And lying, through the chant of Psalm and Creed 
 
 Unshriven and stern, with peace upon his brow, 
 
 And on his lips strange gods. 
 
 Bank weeds and grasses, 
 Careless and nodding, grew, and asked no leave, 
 Where Komans trembled. Where the wreck was saddest 
 Sweet pensive herbs, that had been gay elsewhere, 
 
THE ROMAN. 151 
 
 With conscious mien of place rose tall and still, 
 And bent with duty. Like some village children 
 Who found a dead king on a battle-field, 
 And with decorous care and reverent pity 
 Composed the lordly ruin, and sat down 
 Grave without tears. At length the giant lay, 
 And everywhere he was begirt with years, 
 And everywhere the torn and mouldering Past 
 Hung with the ivy. For Time, smit with honour 
 Of what he slew, cast his own mantle on him, 
 That none should mock the dead. 
 
 Oh, Solitude, 
 What dost thou here 1 Where are those legions 1 They 
 Were men, not spirits. Where those shouts that like 
 Wild waves upon a low lee shore, but now 
 Lash'd me to death ? Thou Earth, where didst thou quake 
 When they went down 1 Was it that shock, oh Earth, 
 That left these ruins ? Crying thus, I ponder'd 
 The subject of my dream. Beside me still 
 Lay that old chronicle whence, as from some 
 Quaint ancient banquet-hall, a gorgeous bevy 
 Of gods and men had pass'd forth with my soul 
 Into sleep's stranger pleasaunce, and thence straying 
 Wander'd the world. The open page, held wide 
 By my stretch'd slumbering arm, interpreted 
 The vision. There my waking eyes had closed. 
 'Twas where Honorius on a high day gives 
 Games to great Borne; and one unfriended priest, 
 Telemachus by name, soul-stricken, leaps 
 The circus fences, and in mid-arena 
 
152 -THE KOMAN. 
 
 Stays the unholy combat, and dies there, 
 
 Stoned by the people. When he walk'd through Home 
 
 That morning, no man turned to gaze on him. 
 
 He had no friend, no mistress, no disciple, 
 
 No power, fame, fortune, wealth, or human cunning, 
 
 And hath no record upon earth but this, 
 
 That he died there. Yet those walls where he suffer' d— 
 
 Those great imperial monumental walls 
 
 Built to feast nations in for ever — stand 
 
 From that day tenantless. In that man's blood 
 
 Baptized to ruin. Then my. heart cried out, 
 
 Herein, oh prophet, learn a prophet's duty ! 
 
 For this cause is he born, and for this cause, 
 
 For this cause comes he to the world — to bear 
 
 Witness. Oh God-ordain'd ! thine hands are God's ! 
 
 Sully them not. The days shall come when men 
 
 Who would be angels shall look back to see 
 
 What thou wert. Live for them. Speak, speak thy message ; 
 
 The world runs post for thee. The good by nature, 
 
 The bad by fate ; — whom the avenging gods 
 
 Having condemn'd have first demented. Know 
 
 By virtue of that madness they are thine. 
 
 Lay-brothers working where the sanctity 
 
 Of thine high office comes not. Savage friends 
 
 Who, scattering in their wrath thy beacon, light 
 
 The fire that dears the wilderness. Unconscious 
 
 Disciples, writing up the martyr's title 
 
 In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin on his cross. 
 
 Love him who loves thee ; his sweet love hath bought 
 
 A place in heaven. But love him more who hates, 
 
■THE ROMAN. 153 
 
 For he dares hell to serve thee. Pray for him 
 Who hears thee gladly; it shall be remember'd 
 On high. But, martyr ! count thy debt the greater 
 To the reviler ; he hath bought thy triumph 
 With his own soul. In all thy toils forget not 
 That whoso sheddeth his life's blood for thee 
 Is a good lover ; but thy great apostle, 
 Thy ministering spirit, thy spell-bound 
 World-working giant, thy head hierophant 
 And everlasting high priest, is that sinner 
 Who sheds thine own. 
 
 A Friend. Alas ! 
 
 Another. 'Tis a hard saying, 
 
 Who can hear it 1 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 The Trial 
 
 An Austrian Court-martial. A number of Officers as Judges. 
 An empty chair for the President) who enters during the 
 proceedings. A subordinate Officer prosecutes. Various 
 Witnesses. A great crowd of Auditors. The Monk stands 
 in the midst with an abstracted air, murmuring to himself. 
 
 Prosecutor. The court has heard the minstrel, 
 Henri de Jaloux ; the most reverend father, 
 Ghiott'o Ingordo ; and the rustic crowd 
 Brought under guard from Milan. 
 
154 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Noble Sirs, 
 Will't please you listen to an aged witness, 
 A simple man, but of a good report, 
 And grey in loyalty. Codardo Goffo, 
 Stand forth ! Now worthy Goffo, of what crime 
 Dost thou here charge the prisoner t — 
 
 A Judge. Speak, old man ! 
 
 Old Gofo. So please you, I was working in the fields ; 
 I serve my lord our bishop — and our bull, 
 Mad with the fly — for, an it please your worships, 
 Since I drove plough, which will be thirty year 
 Come Martinmas, for an it please your worships, 
 My lord the bishop's land — not that I say it 
 For any ill-will to my lord the bishop — 
 But so it is — your worships please to ask 
 Giacchimo, — young Giacchimo — (poor old Giacch, 
 We wore him out.) Your worships, 'tis no use 
 Denying it. But as I say, our bull 
 Curst with the midge — 
 
 Prosecutor. Speak to the case, old man, 
 
 You see the prisoner ! 
 
 Old Goffo. Ay, Sir, ay. Our bull, 
 
 Bit like a loach — 
 
 A Judge. Wake up, thou prating loon, 
 
 Or have thine ears slit ! To the case, I say, 
 And leave this babble ! 
 
 Old Goffo. Good, your worships, yes. 
 
 Where was I, please your worships 1 Ay. Our bull — 
 
 A Judge. Silence ! 
 
THE KOMAN. 155 
 
 Another Judge. Nay, Colonel, let him on. Well, sirrah ! 
 
 Old Goffo. Our bull, your worship — I am seventy year 
 And more, but let me see the beast, your worship, 
 That throws me, bull or cow, with a fair odds. 
 But, as I say, our Lammas calf — a better 
 Never suck'd dam — 'twas eight weeks old that day, 
 Had took the murrain — as it might be here 
 I made a shift — my poor old back, your worships ! 
 And knelt to feed it ; when up comes our bull, 
 And down I am. Not that I think, your worships, — 
 
 A Judge. Babbling old man, hear me. Answer me shortly 
 What I shall ask thee. Jailor, heat thine irons, 
 And burn his tongue out if he fails. Now, sirrah, 
 What of this man ? 
 
 Old Goffo. Please you, my lord, he came — 
 
 Not that I ever saw him till that hour — 
 My lord, I am a poor old man, my lords, 
 I am a very poor old man — the bishop — 
 
 A Judge. Silence ! the prisoner saved you 1 Is it so ? 
 
 Old Goffo. Please you, my lord, he did, my lord — 
 
 A Judge. And you 1 
 
 Old Goffo. My lords, it was the only piece I had — 
 By all the saints ! — nay, pray, your worships, mercy, 
 A poor old man ! I meant to pay it back — 
 My lord the bishop's steward that same day, 
 Says he, Go buy — 
 
 A Judge. Enough ! you gave the prisoner 
 
 A coin — and why ? 
 
 Old Gofo. An offering, please your worships, 
 
156 THE ROMAN. 
 
 An old man's life is sweet — I swear, my lords, 
 Only an offering — nay — 
 
 Another Judge. Piously done ! 
 
 Speak up, good man ! The prisoner took it ? 
 
 Old Gofo. Ah, 
 
 Sirs, that an honest man who served his bishop 
 Good sixty year — nay, I might say, your worships, 
 Sixty and one : at Martinmas — I mind it 
 Well — I was hired. My mother — rest her soul, 
 She was a mother, sirs, — she says — says she — 
 
 A Judge. Jailor, your irons ! 
 
 Old Goffo. Mercy, oh, my lords, 
 
 I will speak — mercy, oh, my lords — 
 
 A Judge. Hear me. 
 
 Say yes or no. The prisoner kept your coin ? 
 
 Old Goffo. No, please my lord. 
 
 A Judge. No, sirrah 1 How 1 
 
 Old Goffo. Nay, mercy ! 
 
 My lords, I will tell all. 
 
 Judge. Peace, fool, say on. 
 
 Old Goffo. Please you, he flung it on the ground, and 
 stamp'd it 
 Like any ram — my lords — as I stand here, — 
 And said — 
 
 Judge. Ay, tell us what he said, 
 
 Old Goffo. My lords, 
 
 I am a very feeble poor old man, 
 I pray your worships mercy — on my knees — 
 My lordg — my youngest girl left one small child, 
 
THE ROMAN. 157 
 
 For pity's sake, my lords, remember it,— 
 My youngest daughter, please you worships,— she 
 Left him to me— for pity's sake, my lords, 
 My lords, for pity's sake ! 
 
 A Judge. Is there none here 
 
 Who will interpret this strange witness 1 
 
 Prosecutor. Sir, 
 
 The poor half-witted dotard fears to be 
 Confounded with his benefactor. I, 
 Marshalling the evidence, heard this from him, 
 That when the prisoner saw the superscription 
 And image of my lord the duke, he spurn'd 
 The money, and declared that masses bought 
 With king-stamp'd price purchased the soul for hell, 
 •With sundry other ravings, treating of 
 Eome and Eepublics. 
 
 A Judge. Is this so 1 
 
 Old Qoffo. My lords, 
 
 'Tis very true. 
 
 President (who enters). Eh — eh — why this is treason, 
 Treason — eh — said he so 1 — 'honest old man, 
 Speak on — he told thee — eh — yes, yes, he told thee 
 All kinds of things— eh-^yes— to slay the bishop, 
 Speak out — fear not — to slay the bishop— eh 1 — 
 
 Old Qoffo. My lords, as I shall answer on my soul, 
 He said not so ; rather, my lords, he bade— 
 
 President. There, get you gone— there, get you gone— 
 
 Prosecutor. Call up 
 
 Signor Pulito Mansueto. Now, Sir, 
 What say you 1 
 
158 THE ROMAN. 
 
 Mansueto. Sir, I have a son. The son 
 Of my grey widowhood. To whose dear tune 
 I have so play'd my life, in the dim future 
 Of my old heart I own no single hope 
 That has not all his features. What he was 
 To me, a daughter seem'd to my rich neighbour, 
 Worthy Antonio ; and wherein my son 
 Fail'd of perfection's stature, it did show 
 Complete in her. Antonio and I, 
 Old schoolfellows — had mark'd them for each other, 
 Well pleased to make our dynasties shake hands 
 When we might greet no longer. 
 
 That their love 
 Should have run smoothly in the golden channels 
 Made by the hands that made them, Sir, what father 
 Will doubt 1 Sirs, where my garden joins the fields 
 Low in the vale, no hedge shuts out the fairies, 
 But Art and Nature, intimately sweet, 
 Exchange their beauties. Fond amidst them runs 
 A brook, that like some babbling child between 
 Two bashful lovers, telling tales to each, 
 Perfects their friendship. Bowering all the way 
 With equal joy, they clothe it. and in love 
 Shut out the very sun. Hither my boy 
 Came oft, at noon, to sing and meditate 
 Antonio's daughter : — his sole confidante 
 An ancient dulcimer, the quaint strange spoil 
 Of some old disinterred city. Here, 
 Good Sirs, this traitor met him, and did use — 
 So I learn now — to sing his witchcraft to him, 
 
THE ROMAN. 159 
 
 Discoursing much of other mistresses, 
 Freedom and Eome — (the Mussulman) : in fine, 
 My son, beguiled, Sirs, by this sorcerer's spells, 
 Slighted Antonio's daughter, and is gone 
 I know not whither. 
 
 A Judge. Is it likely, friend, 
 
 The poison wrought no further ? Had this knave 
 No monetary service of your son ? 
 Had he — 
 
 President. Eh — money — eh — old gentleman ? 
 What? Did he rob you? 
 
 Mansueto. On my honour, no. 
 
 My child, Sir, is no felon. He took nothing 
 But his old lyre. Nay, now you urge my thought, 
 There was an ancient toga which had hung 
 With other Eoman relics in my hall, 
 He took that with him. And God bless him with it ! 
 Sir, I am not a seer, but methinks 
 Your house is childless. 
 
 Prosecutor. Call Capo di Matti ! 
 
 Now, Matti, what are you ? 
 
 Matti. My lords, I am, 
 
 Or was, my lords, of late, house-steward to 
 My lord the marquis. 
 
 A Judge. And you know this man 1 
 
 President. Eh — eh — you know him ? Look the man in the. 
 face. 
 Turn about, prisoner ! Eh, you dog — 
 
 Matti. My lords, 
 
 He was a frequent guest where I have served, 
 
160 THE ROMAN. 
 
 A very turbulent fellow, good my lords, 
 And dangerous to the state. 
 
 A Judge. And in your business — 
 
 President. Eh — yes, your business — eh? your daily business 
 At table, eh 1 and so forth. You have heard- — 
 Speak up, Sir, you have heard 1 
 
 Matti. As this, my lords. 
 
 His manner was to say with many words, 
 Your worships have no right in Italy, 
 No, not so much as to the ground you stand on. 
 Then 'twas his pleasure to revile crown'd heads ; 
 His highness is. no duke, — his majesty 
 No emperor or king, — my lord the pope— 
 A Catholic tongue, my lords, may not deliver 
 His awful discourse of my lord the pope ! 
 But most, my lords, it was his wont to boast 
 Of some strange secret known to himself only, 
 To sweep your worships from this land, without 
 Gun, sword, or pistol. Which, my lords, I hold 
 To be some compound hot and devilish 
 Of his black art. My lords, I know the time 
 When I have sick'd to hear him. Once, my lords, 
 As I shall answer on my sinful soul, 
 The prisoner promised my late lord, the marquis, 
 To show him all his secret after dinner, 
 I' the garden house. My lords, some said that eve 
 It thunder'd. I knew better. 
 
 A Judge. This is fearful. 
 
 Well, Sir,— 
 
 Matti. And, please your lordships, at my lord's 
 
THE ROMAN. 161 
 
 He wore no cowl — my lords, he is no priest — 
 This gown, my lords, is worn the better to carry 
 His villanous compound. I have heard him say so. 
 
 A Judge. Heaven and earth ! 
 
 President. What? what? not a priest, and weai 
 
 Priest's clothes ? Why, blasphemy — eh ? Blasphemy, 
 Bank blasphemy — put it down so. 
 
 A Judge. Well, fellow, 
 
 This shall be thought on. 
 
 Matti. I do fear to say 
 
 What more I heard. 
 
 A Judge. Speak out ! 
 
 Another. Sirrah, thine oath ! 
 
 Matti. Nay then, my lords, nay, to say truth, my lords, 
 A man is none the worse for what he hears — 
 Or you, my lords — 
 
 A Judge. Speak to the point ! 
 
 Matti. My lords, 
 
 Am I held guiltless ? — Servants have their duties — 
 
 A Judge. Speak out, I say. 
 
 Matti. My lords, it seems to pass 
 
 Man's wickedness — but, as I hope to see 
 Heaven and the blessed, this man hath conspired 
 To level every city, small and great, 
 In all this land save one. Sirs, take it down , 
 I swear, my lords, even to the very words 
 A hundred times repeated, till my knees 
 Shook to stand by — " Borne all, Some only," so 
 He phrased it. I speak true, my lords — 
 
 Prosecutor. The Court 
 
 M 
 
162 ' THE ROMAN, 
 
 Shall hear a confirmation. You may go. 
 Stand up, Bugiardo Sporco, serving-man 
 To the aforesaid marquis — • 
 
 A Voice from the Crowd, But discharged 
 (Let the Court take good note of it) for lying, 
 Theft, and adultery, 
 
 Prosecutor. Silence ! my lord marquis. 
 
 Now, fellow, have you heard ill of this prisoner ? 
 
 Sporco. Times out of mind, my lord. 
 
 A Judge. Tell what was wont 
 
 To be his converse at your master's table. 
 
 Sporco. First and foremost, to cut all Austrian throats — 
 Pillage all churches — ravish all the women, 
 And hold them afterwards in common ; ten 
 To each man. Then he had a plan to roast — 
 
 Shouts from the Crowd. Down with the rascal ! kill hiin 
 where he stands. 
 Stones ! Stones ! Stones ! 
 
 A Judge. Soldiers, save the witness. 
 
 Another. Charge 
 
 This rabble. 
 
 A Friend of the Monk's. Peace, good people, 
 
 The Crowd. Peace ! peace ! peace ! 
 
 Prosecutor. Call up — 
 
 A Judge. The Court is satisfied. Arraign 
 
 The prisoner. 
 
 An Officer. How say'st thou, Vittorio Santo, 
 Sometime, but falsely, self-styled Monk of Jesus, 
 And now on trial : Thou hast had free hearing 
 Of thine accusers. Speak. Guilty or not ? 
 
THE ROMAN. 163 
 
 The Monk (musing). " It is in vain to rise up early, to sit 
 Up late, to eat the bread of sorrows. So 
 He giveth His beloved rest." 
 
 Officer. Vittorio Santo ! self-styled Monk of Jesus, 
 Guilty or not 1 Answer ! 
 
 The Monk (musing). You, you that cry 
 " How long V be patient ; is not your heaven sweet ? 
 
 Officer. Vittorio Santo — self-styled Monk of Jesus, 
 Guilty or not 1 
 
 The Monk (musing).- Brother ! it is thy voice ; 
 'Twas well of thee, my brother ! to speak now. 
 The home, the plain, the column by the tower, 
 Sickness, thy love, loss, death : the revelation, 
 Resolve, thought, labour, disappointment, triumph. 
 And now the end. Yes, it was well, my brother ! 
 
 A Judge, Shout in his ear. Smite him, ye drowsy guards. 
 What ! shall this slave despise us ? Corporal, hither ! 
 Thou hast a voice, cry out, " Vittorio Santo, 
 Guilty or not ?" 
 
 Corporal (shouts). Santo ! Vittorio Santo ! 
 Guilty or not ? 
 
 The Monk. I am a Roman. Find me 
 A judge and I refuse not to be tried. 
 
 Prosecutor. Traitor! thou standest at the judgment-seat 
 Of Wollustling von Bauerhund von Bosen, 
 Baron of Herrschwuth, and Scheinheiligfeit, 
 Count d'Omicidio, Marshal in the armies 
 Of that dread sovereign Apostolical 
 Our Liege and thine — the imperial Ferdinand, 
 Emperor of Austria — King — 
 
164 THE ROMAN. 
 
 The Monk. Peace ! I have heard 
 
 His titles. Find me, friend, a judge, and I 
 Kefuse not to be tried. 
 
 The-President. A judge ! eh ? what ? 
 
 A judge — eh — are we not a judge ? eh ? what 1 
 Nay, pull his cowl about his face ! There! flout him ! 
 Spit at him ! Dog ! Nay, we will teach thee, cur ! 
 A judge forsooth ! Pluck the mad priest by the nose ; 
 Nay, not a judge ? Then hear thy sentence — 
 
 The Monk. Spare 
 
 Thy lips, for I appeal. 
 
 President. Appeal, appeal, 
 
 Nay, he appeals, the dog ! Appeals ! hear that ! 
 By Heavens ! appeals ! Appeal, vile slave ? to whom ? 
 
 The Monk. To that which — looking o'er your heads and 
 through 
 These walls, which soon shall be as dust — I see 
 Rise like an awful spirit from the earth. 
 To you, as yet, invisible. To me, 
 Present and filling all things. Strong as fate ; 
 Dreadful as heavenly justice ; more imperial 
 Than all the builders of the Babylons ; 
 Invincible as death ; and beautiful 
 As itself only. 
 
 President. Drag the traitor out ! 
 What ! Does he threaten us with:ghosts ? 
 
 Men rush in shouting. To arms ! 
 
 To arms ! 
 
 Others. The mob !" 
 
 Others. Rebellion ! 
 
THE ROMAN. 165 
 
 Others. Carbonari ! 
 
 A Judge. Guard the priest ! 
 
 Enter Soldier. 
 
 Soldier. Captain, twenty thousand men, 
 
 By my guess — rogues and peasants — 
 
 Captain. How far hence ? 
 
 Soldier. Three gunshots. 
 
 Gaptain. Armed 1 
 
 Soldier. Ordnance, they say ! 
 
 Captain. Who leads 1 
 
 Soldier. A Woman. 
 
 A Judge. Man the gates ! 
 
 Men (rushing in). The mob ! the mob ! 
 
 A Spectator (to the Monk). Be these thy ghosts then 1 
 
 The Monk. Were the troubled waters 
 
 The angel t Yet how many at Bethesda 
 Saw no more than the trouble ! 
 
 Spectator. Being heal'd, 
 
 What matter? 
 
 The Monk. Good friend, much. The heal'd will worship 
 The healer. v 
 
 Men (rushing in). Haste, haste, haste. 
 ' More. My lords ! a woman, 
 
 My lords ! a woman like a prophetess, 
 Hair in the winds, and eyes on fire — 
 
 A Judge. We know. 
 
 Peace ! Guards, remove the prisoner ! 
 
 President. Eh — eh — what — 
 
 Bemove — remove — yes, yes, off with him — eh ? 
 
166 TIIE ROMAN. 
 
 You lag 1 You dogs ! lend me a bayonet ! There, 
 There ! by the heels ! Drag him out by the heels ! 
 
 A Judge {to the Captain). Tell off two hundred. By the 
 southern gate 
 Lead out your prisoner. Underneath the walls 
 Let him be shot. Face right about, and reach 
 The western heights. 
 
 Great shouts without. Down with the Austrians ! Arms ! 
 Blood! Charge! Death — death to tyrants! Victory! Freedom! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 R. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL.