Classic Poem

From the Isle of the West the captive came,
Downcast his eyes, but not with shame;
The soldier is sad at the captive's chain,
As he thinks of his own far home again:
The fortune of battle hath chained his hand,
And led him away to a southern land;
But his lofty soul is unconquered still—
Fetters cannot subdue that brave one's will;
Though his chain is deep in his dungeon floor,
And the bolts are brass of his triple door,
And darkness is round him, and racks are nigh,
His heart is not craven, he fears not to die.

From his western isle to the Roman gate,
To swell out a triumph's long-drawn state,
At the van of the conqueror's chariot bound,
'Mid the jeer of the crowd and the soldiers round,
Had that warrior been led;—his face was pale,
But his blue eyes were bright, and his limbs were hale;
His stature was lofty, his carriage bore
The impress proud of his native shore,
That the haughty Roman, though conqueror he,
Looked not with more kingly majesty.
O 'tis the hero's crown, if he fall
From the height of power in a victor's thrall,
To preserve the unshaken heart, and bear
Bravely the suffering that waits him there;
While the coward will fly to the dagger or bowl,
From the agony harrowing up the soul;
When each new breath is a torture higher,
Each moment of time an age in fire;
The last glance of glory extinguished, forgot,
Man, life, and creation one hideous blot—
Loud paeans the deeds of the conqueror swell,
But who will the captive's triumph tell?

From his dungeon gloom to the glare of day
Is Caractacus led by his guards away.
His wrists are linked with an iron chain,
But he hears its clank with unaltered mien;
For his courage is firm as that man's should be
Who has learned to conquer adversity
On his brow at times a deep thought made
A hue pass over of darker shade;
Mayhap 'twas a gleam of his island earth,
His green meads of Severn and native hearth
In blood to the last he had done and dared,
And the Roman had deeply his vengeance shared;
While, though vanquished, 'twas only by those who gave
To the universe law, and to freedom a grave.

Claudius sat on the world's proud throne,
Round him his glittering warriors shone;
Lord of a thousand victories, he
Concentred his empire's majesty;
That empire which stretches from Afric's pyres
To the icy North's impassive fires;
While Iberia and Mesopotamia display
The arc of its rising and setting day.
Purple and gold was the robe he wore,
With its rich folds piled on the marble floor.
Perfumes in clouds of incense arose,
Bearing the odours of amber and rose
To the ceilings of fretwork and ribs of gold,
And paintings rich that their wreaths enfold.
The victor's bay bound the emperor's brow,
And shaded the lightning that flashed below
From a deep eye, dark as a winter midnight,
When the hidden thought rushed from its depth to light.
The adamant lip and the moveless limb,
Seem to comport with none but him.
Guards and patricians stand around,
And the lictors mark the imperial bound.

Sudden the tramp of feet draws nigh,
The portal arch fixes every eye
All is still as eternity within,
Without is a rattling fetter's din,
At intervals clanking as it draws near,
Its sound of captivity, suffering, and fear.
He comes! he comes! to the Roman gaze
That meets him in silence and in amaze,
The Briton comes, with his stature tall,
Like a lion entrapped in the hunter's thrall,
That looks on his bondage and seems to say—
‘I'm a sovereign born—I am one to-day!’
He turned not his head from the victor's throne,
For his sight was placed upon him alone.
The grandeur around, and the southern's pride,
Drew not his princely glance aside.
Though his palace afar on his native plain
Was a rude hut built on the wild champaign;
Though earth was the floor, and mud the wall,
To him 'twas more worth than that gilded hall.
The wolf's rough hide o'er his shoulders cast
Caught the butterfly courtier's smile as he past,
But his carriage crushed the vain sneer ere it broke,
For his limbs were knit like his native oak—
It would humble the stoutest Roman there,
One grasp of his iron arm to dare.

‘I am conquered, a prisoner, my crown is with thee;
I fought that my country, my race might be free.
If this be a crime in a Roman eye,
Lictors, lead me forth, for this will I die.
Let to-morrow enthrone me in power again,
Again will I combat, although it be vain,
Thee, Claudius, or thine, and will gloriously die,
As honour requires in our far country;
There we brand a slave with a curse of scorn,
And deem none noble but the blessed free-born.
What would'st thou with me?—I have nothing now
Save my own stern will that the world shall not bow!’
Thus the captive said, and the Roman cried:—
‘Go, his chains unloose, lest the universe wide,
While it sees us the victor in battle, may know,
We're vanquished in greatness of soul by a foe!’