So you went and you told him my word, as he sat on the ivory throne;
He was troubled and pale as he heard, but he gave you an answer? None!
He is dazed and daunted, the Roman, by Jews, and the venomous gleam
Of their eyes—can he list to a woman or hearken the tale of a dream?
Can he argue of mercy or ruth, while they cry for the cross and the rods?
He smiles, and he asks “What is truth?” when they show him the signs of the gods;
By the washing and wiping of hands he is cleansed from the blood of the just;
As the water is dried upon sands, so a life flieth back to the dust.
His gods! they are strong and are bright, he believeth in steel and in gold,
And in one that is fair, Aphrodite, the rest are asleep or grown old;
And the world is the conqueror's prize; so feasting and ease are the best;
And a soul is divine, but it dies that a Roman may revel and rest.
For the murderous multitude foam, and the palace is pale with alarm;
He looks, and the pitiless dome of the heavens is empty and calm,
He heard not the hurrying sound as of ghosts that arose from the deep;
He saw not the gathering round me of terrors that torture sleep.
But they clouded the glass of my brain, the Powers of the Air, while I slept,
Infinite ominous train, out of void into void as they swept.
Are the myriad Manes warning that evil shall come as a flood?
Or the kindly divinities mourning for the sorrow of innocent blood?
For above came a crowd and a sighing; as late in the last watch of night,
When in cities besieged is a crying of people run wild with affright;
When the streets are all thronged in the gloom, for with day comes slaughter and storm
So my ear rang with voices of doom, and mine eye saw a vanishing form.
Then I woke, and the vision was o'er; and a breath in the cypresses played,
And their boughs on the tesselate floor shed a moonlit wandering shade;
The town lay aswoon at my feet, like a sepulchre, white and still,
Faint with the midnight heat from the rocks of the sunbeaten hill.
Who is He for whom spectres are risen to threaten, and spirits to weep?
Who is this whom ye bear from your prison, the face which I saw in my sleep?
The hours seem to hover and wait—is a Nemesis loading their wings?
I am stirred by forebodings of fate, and the sense of unspeakable things.
Our gods, we adore them with flowers, and virginal chanting of lays;
They are kind as the sunshine and showers, they bless us with fortunate days;
Can I kneel to this Lord of a stranger, whose face I have seen not or known,
Who surrounds me with omens of danger; invisible, stern, and alone?
Ah! let me hence, let me go from this shadowy mystical East,
From phantoms that prophesy woe, from the wild-eyed Syrian priest;
From the Spirit around me that dwells not on earth nor is fashioned by hand,
From the maze of enchantment and spell that is spread o'er this desolate land.
When shall my forehead be wet with the spray of the Western sea?
When shall my face be set, O Italy, mother, to thee?
Flying the augury tragic that whispers of ruin to Rome,
Save me from madness and magic, O gods of my hearth and my home!
He was troubled and pale as he heard, but he gave you an answer? None!
He is dazed and daunted, the Roman, by Jews, and the venomous gleam
Of their eyes—can he list to a woman or hearken the tale of a dream?
Can he argue of mercy or ruth, while they cry for the cross and the rods?
He smiles, and he asks “What is truth?” when they show him the signs of the gods;
By the washing and wiping of hands he is cleansed from the blood of the just;
As the water is dried upon sands, so a life flieth back to the dust.
His gods! they are strong and are bright, he believeth in steel and in gold,
And in one that is fair, Aphrodite, the rest are asleep or grown old;
And the world is the conqueror's prize; so feasting and ease are the best;
And a soul is divine, but it dies that a Roman may revel and rest.
For the murderous multitude foam, and the palace is pale with alarm;
He looks, and the pitiless dome of the heavens is empty and calm,
He heard not the hurrying sound as of ghosts that arose from the deep;
He saw not the gathering round me of terrors that torture sleep.
But they clouded the glass of my brain, the Powers of the Air, while I slept,
Infinite ominous train, out of void into void as they swept.
Are the myriad Manes warning that evil shall come as a flood?
Or the kindly divinities mourning for the sorrow of innocent blood?
For above came a crowd and a sighing; as late in the last watch of night,
When in cities besieged is a crying of people run wild with affright;
When the streets are all thronged in the gloom, for with day comes slaughter and storm
So my ear rang with voices of doom, and mine eye saw a vanishing form.
Then I woke, and the vision was o'er; and a breath in the cypresses played,
And their boughs on the tesselate floor shed a moonlit wandering shade;
The town lay aswoon at my feet, like a sepulchre, white and still,
Faint with the midnight heat from the rocks of the sunbeaten hill.
Who is He for whom spectres are risen to threaten, and spirits to weep?
Who is this whom ye bear from your prison, the face which I saw in my sleep?
The hours seem to hover and wait—is a Nemesis loading their wings?
I am stirred by forebodings of fate, and the sense of unspeakable things.
Our gods, we adore them with flowers, and virginal chanting of lays;
They are kind as the sunshine and showers, they bless us with fortunate days;
Can I kneel to this Lord of a stranger, whose face I have seen not or known,
Who surrounds me with omens of danger; invisible, stern, and alone?
Ah! let me hence, let me go from this shadowy mystical East,
From phantoms that prophesy woe, from the wild-eyed Syrian priest;
From the Spirit around me that dwells not on earth nor is fashioned by hand,
From the maze of enchantment and spell that is spread o'er this desolate land.
When shall my forehead be wet with the spray of the Western sea?
When shall my face be set, O Italy, mother, to thee?
Flying the augury tragic that whispers of ruin to Rome,
Save me from madness and magic, O gods of my hearth and my home!