A Handbook for Latin Clubs Part 19

Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still--but knew not why, The world was listening, unawares.

How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever!

To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and silent night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now!

The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

--Alfred Dommett

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG

Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore Thou satt'st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore, As G.o.ds were seen-- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise: What hast thou left thee now?-- Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar, With color'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow, Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough, Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine, Lovely to hear, While night, o'er tomb and shrine Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell, On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there.

Thou hast the south's rich gift Of sudden song-- A charmed fountain, swift, Joyous and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's sh.o.r.e A mournful mien: Rome, Rome! Thou art no more As thou hast been!

--Mrs. Hemans

CAPRI

Rising from the purpling water With her brow of stone, Sprite or nymph or Triton's daughter, Rising from the purpling water, Capri sits alone--

Sits and looks across the billow Now the day is done Resting on her rocky pillow Sits and looks across the billow Toward the setting sun.

Misty visions trooping sadly Glimmer through her tears, Shapes of men contending madly,-- Misty visions trooping sadly From the vanished years.

Here Tiberius from his palace On the headland gray Hurls his foes with gleeful malice, Proud Tiberius at his palace Murd'ring men for play.

There Lamarque's recruits advancing Scale yon rocky spot, 'Neath the moon their bright steel glancing, See Lamarque's recruits advancing Through a storm of shot.

But today the goat bells' tinkle And the vespers chime, Vineyards shade each rock-hewn wrinkle, And today the goat bells' tinkle Marks a happier time.

Soft the olive groves are gleaming, War has found surcease, And as Capri sits a-dreaming Soft the olive groves are gleaming, Crowning her with peace.

--Walter Taylor Field

PALLADIUM

Set where the upper streams of Simois flow Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and wood; And Hector was in Ilium, far below, And fought, and saw it not--but there it stood!

It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd their light On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.

Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight Round Troy,--but while this stood, Troy could not fall.

So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.

Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air; Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll; We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!

Men will renew the battle in the plain Tomorrow; red with blood will Xanthus be; Hector and Ajax will be there again, Helen will come upon the wall to see.

Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife, And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and blind despairs, And fancy that we put forth all our life, And never know how with the soul it fares.

Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send; And when it fails, fight as we will, we die, And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.

--Matthew Arnold

AFTER CONSTRUING

Lord Caesar, when you sternly wrote The story of your grim campaigns And watched the ragged smoke-wreath float Above the burning plains,

Amid the impenetrable wood, Amid the camp's incessant hum At eve, beside the tumbling flood, In high Avaric.u.m,

You little recked, imperious head, When shrilled your shattering trumpets' noise, Your frigid sections would be read By bright-eyed English boys.

Ah me! Who penetrates today The secret of your deep designs?

Your sovereign visions, as you lay Amid the sleeping lines?

The Mantuan singer pleading stands; From century to century He leans and reaches wistful hands, And cannot bear to die.

But you are silent, secret, proud, No smile upon your haggard face, As when you eyed the murderous crowd Beside the statue's base.

I marvel: That t.i.tanic heart Beats strongly through the arid page, And we, self-conscious sons of art, In this bewildering age,

Like dizzy revellers stumbling out Upon the pure and peaceful night, Are sobered into troubled doubt, As swims across our sight,

The ray of that sequestered sun, Far in the illimitable blue,-- The dream of all you left undone, Of all you dared to do.