Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ROMAN PHILOSOPHER TO CHRISTIAN PRIESTS, by CONSTANCE CAROLINE WOODHILL NADEN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE ROMAN PHILOSOPHER TO CHRISTIAN PRIESTS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Well have ye spoken, but the words ye said
Last Line: And I forget not, neither can forgive.
Subject(s): Christianity; Rome, Italy


WELL have ye spoken, but the words ye said
Stir in my constant soul nor love, nor rage;
Through you my life is bare, my joy is dead,
Yet speak I calmly, as a Roman sage.

Behold the myriad orbs, whose light from far
Darts through the sphered heavens, when day is done:
What if the dwellers in yon faintest star
Deem its weak light more glorious than the sun?

And were it granted those dim eyes to share
The glow of noon that glads our earth and sea,
Would they not hate the white unpitying glare,
And choose to dream in daylight, e'en as ye?

Clear truth to vulgar minds no comfort yields;
The fair old myths have served their purpose well:
Is Heaven more bright than our Elysian fields?
And was not Tartarus sufficient Hell?

Till now, the ancient symbols have sufficed;
But there is room for all; the world is wide:
Zeno was great, and so, perchance, was Christ,
And so were Plato, and a score beside.

If I were young, I might adore with you;
But knowledge calms the heart, and clears the eye:
A thousand faiths there are, but none is true,
And I am weary, and shall shortly die.

It is not rest, to stand for evermore
And chant with myriads round a flaming throne;
I cave not this your heaven; my life is o'er,
And I would slumber, silent and alone.

Ye cannot give me back my one desire:
How have ye changed my daughter, my delight!
Since I, forsooth, must writhe in quenchless fire,
While she sings anthems, clad in vestal white!

I have not warred with doctrines, but with deeds;
In fair and generous mood I met you first;
I hated not her teachers, nor their creeds,
And yet she scorns me as a thing accursed.

She deems my lordly house unclean, defiled;
She scarce will sip my wine, or taste my bread.
Ye boast of virgin martyrs -- if my child
Die for her faith, my vengeance on your head!

Ye sons of slaves, unworthy to be free!
Calmly I speak, yet fear me, crafty priests!
I will rouse the people -- they shall see
Your bodies hacked with knives, or torn by beasts.

Go, eat and drink, and call your feast divine;
But, if my daughter dies, ye shall not live:
The ancient Roman spirit still is mine,
And I forget not, neither can forgive.






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