Claudia/Part 1
< Claudia
Claudia.
Part I.
The unrelenting summer sun of Rome
Poured from the zenith,—not a line of shade
Edged the white streets,—when Brân, a British prince,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate:
Narcissus, freedman and chief favourite
Of Claudius Cæsar.
For when Llyr, the king
Of the fierce tribe that held the Cymric coast
North of the tawny channel which receives
The rivers of the west, had passed away,
His son, the patient, many-thoughted Brân,
Searching his spirit, could not find the skill
To rule their turbulence in times of war.
Though brave like all his sires, the noble prince
Was minded otherwise. He could not hear
The trumpets of ambition: they were drowned
By a still voice which drew him from the midst
Of evil men, to stand above the world
And wait the dawning of a better day.
Wherefore, withdrawing from the sovereignty,
He left it in the hands of Caradoc,
His younger son; the elder prince had fallen
In Llyr's last battle with the Roman power,
Led on by Aulus Plantius. For himself,
He passed, a willing exile, from the court
Of grey Trefrân; and crossed the tawny sea,
The Summer-country, and the Deep-valed Land;
And paused not, save for needful rest and food,
Till in the centre of the granite horn
That pierces far into the unknown seas
He found the solitude his soul desired
And grew alive again.
But Caradoc,
Whose giant heart sent out a pulse which throbbed
On to the farthest limits of his sway,
Aroused the fierce Silures, and reknit
The old alliance with the North and West,
Till as one man the Cymric sovereignties
Rose on the rash invaders of the world,
And thrust them eastward from the Sabren's brink,
And for nine glorious years with desperate arms
Held them at bay. But as stern winter treads
Close on the heels of autumn, flushed and full,
So did disaster follow victory.
Ere the ninth year had closed, Ostorius,—
Whose firmer hand now led the alien powers,
While Plautius in ovation entered Rome,—
Vanquished the dwindled forces of the king,
Who, trusting in a traitress, was betrayed,
And sent a trophy to imperial Rome.
A splendid gem set round with precious stones,
His queen, his brothers, and his only child.
Then all the pageant-loving city thronged
About his steps, eager to feast their eyes
Upon this marvellous barbarian,
Who for a half-score of astonished years
Defied the arms that had defied the world.
And now the vast procession wound along
The shouting streets to where, without the walls,
The sun flashed hotly on the glittering arms
Of the pretorian bands that lined the fields,
And clustered thickly round the imperial thrones
Of Agrippina and of Claudius.
First came the followers of the captive king,
Dejected and ashamed; and with them, borne
On polished cars, the trophies of his wars:
Rich golden torques and amber necklaces
Won in a hundred fights. Then as these passed,
The noisy rapture, rending all the air,
Swept on from street to street, but followed still
By awe-struck murmurs: for behind the cars
The royal captives dragged their weary limbs,
Heavy with gilded chains: and last of all,
With eye unquenched and an unfettered air
That mocked his bonds, came Caradoc the king.
Now when they reached the throne of Claudius
All but the king debased themselves to kneel
In shameful supplication for their lives.
But as for him, he stood erect and spoke
Kingly and soldierly, as speaks a man
Unto his fellow: lifting all the while
His hand in fitting cadence to his words
As easily as if the ponderous chain
Were a light wreath. Then his majestic air,—
His words of unadorned, unboastful truth,—
Went to such heart as Cæsar still possessed:
So that a spark of nobleness revived
Within him; and much marvelling to himself
What this might mean, but conscious of a sense
Of unaccustomed light and warmth, resigned
His soul to the strange pleasure, and decreed
Life and free pardon to the king, his queen,
His princely brothers; and his only child,
Eirgen, the gold-bright princess.
So they dwelt
As prisoners in a house assigned to them,
A splendid palace on the Palatine,
Or what seemed such to unaccustomed eyes.
And though the tooth of secret anguish gnawed
The heart of Caradoc, he bore his pangs
In silence; while his feebler kindred sank
Beneath their smaller griefs and filled the halls
With loud laments. And he and all his kin,
He in stern silence, they with loud laments,
He with a drowning sense of vaster woes,
They cooped in narrow thoughts of narrow things,
Pined in that glowing city of the South
For Britain's mist-wreathed hills and varied skies;
Though lodged and served right nobly, as became
Such noble captives, pined for liberty;
Pined for the freedom of the rustic court
Held by Silurian kings in grey Trefrân,
Beside Dunraven's wood-entufted hill.
Now when the tidings of that dark defeat
And darker treachery reached the ears of Brân,
Far in the bleak wilds of the granite horn,
They shook him to the centre. He arose
And, nerved to action by the sudden stress,
Disguised his princely aspect in the weeds
Of a poor mendicant; then, staff in hand,
Retraced his steps across the Land of Vales,
The garden of the west; and crossed once more
The Summer-country and the tawny sea.
So after weary days that grew to weeks
Before the toilsome pilgrimage was done,
Came to the silent halls of grey Trefrân.
There lost in tearless grief he paced along
The grass-grown roadway to the ruined gate,
Once all alive with loyal multitudes.
And thence through desolate spaces, wherein once
The noblest druids, bards, and warriors
Met in high council round their nobler king.
He wandered on, still lost in tearless grief.
So through the banquet-hall, where oftentimes
The noise of feast and dance and merriment
Had made the walls and roof-tree ring again,
He passed in tearless grief. But when at length
He reached the inner chamber, once the home
Where Caradoc the husband, son, and sire
Forgot to be a soldier and a king,
He bowed his hoary head and wept his fill.
But soon the eager thirst of grief for grief
Made him uplift his eyes and gaze around
On all that was and was not, till at length
That pain was slowly quenched with greater pain.
Then rose the prince to seek the inland hills,
Where dwelt within a secret woodland hut
Cadair, his faithful hind, from whom he learned
That all was over true; Siluria
Lay as a vassal province at the feet
Of the world's ruler; Caradoc, betrayed,
Was borne in triumph as a thrall to Rome,
The hateful city.
But it came to pass,
As each successive note of misery
Fell on his ears and sank into his heart,
He grew the stronger. For his soul, drawn back
From her vast wanderings through the confused worlds
Of space and speculation, centred home,
And mustered all her forces for the field
Of actual and inevitable life.
Nor many days had passed, or ere, once more
In sordid weeds arrayed, he took his way
To Venta by the coast, and finding there
A vessel bound for Gaul, set sail in her,
And through the Gallic forests and flat lands
Passed with unflinching foot until he reached
The broad Rhodane, whose barges carried him
To rich Massilia's many-masted port.
Thence rudely tossed on the Tyrrhenian waves,
He came to Ostia, and at length to Rome.
And clad in all his native dignity,
Which like a rich and ample robe of state
Concealed the mean and travel-stained attire
That hung upon his stately form, he stood
In Cæsar's presence and besought of him
That Caradoc his heir, the chosen chief
Of all the Cymri, might return in peace
To Britain, while that he, his sire, remained
In Rome, a hostage for his fealty.
And Claudius seemed to listen to his suit
With favouring ears; but many vexing forms
Hung on the wheels of action, and required
Hard proofs of most plain things. Till on a day
In the imperial presence sire and son
Met without warning; and their mighty love,
Like & swollen torrent rising, bore them on
Into each other's arms with bursting sobs
Of joy and grief that could not be controlled,
And so the proof was plain to all the world.
Then Cæsar,—thinking thus to pacify
The wrathful people of the Western isles,
Who held his legions still at bay, or else
Out of a mere infirmity of will,—
Granted the prince's prayer, or seemed to grant.
But the court favourites, greedy for a bribe,
Hampered the prince's business; and the king
Remained a captive still; and his sire's heart
Grew sick with hope deferred from day to day.
Thus then it was that Brân, a British prince,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate.
And as he waited on the favourite,
Worn out with long delays, and still denied
By scornful menials, a stranger passed:
An aged man, who pausing near him made
Obeisance as the Easterns make and said,
"O prince,—for all men know thou art a prince
From the far isle of Britain,—I beseech thee
Pardon thy servant. All my heart is moved
To see thee watch thus patiently in vain,
Day after day, year after year, to win
An audience of Narcissus. Verily
A tythe of all this thankless service paid
Unto the King of kings, would purchase thee
More fruitful hearing."
"Nay, thou knowest not,"
Brân answered him, full courteously, but yet
With just a touch of coldness in the tone;
For though most patient of his own disgrace
It galled his heart to think his fallen estate
Should cast a slur on Britain, being linked
E'en by a casual comment with her name.
"At my first coming I had audience
Of him thou rightly call'st the King of kings,
Though such he be not rightfully. Yea more,
Cæsar allowed my suit. But none the less
The business lingers, in the greedy hands
Of this Narcissus; wherefore I besiege
His still reluctant doors."
Then said the man,
"Pardon! my lord, my words were over-dark
And failed to show my meaning. Know, O prince,
I spake not of imperial Claudius;
But of the Lord of heaven and earth, Who reigns
From everlasting on to evermore.
In Whose vast hand the kings and emperors
Are pliant tools, Whose palace-doors stand wide
In every place, Whose kingdom is a home
For sorrowing exiles scattered through the world."
At that the languid eyelids of the prince
Were lifted suddenly, as if the words
Had touched a secret in his breast.
"Yes, true,
I missed thy meaning, friend; yet none the less
That meaning was the meaning of my life
Until misfortune drove me from the calm
Of meditation in the Cymric wilds,
And led me to this vile tumultuous place,
This seething caldron filled to the hissing brim
With cruelty and luxury. Here all thoughts
Save those of indignation and despair
Have died within me. Yet how long I watched
Those heavenly palace-doors! but never once
Did any streak of light show them ajar,
Nor any voice reply."
"Yet God has heard,"
Broke in the stranger—"yea, and answered too,
Though thou hast thought Him deaf to thy desire.
He drew thee from the empty, voiceless wilds,
From that close gazing on the inner dark
Which burns the aching eye-balls of the soul,
But never pierces to the light beyond.
His hand has brought thee hither; here, in Rome,
His servant waits to lead thee to His feet."
He ceased; and Brân was silent for a space
As if he gathered up the golden words
And told them over. Then he rose from off
The clients' sordid bench, girded his robe,
Turned from Narcissus' door, and made as though
He would have joined the stranger, saying,—
He would have joined the stranger, saying, "Friend,
'Tis well a man should know with whom he speaks.
Therefore I will not hide that I am Brân,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Fain to become a hostage for my son.
Who then art thou?"
"My name is Julius,"
The stranger answered in an altered voice,
Saddened by nameless memories and regrets,—
"A name of little note or novelty.
Born of the Hebrew race in Lydia,
But disallowed by all my kin and creed
For this strange crime; that when our God vouchsafed
To grant us our desire, to hear the prayer
Which swelled for ages Judah's yearning heart,
I would not slight His gift—no less a gift
Than that Deliverer sought by kings and seers,
And found at last in Christ of Nazareth.
Wherefore, cast out by all, I came to Rome;
Where I have dwelt three years. Many are here
Of mine own nation, driven as I have been,
From kindred, home, and country, for His sake
Who bore worse things for ours, O prince, and thine.
Others, the sons and daughters of the land,
Are joined with us. Some of great houses: more
Of the plebeian stock, but most of all
Of the disheartened slaves. Among the first
Is one of whom thou hast heard in other days,
Pomponia, wife of Aulus Plautius,
The general who aforetime held command
In Britain, ere the days when Caradoc
Rose in his strength."
"Yea! yea!" replied the prince,
"I have heard men speak of her. A lady wrapt
In most mysterious woe, who never changed
Her mourning robe, whose hair was white with snow
That fell in summer, Some averred her grief
Grew from her childless state; but others said
That sorrow for a dear friend put to death
Because her beauty vexed the wicked eyes
Of Messalina, gnawed upon her still.
However this might be, thus much was clear,—
That she was stricken to the hopeless heart.
Yet though so stricken that all the tears she had
Seemed but too few for her own misery,
She spared full many a precious drop for ours.
Many a captive owed his rescued life
To her kind pleadings. Many a trembling town
Was spared the cruel rifling of the troops
At her entreaties. Yet the veterans,
Though muttering curses on the general,
Had not a threat for her; so sweet, so pure,
Were all her manners towards them."
"'Tis most true,"
The old man answered, as with laboured breath
He overtook the eager-striding prince;
Who, stirred as was his custom by the thought
Of generous natures and their gentle deeds,
Forgot his new companion in the theme.
—"Pomponia was all and more than all
That thou hast said; and since those days the Lord
Has had compassion on her, drawing her
Close to Himself; and has moreover blessed her
With a fair daughter, born in Britain, one
As wise as she is fair; yet no less meek,—
O! meeker far! and far more tractable
Than softer natures; with a heart at one
With God in all things."—
So the old man spoke
And sighed in speaking, as a father sighs,
Who numbers up the lovely qualities
Of a dear, dying child. And then he paused,
And when he spoke again, his words recurred
To the first theme:—
"It seems Pomponia's grief
Grew from a deeper root than childlessness;
For though less wild and bitter than in days
Of heathen gloom, it hangs about her still,
And mars perchance the meaning of her life
To her impatient lord."
"All this I heard
By common rumour," said the prince, "and more
Was told me by my faithful herdsman's wife,
The daughter of a servant of our house;
Who, taken captive as a little maid,
Had served Pomponia many happy years
Within the alien camp, set free by her
When she returned to Rome. Estrildis spake
Of some new worship, pure and spiritual
Beyond all other worships of the world,
Which her dear lady practised, and the which
Herself had learned to love. A worship paid,
By a new life of holy thoughts and deeds
And solemn prayers and praises, to one God,
Revealed in him of whom thou spak'st anon,
Jesus the Christ; but wherefore called the Christ,
I know not."
Then the other was not slow
To answer fittingly, with words that met
The faithful witness in the prince's soul,
And ended thus:—
"This faith whereof I speak
Is no new thing, but eldest born of all:
The truth whereof the rest are counterfeits.
These base their shadowy fabrics on the sands,
The shifting conscience of the varying race,
Whereon arise, to glitter for a day,
Frail shrines of worship paid to fancied powers:
Shrines open only to a favoured few.
This, like a city founded on a rock,—
The home of generations passed away,
The home of generations yet to come,—
Rests on the deep foundations of the past,
The solid substance of the storied years
That slowly settle from the thoughts of God.
And in her temple-courts and round about
Her fragrant altars, all the tribes of men;—
The Greek, the Jew; the unshorn, the civilized;
The bond, the free; the simple, and the sage;—
Are welcome; and her choicest mysteries
She opens to the meekest of the earth."
Thus speaking, Julius led the thoughtful prince;
Leaving the broad streets and the dazzling domes;
The temples, columns, statues; leaving too
The flowery, fragrant gardens; till they came
By ever-narrowing ways to Julius' home:
A humble lodging by the Tiber's side;
Whose waters, ever rushing by the wall,
Subdued the strife and clangour of the town.
And here with quiet modesty, unspoiled
By any false shame for his mean abode,
He bade the prince be welcome, while he spread
His best upon the board. Then, after meat,
They sat and talked until the air grew dim:
Until the lights on the opposing shore
Streamed out their long reflections on the stream:
Until a glory never to be quenched
Broke on the soul of Brân.
At length he rose
And laid his arms about the old man's neck,
In kind farewell, and passed into the street.
And threading now the ever-widening ways,
Through less and less of sordid on to more
And ever more of sumptuous, he reached
The temples and the palaces again,
Where columns, arches, statues, stood aloft
In glittering moonlight, amidst gardens sunk
In depths of fragrant shade. Yet every step,
From that poor chamber by the river side
Towards this central splendour, seemed to him
To bear him farther from magnificence
Nearer to meanness. And when last he reached
The palace on the Palatine, assigned
By Claudius to the royal hostages,
The small and plaintive questions of the queen,
The wife of Caradoc his son,—whose heart,
Loving, but ever fretful in its love,
Misgave her, that his lingering meant mishap
To her or her's or him,—fell on his ears,
Though seasoned to such sounds, as something strange,
Something most needless and most pitiful.
For were not all his goings and returns
Guarded divinely? was not every thread
Of all the tangled interests of his house
Held smooth by hands kinder than kindest hands
Of fabled fate? And yet he answered her
With meeker patience than his wont (though Brân
Was ever famed for patience); for his soul
Had risen into the higher calm which stills
All angry pulses. Thus his prayer was heard;
And thus his eyes, long faithful in the dark,
Found at the last they had not watched in vain.
Soon as the morning broke the prince arose
Alert and strong, as if a second youth
Quickened his veins; and through the silent streets
He bent his steps again to Julius' home.
There scarcely had he entered and received
The old man's welcome, when a hurried knock
Startled the door, which opening instantly,
Ere Julius could reply,—a fair young girl,—
Half child, half woman,—all her delicate face
Flushing with eagerness, all her features strung
To some set purpose, sprang into the room.
Her bearing had a wild and sylvan grace
That seemed most strange in one whose raiment spoke
Of noble lineage. For her tunic, woven
Of finest Syrian wool, bleached by the dews
Of summer nights upon the emerald plains
That frame Damascus, was all bordered round
With Tyrian purple; and was looped above
On each fair shoulder with a gleaming pearl,
Large as a linnet's egg; and over this
Hung loosely draped about her slender form
A robe of equal richness; and her hair,—
Crisp, golden hair that ran in rippled waves
Back from her rounded temples, flowed behind
Into a silken network, strung as thick
With pearls as autumn gossamers with dew;
Her very feet, that trod the homely floor
With such a dainty firmness, were encased
In shoes of creamy kid skin, rough with pearls.
No sooner was her hasty entrance made
Than seeing Brân, she started and drew back
Half timidly; yet with her gaze still fixed
Upon his face, with a child's look of keen
Unconscions scrutiny.
"Fear not, my child,"
Said Julius, rising with a tremulous haste
And laying softly on her sunny head
One wrinkled hand in blessing; while she kissed
Its fellow, lifting it up reverently
With her long fingers. "Fear not, Claudia,
This stranger will not harm thee, nor betray
Thy coming."
Then he turned him to the prince,
Saying,—"This maid is she of whom I spake:
The child of Plautius and Pomponia."
And Brân kept gazing on her tender face
As if it held a mystery; while he heard,
As in a dream, the voice of Julius say,
"Alas! my daughter, wherefore art thou come?
For thongh my banished heart yearns after thee,
Dear one, as well thou knowest, none the less
I tremble that thou thus shouldst disobey
Thy sire's commandment."
"Nay, my master dear,"
Answered the maiden, with a sudden flash
Of indignation,—"never adjure me more
By any father's claim from Plautius.
He never gave me any father's love,
Only a mockery of a father's pride.
And now I know it;—my dim guess is true:
Plautius is not my father; nay no more
The sire of Claudia than this stranger here
Is Claudia's grandsire."
"Peace, my child," in haste
Julius broke in, "I charge thee, listen not
To this slaves' gоssір."
"Nay, my father dear,"
She answered, tempering her passionate voice
To meekness, "only hear, and thou wilt own
That this is no slaves' gossip. Yesternight,
Pomponia,—she whom I will ever call
My mother; who has won the name by more
Than mother's love and mother's sorrow too:—
Thrown from her guard by grief that Plautius
Refused her prayer to bear me company
At a gay festival, wherein she knew
I should be sore bested,—let fall a word
Which told me that my guess had touched the truth.
No: I am not their child."
"Even were this so,"
Said Julius, striving to discern the right,
Yet baffled still, so that his words became
Feeble and void of faith:—"He is thy sire
In the law's sight, and thou art bound to heed
All his commands. Unless that he command
To disobey thy God. Then, not till then,
The bond gives way before the greater bond.
But let that pass: surely thou hast not braved
His anger, merely thus to tell me this,
That thou art not his child?"
"Nay, surely nay,"
She answered with a pretty shamefaced smile,
Which faded quickly, as her features took
An air of settled purpose once again,
"I come to warn thee of a fearful snare.
Alas! my father, never, never more
Can any dear occasion come to me
Of disobeying Plautius for thy sake.
Or rather for His dear sake Whose thou art,
And Whom thou servest; Whose I also am
And Whom I fain would serve. Listen to me,
And little Claudia like the fabled mouse
May free the lion from the hunter's toils.
Before thou camest to Rome, four years ago,
The emperor, incensed by rebel deeds
Of certain lawless Jews, and with his fears
Wrought on by favourites, issued a decree
That every Jew and every proselyte
Should quit the city and the lands of Rome.
I was a child and scarcely read aright
The meaning of their grief; but as I looked
From our high palace windows on the bands
Of plundered exiles hastening to the gates,
And saw the sorrow and dismay that sat
On every face, I wept aloud with them,
And angered Plautius. With them went, they say,
Many who owned the Christ and worshipped Him.
Now since those days, amidst the cruel strifes
And ever-growing licence of the times,
This old decree against your tribe has fallen
Into forgetfulness. And some have crept
Back to their homes; and others, knowing not
Of such a law, have come to Rome from far,
As thou, my father. So for a brief while
All has seemed safe. But now the courtiers,
Sated with softer wickedness and fain
To try the taste of blood, have plied the ears
Of the dull emperor with a false report
Of some conspiracy among your tribe.
This very night, at sunset, all your homes
Will be beset and every soul be slain.
Such is their fiendish scheme.
"But God is good;
And yesternight I, forced by Plantius
To join this banquet, overheard them talk;
Such talk as curdled up my blood to hear.
But oh, what fervent thanks flew from my heart
Up to the Lord Almighty, who refused
My prayer to save me from that riotous scene
That He might grant my greater prayer: to save
Thee, O my father, and thy people too
From the fell heathen."
Here her voice gave way
And suddenly, before she was aware,
Changed to a sob; but pressing her fair hands
Hard on her heaving breast, she wrestled down
The rising passion, calmed herself, and stood
As meek before him as a three years' child,
Waiting his answer. But he, all amazed
By this unlooked-for stroke, and tossed about
By many currents of suggestion,
Kept troubled silence.
Then he thought:—"Perchance,—
Nay doubtless,—they have played upon her fears;
For this thing cannot be:" then spake aloud,
"Tell me, my child, their very words and looks.
Who spoke the first? who followed?"
"I will tell
As clearly and as truly as I can,"
She answered him, and girt her eager soul
With patience;—"but, my father, while we speak
The precious moments fly, moments at most
Too few to spread the warning.
"Thus it was:—
Last night, as I have said, did Plautius feast
Three of his chosen friends, mere boys to him;
For lately he has seemed to honour such
More than his grey compeers. One of the three
Was Martialis, of the Spanish race,
Of a most witty and most wanton tongue,
For ever stringing all things in the world
On slender threads of epigram. With him
Came his compatriot and fellow poet,
Lucanus; of a grave and modest mien,
But with an eye to shrink from. And the third
Was Pudens, of the order of the knights."
Now when she named that name the maiden blushed
And faltered for a moment; at the which
The old man sighed, as at a token fraught
With danger to his darling.
Then Prince Brân
Discerning that his presence checked her speech,
Arose and stood apart a little space
Beside a windowed opening in the wall;
And, looking on the stream, his busy thoughts
Flowed faster than the current of the stream.
"Thus, ever thus," he mused, "the tide of life
Flows on without a pause. Scarce have I met
The man of all the world who meets my soul,—
Who has the message ready on his lips
Which I have listened for so long in vain,—
Ere the remorseless current sweeping on
Bears him beyond my reach. But if the tale
The maiden tells be true, and he must quit
This murderous city,—whither shall he go?—
Ay, wherefore not to Britain? Many ears,
Half opened by the wisdom of the bards,
Await the message there, and many souls
Are sick to death of sin. Ay, let him go."
So mused the prince, watching the stream. Meanwhile
The maiden meekly stood by Julius
With folded hands, as if her mind were set
To say a weary task. And thus she spake:—
"And Plantius commanded me to bid
Four ladies to the feast, daughters of four
Of the great houses. So they came in state.
Haughty and vain they looked; their scented locks
Made the air heavy, and their gorgeous robes
Trailed on the floor, tangling my feet, whereat
They frowned as if the injury were theirs.
O how my heart longed for Pomponia,
My only mother, to be near me then;
I felt so shelterless and so alone.
But she was shut by Plautius' stern command
Within a distant chamber; never since
That dreadful day when she was tried by all
Her gathered kindred, tried for life and fame,—
Save in his presence, may I speak with her.
I will not weary thee, telling the talk
That wearied me. At length the purple folds
That hung between us and the central hall
Were drawn aside by slaves, all crowned with flowers,
Revealing us to Plantius and his guests;
Who greeted us full courteously, and begged
Of Plautius that the banquet might be graced
By our fair presence. So we passed along
To supper, marshalled by the bowing slaves.
My four companions soon reclined at ease
Beside the youths upon the couches placed
Around the board; but Plautius, kind for once,
With some rough joke about my childish ways
Bade me be seated at his feet. Four hours,
Four endless hours, the feast crept slowly on
From costly course to course, with frivolous talk
And wanton songs between; and ever more
When in these wanton songs there came a line
More dull, or more unmeaning than the rest,
It seemed to take the hearers' fancy most.
And then at every pause,—wine, wine, still wine,
Of every varied vintage of the South,
Flowing at every turn; until at length
These high-born women, most unwomanly,
Grew flushed and looked so strangely with their eyes
It vexed my soul to see them. And methinks
That Pudens read my discontent, and wished
To shield it by a pretext from the eyes
Of Plautius, lest he should be angered by it;
For with a smiling face he turned and said,
'Thy gentle daughter, sir, is scarcely ripe
For these late feasts. See! sleep hangs in her eyes,'
And would have spoken more;—but Plautius
Rose on his elbow with a sudden rage
Glaring upon me, as my furtive looks
Glanced towards the door, so much I longed to fly,—
And whispered fiercely in my startled ear,—
'Beware! for any rash discourtesy
To me or to my guests shall be repaid
With bloody interest to thy baseborn friends,
Julius and all his tribe.'
"And these his words
Were caught by the quick ears of Julia
Who lay beside him on the lower couch;
For straight she lisped to him, while all the time
Her cruel smiles flashed sideways at my face,
'Ah, my good lord, by this same hour to-morrow
Thy threat to Claudia will have lost its point;
For not a soul of all her chosen friends,
Search where thou wilt, will then be found alive,
To suffer thy just vengeance.'
"'How? what meanest thou?'
Said Plautius sternly. 'Claudius has no heart
To plan a sweeping clearance such as this,
Without the prompting of his favourites,
Without the knowledge of his generals,
And naught has reached my ears.'
"'May be, my lord,'
She answered; 'for he fears to tell it thee,
Lest it should leak abroad; for all the world
Knows that the ladies of thy house are pledged
To these vile Hebrews.'
"At that Plautius' brow
Grew sterner still—'Be careful of thy tongue,'
He muttered, 'speaking of my wife and child:'
Then louder, 'Tell me how it came to pass.'
"'Most easily, she answered with a laugh.
'We of the court were weary of our lives
For want of some new zest. This
Agrippina Weighs on us all like lead:—no life—no play—
But a mere plodding merchant, counting gains
Of power from week to week. Her predecessor
Perchance did carry things a little far,
At least she was imprudent. But the court
Was twenty times more lively in her time;
Or so they say,—of course the thing is far
Beyond my memory'—
"—here incautiously
Fanning her false face with an ostrich plume
On which the slaves had sprinkled essences,
The moistened feather swept the red away
From half her withered cheek. But knowing not,
She babbled on:—
"'Of course the thing is far
Beyond my memory, being a mere child
When Messalina fell. But as I said,
We all were fit to die of weariness,
And therefore planned a pleasant tragedy
To stir our blood. We told the emperor
That his decree of exile 'gainst the Jews
Was disregarded, many had returned,
And some had never gone; and all were bound
With the house-slaves in a conspiracy,
Spread like a network underneath our feet
Throughout the length and breadth of Rome, to rise
And slaughter him and his and all of us,
And overthrow the empire.'
"Here she paused
To lift the wine-cup to her lips, and then
I heard Lucanus whisper under breath
To Martialis,—
"'Curse the woman's tongue!
Spoiling our sport! now Claudia without doubt
Will warn the game.'
"But Julia did not hear
Or did not heed,—
"'Anything in the world,'—
So she went on, 'the merest lumber, placed
Upon the groove of fear, slides swift and sure
Into the brain of Claudius. Thus, you see,
Our little tragedy was soon arranged.
Those of the actors who had need to learn
Their parts are well instructed;—for the rest,
Theirs will be better played in ignorance.'
And here she laughed again, and glanced at me
In cruel triumph:—adding, 'As I said,
By this same hour to-morrow not a soul
Of pretty Claudia's strangely chosen friends
Will be forthcoming. Sunset is the time
Given to the guards."
Here Claudia ceased and drew
A choking breath. And Julius said, "Enough,"
And rose up quickly, while with shaking hands
He girt his robe:—"Enough, O God! I see
The fearful tale is over true;—but how
Hast thon escaped to tell it?"
"I scarce know,
Myself," she answered: "Thanks to Him whose hand
Guides the most stubborn evils to good ends,
As wilder waxed the revel, Plantius ceased
To note me further;—so I ventured forth
And found the fresh morn breaking purely down
Through the sky-centre of the outer hall.
Then with my faithful nurse, who waits without,
I left the palace. But the time flies on;
And thou must hasten forth from house to house
To warn thy people. I too must be gone.
But, O! it almost breaks my heart to think
That I may never see thy face again,
Nor hear thy voice. The lessons of the Lord
May come to me, I know, by other lips,
Or even be taught in silence; yet I fear
They will seem hard, and I shall grow perverse,
And fail to learn them. Ah! thou knowest not
What hateful snares are spread about my feet.
And, O my father,—scorn not thy poor child—
The worst is this; they do not always seem.
Hateful to all my heart. O lift me up
On thy strong hands of prayer,—as thou would'st lift
A drowning creature from the weltering waves!"
Then Julius wrung her hands and wept aloud:
And bade her trust in God and watch her heart
As she would watch a treacherous enemy;
And bade her stay her soul upon the thought
That the kind Christ was near her evermore,
That when the foe pressed closest, He would be
Yet closer. So with many sighs and tears
And prayers, they parted. But or ere she passed
Through the dark door, she turned, and stood therein
Like a fair statue in a gloomy niche.
Her face subdued into a solemn calm
While all her form dilated with the thought
That swelled her soul. And Brân who had stepped forth
To give her salutation ere she went
Heard her last words:
"My father, ere I go,
Not knowing what betides me where I go,
I have a last request to make of thee:
Grant it as thou would'st grant it, were it made
By dying lips, sealed by beseeching looks
In dying eyes. Thou knowest I was born
In Britain: doubtless of the British race.
I treasure many a dim remembrance still
Of fair green meadows, russet forest-paths,
And cooler skies than these; and looks of love
That hung above my cradle, ere I dwelt
With Plantius and Pomponia in the camp.
Voices and visions haunt me in the night
Re-echoed from some far-off place and time.
My heart is bound so close to that dear land
That all her woes are mine, and make me feel
As if my mother wept and cried to me,
Calling across the melancholy seas.
But I—I cannot answer or return.
Wilt not thou go, my father? when thou camest
From Lydia's shore, thy course was like the sun
From east to west; and now that thou art driven
From hence, be like the gracious sun once more:
Still further westward bear the blessed light,
Even to the islands of the utmost sea,—
To Britain. "Tis my last request. Farewell."
So she passed out, not waiting for reply;
While Brân took up his staff to follow her,
Saying to Julius, "Hearken to her words.
For be assured the wisdom of the gods,
The wisdom of the God of gods is there.
The thoughts she uttered were the very thoughts
That held me as I watched the rolling stream.
I go to guard her steps, unseen by her;
For by this time the city is abroad,
And dangers may beset her. There's a look
In her deep violet eyes that brings to mind
One whom I lost long since, my eldest born,
Slain in the last fight of my sire, King Llyr.
Ere noon I will return."
And so the prince
Departed, following Claudia and the nurse
At distance silently. At first it seemed
A needless care; for every street was still
And empty; scarce a shutter was withdrawn
In all the lazy city. Here and there
A swarthy peasant, singing merrily,
Bound for the market-place with fruits and flowers,
From some green-nested hamlet in the hills,—
Would pass them, check his song, and turn to gaze
At Claudia's beauty, only half concealed
By her light veil;—then shake his simple head
In sad rebuke, and go upon his way,
With careful thoughts about his girls at home.
But as they neared the house of Plautius
A band of drunken revellers noisily
Burst from Narcissus' palace-gates hard by,
Ready and ripe for mischief; and forthwith
They, seeing Claudia, but through wine-dulled eyes,
That saw not she was Claudia, with a shout
Reeled after her and caught her by the veil.
Whereat she flung it off, and stood erect,
Like an indignant queen, and cried aloud,—
"Stand back! Methinks ye know not who I am."
At which they stared upon her, and two fled,
Muttering, "By Venus' eyelids, 'tis the child
Of the old general, Plautius. Let us begone!"
While other two, past reason, mad with wine,
Pressed hard upon her and the shrieking nurse.
But are their vile hands touched her—for the nurse
Had thrust her 'gainst the wall, and stood before,
To guard her darling, as the wild cat guards
Her young one,—Brân was on them unawares.
His vigorous age had left his sinews sound.
He would not honour them, such dogs as these,
With buffets of his princely hand; but wound
A long, strong arm about the waist of each,
And tore them up and hurled them to the earth
Without a word; and left them grovelling there
Like trodden worms.
Then Claudia, who had held
Her head so high in peril, voice so firm,
Finding the peril safely overpast,
Trembled like any leaf, ready to swoon;
And dared not speak her thanks, lest the great sobs
That struggled in her throat should reach her lips.
Therefore, she only lifted grateful eyes
Upon the aged prince, who took her hand,
And led her gently to her father's door.
There parted from her, saying, "My fair child,
I heard thee speak anon to Julius
Of that dear island whose dishonoured name
I cannot breathe in Rome. And thou didst speak
As if thou lovest it therefore, let this love
Be henceforth as a bond between us two.
I love that dear land next to my own soul,
And hate her foes next to the evil powers.
Should any rumour reach thy father's ears
Of this encounter, tell him that Prince Brân,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Carado c,
Has now avenged himself and all his house
Upon him, rescuing his only child."
So turned and went; while she, with grateful eyes
Shining upon him through her unfallen tears,
Stood on the topmost marble step and watched
His stately form diminish and grow pale
Along the lessening street.
Meanwhile the slave
Who kept the gate—one with her in the faith,
And guessing of her mission by the talk
That passed among his fellows yesternight,—
Brought by a secret signal from the nurse,
Gave them safe entrance;—saying, as she passed,
"Christ's blessing rest upon thy golden head,
Dear lady, dearest child;—and as to-night
Thou hast braved many perils for the sake
Of those He loves, so through the darker night
That stretches on until He shine again
In everlasting morning on the world,—
May His good angels have a charge to keep
Thy tender feet in all their doubtful ways."
So with the blessing of the poor and meek
Warm at her heart, she passed into the house;
And sought her little chamber, where she fell
Upon her knees before the unseen Shrine
That faithful hearts find everywhere; and strove
In wordless agonies of prayer; and poured
Her soul in praise for rescue, safe return,
And a new friend. At length, arising up
With looks of full contentment, like a babe
Slow-turning from his mother's liberal breast,—
Summoned the nurse and gladly laid aside
Her festal draperies and ornaments.
Then, clad in simple homespun, sat her down,
Distaff in hand, and thought within herself,
"Here will I sit and spin and sing the while,
And through the open window shall my song
Rise to Pomponia in her lonely room.
Which does she love the best? Methinks it is
That pretty little song that Seneca,
Prince Nero's tutor, made for me last year,
When I lamented for the good old times.
For though the heathen gods are named in it,
'Tis sure an innocent song; and I can think,
Stead of Minerva, of the mighty One
Named in the sacred books of Julius,
The everlasting Wisdom, whom of old,
In the beginning of His wondrous ways,
The Lord, the God of heaven and earth, possessed.
And where the words fall short of revealed truths
In these last favoured days, my inward thought,
Can shoot beyond them to a better aim."
And so she sat and span and sung the while.
Poured from the zenith,—not a line of shade
Edged the white streets,—when Brân, a British prince,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate:
Narcissus, freedman and chief favourite
Of Claudius Cæsar.
For when Llyr, the king
Of the fierce tribe that held the Cymric coast
North of the tawny channel which receives
The rivers of the west, had passed away,
His son, the patient, many-thoughted Brân,
Searching his spirit, could not find the skill
To rule their turbulence in times of war.
Though brave like all his sires, the noble prince
Was minded otherwise. He could not hear
The trumpets of ambition: they were drowned
By a still voice which drew him from the midst
Of evil men, to stand above the world
And wait the dawning of a better day.
Wherefore, withdrawing from the sovereignty,
He left it in the hands of Caradoc,
His younger son; the elder prince had fallen
In Llyr's last battle with the Roman power,
Led on by Aulus Plantius. For himself,
He passed, a willing exile, from the court
Of grey Trefrân; and crossed the tawny sea,
The Summer-country, and the Deep-valed Land;
And paused not, save for needful rest and food,
Till in the centre of the granite horn
That pierces far into the unknown seas
He found the solitude his soul desired
And grew alive again.
But Caradoc,
Whose giant heart sent out a pulse which throbbed
On to the farthest limits of his sway,
Aroused the fierce Silures, and reknit
The old alliance with the North and West,
Till as one man the Cymric sovereignties
Rose on the rash invaders of the world,
And thrust them eastward from the Sabren's brink,
And for nine glorious years with desperate arms
Held them at bay. But as stern winter treads
Close on the heels of autumn, flushed and full,
So did disaster follow victory.
Ere the ninth year had closed, Ostorius,—
Whose firmer hand now led the alien powers,
While Plautius in ovation entered Rome,—
Vanquished the dwindled forces of the king,
Who, trusting in a traitress, was betrayed,
And sent a trophy to imperial Rome.
A splendid gem set round with precious stones,
His queen, his brothers, and his only child.
Then all the pageant-loving city thronged
About his steps, eager to feast their eyes
Upon this marvellous barbarian,
Who for a half-score of astonished years
Defied the arms that had defied the world.
And now the vast procession wound along
The shouting streets to where, without the walls,
The sun flashed hotly on the glittering arms
Of the pretorian bands that lined the fields,
And clustered thickly round the imperial thrones
Of Agrippina and of Claudius.
First came the followers of the captive king,
Dejected and ashamed; and with them, borne
On polished cars, the trophies of his wars:
Rich golden torques and amber necklaces
Won in a hundred fights. Then as these passed,
The noisy rapture, rending all the air,
Swept on from street to street, but followed still
By awe-struck murmurs: for behind the cars
The royal captives dragged their weary limbs,
Heavy with gilded chains: and last of all,
With eye unquenched and an unfettered air
That mocked his bonds, came Caradoc the king.
Now when they reached the throne of Claudius
All but the king debased themselves to kneel
In shameful supplication for their lives.
But as for him, he stood erect and spoke
Kingly and soldierly, as speaks a man
Unto his fellow: lifting all the while
His hand in fitting cadence to his words
As easily as if the ponderous chain
Were a light wreath. Then his majestic air,—
His words of unadorned, unboastful truth,—
Went to such heart as Cæsar still possessed:
So that a spark of nobleness revived
Within him; and much marvelling to himself
What this might mean, but conscious of a sense
Of unaccustomed light and warmth, resigned
His soul to the strange pleasure, and decreed
Life and free pardon to the king, his queen,
His princely brothers; and his only child,
Eirgen, the gold-bright princess.
So they dwelt
As prisoners in a house assigned to them,
A splendid palace on the Palatine,
Or what seemed such to unaccustomed eyes.
And though the tooth of secret anguish gnawed
The heart of Caradoc, he bore his pangs
In silence; while his feebler kindred sank
Beneath their smaller griefs and filled the halls
With loud laments. And he and all his kin,
He in stern silence, they with loud laments,
He with a drowning sense of vaster woes,
They cooped in narrow thoughts of narrow things,
Pined in that glowing city of the South
For Britain's mist-wreathed hills and varied skies;
Though lodged and served right nobly, as became
Such noble captives, pined for liberty;
Pined for the freedom of the rustic court
Held by Silurian kings in grey Trefrân,
Beside Dunraven's wood-entufted hill.
Now when the tidings of that dark defeat
And darker treachery reached the ears of Brân,
Far in the bleak wilds of the granite horn,
They shook him to the centre. He arose
And, nerved to action by the sudden stress,
Disguised his princely aspect in the weeds
Of a poor mendicant; then, staff in hand,
Retraced his steps across the Land of Vales,
The garden of the west; and crossed once more
The Summer-country and the tawny sea.
So after weary days that grew to weeks
Before the toilsome pilgrimage was done,
Came to the silent halls of grey Trefrân.
There lost in tearless grief he paced along
The grass-grown roadway to the ruined gate,
Once all alive with loyal multitudes.
And thence through desolate spaces, wherein once
The noblest druids, bards, and warriors
Met in high council round their nobler king.
He wandered on, still lost in tearless grief.
So through the banquet-hall, where oftentimes
The noise of feast and dance and merriment
Had made the walls and roof-tree ring again,
He passed in tearless grief. But when at length
He reached the inner chamber, once the home
Where Caradoc the husband, son, and sire
Forgot to be a soldier and a king,
He bowed his hoary head and wept his fill.
But soon the eager thirst of grief for grief
Made him uplift his eyes and gaze around
On all that was and was not, till at length
That pain was slowly quenched with greater pain.
Then rose the prince to seek the inland hills,
Where dwelt within a secret woodland hut
Cadair, his faithful hind, from whom he learned
That all was over true; Siluria
Lay as a vassal province at the feet
Of the world's ruler; Caradoc, betrayed,
Was borne in triumph as a thrall to Rome,
The hateful city.
But it came to pass,
As each successive note of misery
Fell on his ears and sank into his heart,
He grew the stronger. For his soul, drawn back
From her vast wanderings through the confused worlds
Of space and speculation, centred home,
And mustered all her forces for the field
Of actual and inevitable life.
Nor many days had passed, or ere, once more
In sordid weeds arrayed, he took his way
To Venta by the coast, and finding there
A vessel bound for Gaul, set sail in her,
And through the Gallic forests and flat lands
Passed with unflinching foot until he reached
The broad Rhodane, whose barges carried him
To rich Massilia's many-masted port.
Thence rudely tossed on the Tyrrhenian waves,
He came to Ostia, and at length to Rome.
And clad in all his native dignity,
Which like a rich and ample robe of state
Concealed the mean and travel-stained attire
That hung upon his stately form, he stood
In Cæsar's presence and besought of him
That Caradoc his heir, the chosen chief
Of all the Cymri, might return in peace
To Britain, while that he, his sire, remained
In Rome, a hostage for his fealty.
And Claudius seemed to listen to his suit
With favouring ears; but many vexing forms
Hung on the wheels of action, and required
Hard proofs of most plain things. Till on a day
In the imperial presence sire and son
Met without warning; and their mighty love,
Like & swollen torrent rising, bore them on
Into each other's arms with bursting sobs
Of joy and grief that could not be controlled,
And so the proof was plain to all the world.
Then Cæsar,—thinking thus to pacify
The wrathful people of the Western isles,
Who held his legions still at bay, or else
Out of a mere infirmity of will,—
Granted the prince's prayer, or seemed to grant.
But the court favourites, greedy for a bribe,
Hampered the prince's business; and the king
Remained a captive still; and his sire's heart
Grew sick with hope deferred from day to day.
Thus then it was that Brân, a British prince,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Sat wrapped in sadness at Narcissus' gate.
And as he waited on the favourite,
Worn out with long delays, and still denied
By scornful menials, a stranger passed:
An aged man, who pausing near him made
Obeisance as the Easterns make and said,
"O prince,—for all men know thou art a prince
From the far isle of Britain,—I beseech thee
Pardon thy servant. All my heart is moved
To see thee watch thus patiently in vain,
Day after day, year after year, to win
An audience of Narcissus. Verily
A tythe of all this thankless service paid
Unto the King of kings, would purchase thee
More fruitful hearing."
"Nay, thou knowest not,"
Brân answered him, full courteously, but yet
With just a touch of coldness in the tone;
For though most patient of his own disgrace
It galled his heart to think his fallen estate
Should cast a slur on Britain, being linked
E'en by a casual comment with her name.
"At my first coming I had audience
Of him thou rightly call'st the King of kings,
Though such he be not rightfully. Yea more,
Cæsar allowed my suit. But none the less
The business lingers, in the greedy hands
Of this Narcissus; wherefore I besiege
His still reluctant doors."
Then said the man,
"Pardon! my lord, my words were over-dark
And failed to show my meaning. Know, O prince,
I spake not of imperial Claudius;
But of the Lord of heaven and earth, Who reigns
From everlasting on to evermore.
In Whose vast hand the kings and emperors
Are pliant tools, Whose palace-doors stand wide
In every place, Whose kingdom is a home
For sorrowing exiles scattered through the world."
At that the languid eyelids of the prince
Were lifted suddenly, as if the words
Had touched a secret in his breast.
"Yes, true,
I missed thy meaning, friend; yet none the less
That meaning was the meaning of my life
Until misfortune drove me from the calm
Of meditation in the Cymric wilds,
And led me to this vile tumultuous place,
This seething caldron filled to the hissing brim
With cruelty and luxury. Here all thoughts
Save those of indignation and despair
Have died within me. Yet how long I watched
Those heavenly palace-doors! but never once
Did any streak of light show them ajar,
Nor any voice reply."
"Yet God has heard,"
Broke in the stranger—"yea, and answered too,
Though thou hast thought Him deaf to thy desire.
He drew thee from the empty, voiceless wilds,
From that close gazing on the inner dark
Which burns the aching eye-balls of the soul,
But never pierces to the light beyond.
His hand has brought thee hither; here, in Rome,
His servant waits to lead thee to His feet."
He ceased; and Brân was silent for a space
As if he gathered up the golden words
And told them over. Then he rose from off
The clients' sordid bench, girded his robe,
Turned from Narcissus' door, and made as though
He would have joined the stranger, saying,—
He would have joined the stranger, saying, "Friend,
'Tis well a man should know with whom he speaks.
Therefore I will not hide that I am Brân,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Caradoc,
Fain to become a hostage for my son.
Who then art thou?"
"My name is Julius,"
The stranger answered in an altered voice,
Saddened by nameless memories and regrets,—
"A name of little note or novelty.
Born of the Hebrew race in Lydia,
But disallowed by all my kin and creed
For this strange crime; that when our God vouchsafed
To grant us our desire, to hear the prayer
Which swelled for ages Judah's yearning heart,
I would not slight His gift—no less a gift
Than that Deliverer sought by kings and seers,
And found at last in Christ of Nazareth.
Wherefore, cast out by all, I came to Rome;
Where I have dwelt three years. Many are here
Of mine own nation, driven as I have been,
From kindred, home, and country, for His sake
Who bore worse things for ours, O prince, and thine.
Others, the sons and daughters of the land,
Are joined with us. Some of great houses: more
Of the plebeian stock, but most of all
Of the disheartened slaves. Among the first
Is one of whom thou hast heard in other days,
Pomponia, wife of Aulus Plautius,
The general who aforetime held command
In Britain, ere the days when Caradoc
Rose in his strength."
"Yea! yea!" replied the prince,
"I have heard men speak of her. A lady wrapt
In most mysterious woe, who never changed
Her mourning robe, whose hair was white with snow
That fell in summer, Some averred her grief
Grew from her childless state; but others said
That sorrow for a dear friend put to death
Because her beauty vexed the wicked eyes
Of Messalina, gnawed upon her still.
However this might be, thus much was clear,—
That she was stricken to the hopeless heart.
Yet though so stricken that all the tears she had
Seemed but too few for her own misery,
She spared full many a precious drop for ours.
Many a captive owed his rescued life
To her kind pleadings. Many a trembling town
Was spared the cruel rifling of the troops
At her entreaties. Yet the veterans,
Though muttering curses on the general,
Had not a threat for her; so sweet, so pure,
Were all her manners towards them."
"'Tis most true,"
The old man answered, as with laboured breath
He overtook the eager-striding prince;
Who, stirred as was his custom by the thought
Of generous natures and their gentle deeds,
Forgot his new companion in the theme.
—"Pomponia was all and more than all
That thou hast said; and since those days the Lord
Has had compassion on her, drawing her
Close to Himself; and has moreover blessed her
With a fair daughter, born in Britain, one
As wise as she is fair; yet no less meek,—
O! meeker far! and far more tractable
Than softer natures; with a heart at one
With God in all things."—
So the old man spoke
And sighed in speaking, as a father sighs,
Who numbers up the lovely qualities
Of a dear, dying child. And then he paused,
And when he spoke again, his words recurred
To the first theme:—
"It seems Pomponia's grief
Grew from a deeper root than childlessness;
For though less wild and bitter than in days
Of heathen gloom, it hangs about her still,
And mars perchance the meaning of her life
To her impatient lord."
"All this I heard
By common rumour," said the prince, "and more
Was told me by my faithful herdsman's wife,
The daughter of a servant of our house;
Who, taken captive as a little maid,
Had served Pomponia many happy years
Within the alien camp, set free by her
When she returned to Rome. Estrildis spake
Of some new worship, pure and spiritual
Beyond all other worships of the world,
Which her dear lady practised, and the which
Herself had learned to love. A worship paid,
By a new life of holy thoughts and deeds
And solemn prayers and praises, to one God,
Revealed in him of whom thou spak'st anon,
Jesus the Christ; but wherefore called the Christ,
I know not."
Then the other was not slow
To answer fittingly, with words that met
The faithful witness in the prince's soul,
And ended thus:—
"This faith whereof I speak
Is no new thing, but eldest born of all:
The truth whereof the rest are counterfeits.
These base their shadowy fabrics on the sands,
The shifting conscience of the varying race,
Whereon arise, to glitter for a day,
Frail shrines of worship paid to fancied powers:
Shrines open only to a favoured few.
This, like a city founded on a rock,—
The home of generations passed away,
The home of generations yet to come,—
Rests on the deep foundations of the past,
The solid substance of the storied years
That slowly settle from the thoughts of God.
And in her temple-courts and round about
Her fragrant altars, all the tribes of men;—
The Greek, the Jew; the unshorn, the civilized;
The bond, the free; the simple, and the sage;—
Are welcome; and her choicest mysteries
She opens to the meekest of the earth."
Thus speaking, Julius led the thoughtful prince;
Leaving the broad streets and the dazzling domes;
The temples, columns, statues; leaving too
The flowery, fragrant gardens; till they came
By ever-narrowing ways to Julius' home:
A humble lodging by the Tiber's side;
Whose waters, ever rushing by the wall,
Subdued the strife and clangour of the town.
And here with quiet modesty, unspoiled
By any false shame for his mean abode,
He bade the prince be welcome, while he spread
His best upon the board. Then, after meat,
They sat and talked until the air grew dim:
Until the lights on the opposing shore
Streamed out their long reflections on the stream:
Until a glory never to be quenched
Broke on the soul of Brân.
At length he rose
And laid his arms about the old man's neck,
In kind farewell, and passed into the street.
And threading now the ever-widening ways,
Through less and less of sordid on to more
And ever more of sumptuous, he reached
The temples and the palaces again,
Where columns, arches, statues, stood aloft
In glittering moonlight, amidst gardens sunk
In depths of fragrant shade. Yet every step,
From that poor chamber by the river side
Towards this central splendour, seemed to him
To bear him farther from magnificence
Nearer to meanness. And when last he reached
The palace on the Palatine, assigned
By Claudius to the royal hostages,
The small and plaintive questions of the queen,
The wife of Caradoc his son,—whose heart,
Loving, but ever fretful in its love,
Misgave her, that his lingering meant mishap
To her or her's or him,—fell on his ears,
Though seasoned to such sounds, as something strange,
Something most needless and most pitiful.
For were not all his goings and returns
Guarded divinely? was not every thread
Of all the tangled interests of his house
Held smooth by hands kinder than kindest hands
Of fabled fate? And yet he answered her
With meeker patience than his wont (though Brân
Was ever famed for patience); for his soul
Had risen into the higher calm which stills
All angry pulses. Thus his prayer was heard;
And thus his eyes, long faithful in the dark,
Found at the last they had not watched in vain.
Soon as the morning broke the prince arose
Alert and strong, as if a second youth
Quickened his veins; and through the silent streets
He bent his steps again to Julius' home.
There scarcely had he entered and received
The old man's welcome, when a hurried knock
Startled the door, which opening instantly,
Ere Julius could reply,—a fair young girl,—
Half child, half woman,—all her delicate face
Flushing with eagerness, all her features strung
To some set purpose, sprang into the room.
Her bearing had a wild and sylvan grace
That seemed most strange in one whose raiment spoke
Of noble lineage. For her tunic, woven
Of finest Syrian wool, bleached by the dews
Of summer nights upon the emerald plains
That frame Damascus, was all bordered round
With Tyrian purple; and was looped above
On each fair shoulder with a gleaming pearl,
Large as a linnet's egg; and over this
Hung loosely draped about her slender form
A robe of equal richness; and her hair,—
Crisp, golden hair that ran in rippled waves
Back from her rounded temples, flowed behind
Into a silken network, strung as thick
With pearls as autumn gossamers with dew;
Her very feet, that trod the homely floor
With such a dainty firmness, were encased
In shoes of creamy kid skin, rough with pearls.
No sooner was her hasty entrance made
Than seeing Brân, she started and drew back
Half timidly; yet with her gaze still fixed
Upon his face, with a child's look of keen
Unconscions scrutiny.
"Fear not, my child,"
Said Julius, rising with a tremulous haste
And laying softly on her sunny head
One wrinkled hand in blessing; while she kissed
Its fellow, lifting it up reverently
With her long fingers. "Fear not, Claudia,
This stranger will not harm thee, nor betray
Thy coming."
Then he turned him to the prince,
Saying,—"This maid is she of whom I spake:
The child of Plautius and Pomponia."
And Brân kept gazing on her tender face
As if it held a mystery; while he heard,
As in a dream, the voice of Julius say,
"Alas! my daughter, wherefore art thou come?
For thongh my banished heart yearns after thee,
Dear one, as well thou knowest, none the less
I tremble that thou thus shouldst disobey
Thy sire's commandment."
"Nay, my master dear,"
Answered the maiden, with a sudden flash
Of indignation,—"never adjure me more
By any father's claim from Plautius.
He never gave me any father's love,
Only a mockery of a father's pride.
And now I know it;—my dim guess is true:
Plautius is not my father; nay no more
The sire of Claudia than this stranger here
Is Claudia's grandsire."
"Peace, my child," in haste
Julius broke in, "I charge thee, listen not
To this slaves' gоssір."
"Nay, my father dear,"
She answered, tempering her passionate voice
To meekness, "only hear, and thou wilt own
That this is no slaves' gossip. Yesternight,
Pomponia,—she whom I will ever call
My mother; who has won the name by more
Than mother's love and mother's sorrow too:—
Thrown from her guard by grief that Plautius
Refused her prayer to bear me company
At a gay festival, wherein she knew
I should be sore bested,—let fall a word
Which told me that my guess had touched the truth.
No: I am not their child."
"Even were this so,"
Said Julius, striving to discern the right,
Yet baffled still, so that his words became
Feeble and void of faith:—"He is thy sire
In the law's sight, and thou art bound to heed
All his commands. Unless that he command
To disobey thy God. Then, not till then,
The bond gives way before the greater bond.
But let that pass: surely thou hast not braved
His anger, merely thus to tell me this,
That thou art not his child?"
"Nay, surely nay,"
She answered with a pretty shamefaced smile,
Which faded quickly, as her features took
An air of settled purpose once again,
"I come to warn thee of a fearful snare.
Alas! my father, never, never more
Can any dear occasion come to me
Of disobeying Plautius for thy sake.
Or rather for His dear sake Whose thou art,
And Whom thou servest; Whose I also am
And Whom I fain would serve. Listen to me,
And little Claudia like the fabled mouse
May free the lion from the hunter's toils.
Before thou camest to Rome, four years ago,
The emperor, incensed by rebel deeds
Of certain lawless Jews, and with his fears
Wrought on by favourites, issued a decree
That every Jew and every proselyte
Should quit the city and the lands of Rome.
I was a child and scarcely read aright
The meaning of their grief; but as I looked
From our high palace windows on the bands
Of plundered exiles hastening to the gates,
And saw the sorrow and dismay that sat
On every face, I wept aloud with them,
And angered Plautius. With them went, they say,
Many who owned the Christ and worshipped Him.
Now since those days, amidst the cruel strifes
And ever-growing licence of the times,
This old decree against your tribe has fallen
Into forgetfulness. And some have crept
Back to their homes; and others, knowing not
Of such a law, have come to Rome from far,
As thou, my father. So for a brief while
All has seemed safe. But now the courtiers,
Sated with softer wickedness and fain
To try the taste of blood, have plied the ears
Of the dull emperor with a false report
Of some conspiracy among your tribe.
This very night, at sunset, all your homes
Will be beset and every soul be slain.
Such is their fiendish scheme.
"But God is good;
And yesternight I, forced by Plantius
To join this banquet, overheard them talk;
Such talk as curdled up my blood to hear.
But oh, what fervent thanks flew from my heart
Up to the Lord Almighty, who refused
My prayer to save me from that riotous scene
That He might grant my greater prayer: to save
Thee, O my father, and thy people too
From the fell heathen."
Here her voice gave way
And suddenly, before she was aware,
Changed to a sob; but pressing her fair hands
Hard on her heaving breast, she wrestled down
The rising passion, calmed herself, and stood
As meek before him as a three years' child,
Waiting his answer. But he, all amazed
By this unlooked-for stroke, and tossed about
By many currents of suggestion,
Kept troubled silence.
Then he thought:—"Perchance,—
Nay doubtless,—they have played upon her fears;
For this thing cannot be:" then spake aloud,
"Tell me, my child, their very words and looks.
Who spoke the first? who followed?"
"I will tell
As clearly and as truly as I can,"
She answered him, and girt her eager soul
With patience;—"but, my father, while we speak
The precious moments fly, moments at most
Too few to spread the warning.
"Thus it was:—
Last night, as I have said, did Plautius feast
Three of his chosen friends, mere boys to him;
For lately he has seemed to honour such
More than his grey compeers. One of the three
Was Martialis, of the Spanish race,
Of a most witty and most wanton tongue,
For ever stringing all things in the world
On slender threads of epigram. With him
Came his compatriot and fellow poet,
Lucanus; of a grave and modest mien,
But with an eye to shrink from. And the third
Was Pudens, of the order of the knights."
Now when she named that name the maiden blushed
And faltered for a moment; at the which
The old man sighed, as at a token fraught
With danger to his darling.
Then Prince Brân
Discerning that his presence checked her speech,
Arose and stood apart a little space
Beside a windowed opening in the wall;
And, looking on the stream, his busy thoughts
Flowed faster than the current of the stream.
"Thus, ever thus," he mused, "the tide of life
Flows on without a pause. Scarce have I met
The man of all the world who meets my soul,—
Who has the message ready on his lips
Which I have listened for so long in vain,—
Ere the remorseless current sweeping on
Bears him beyond my reach. But if the tale
The maiden tells be true, and he must quit
This murderous city,—whither shall he go?—
Ay, wherefore not to Britain? Many ears,
Half opened by the wisdom of the bards,
Await the message there, and many souls
Are sick to death of sin. Ay, let him go."
So mused the prince, watching the stream. Meanwhile
The maiden meekly stood by Julius
With folded hands, as if her mind were set
To say a weary task. And thus she spake:—
"And Plantius commanded me to bid
Four ladies to the feast, daughters of four
Of the great houses. So they came in state.
Haughty and vain they looked; their scented locks
Made the air heavy, and their gorgeous robes
Trailed on the floor, tangling my feet, whereat
They frowned as if the injury were theirs.
O how my heart longed for Pomponia,
My only mother, to be near me then;
I felt so shelterless and so alone.
But she was shut by Plautius' stern command
Within a distant chamber; never since
That dreadful day when she was tried by all
Her gathered kindred, tried for life and fame,—
Save in his presence, may I speak with her.
I will not weary thee, telling the talk
That wearied me. At length the purple folds
That hung between us and the central hall
Were drawn aside by slaves, all crowned with flowers,
Revealing us to Plantius and his guests;
Who greeted us full courteously, and begged
Of Plautius that the banquet might be graced
By our fair presence. So we passed along
To supper, marshalled by the bowing slaves.
My four companions soon reclined at ease
Beside the youths upon the couches placed
Around the board; but Plautius, kind for once,
With some rough joke about my childish ways
Bade me be seated at his feet. Four hours,
Four endless hours, the feast crept slowly on
From costly course to course, with frivolous talk
And wanton songs between; and ever more
When in these wanton songs there came a line
More dull, or more unmeaning than the rest,
It seemed to take the hearers' fancy most.
And then at every pause,—wine, wine, still wine,
Of every varied vintage of the South,
Flowing at every turn; until at length
These high-born women, most unwomanly,
Grew flushed and looked so strangely with their eyes
It vexed my soul to see them. And methinks
That Pudens read my discontent, and wished
To shield it by a pretext from the eyes
Of Plautius, lest he should be angered by it;
For with a smiling face he turned and said,
'Thy gentle daughter, sir, is scarcely ripe
For these late feasts. See! sleep hangs in her eyes,'
And would have spoken more;—but Plautius
Rose on his elbow with a sudden rage
Glaring upon me, as my furtive looks
Glanced towards the door, so much I longed to fly,—
And whispered fiercely in my startled ear,—
'Beware! for any rash discourtesy
To me or to my guests shall be repaid
With bloody interest to thy baseborn friends,
Julius and all his tribe.'
"And these his words
Were caught by the quick ears of Julia
Who lay beside him on the lower couch;
For straight she lisped to him, while all the time
Her cruel smiles flashed sideways at my face,
'Ah, my good lord, by this same hour to-morrow
Thy threat to Claudia will have lost its point;
For not a soul of all her chosen friends,
Search where thou wilt, will then be found alive,
To suffer thy just vengeance.'
"'How? what meanest thou?'
Said Plautius sternly. 'Claudius has no heart
To plan a sweeping clearance such as this,
Without the prompting of his favourites,
Without the knowledge of his generals,
And naught has reached my ears.'
"'May be, my lord,'
She answered; 'for he fears to tell it thee,
Lest it should leak abroad; for all the world
Knows that the ladies of thy house are pledged
To these vile Hebrews.'
"At that Plautius' brow
Grew sterner still—'Be careful of thy tongue,'
He muttered, 'speaking of my wife and child:'
Then louder, 'Tell me how it came to pass.'
"'Most easily, she answered with a laugh.
'We of the court were weary of our lives
For want of some new zest. This
Agrippina Weighs on us all like lead:—no life—no play—
But a mere plodding merchant, counting gains
Of power from week to week. Her predecessor
Perchance did carry things a little far,
At least she was imprudent. But the court
Was twenty times more lively in her time;
Or so they say,—of course the thing is far
Beyond my memory'—
"—here incautiously
Fanning her false face with an ostrich plume
On which the slaves had sprinkled essences,
The moistened feather swept the red away
From half her withered cheek. But knowing not,
She babbled on:—
"'Of course the thing is far
Beyond my memory, being a mere child
When Messalina fell. But as I said,
We all were fit to die of weariness,
And therefore planned a pleasant tragedy
To stir our blood. We told the emperor
That his decree of exile 'gainst the Jews
Was disregarded, many had returned,
And some had never gone; and all were bound
With the house-slaves in a conspiracy,
Spread like a network underneath our feet
Throughout the length and breadth of Rome, to rise
And slaughter him and his and all of us,
And overthrow the empire.'
"Here she paused
To lift the wine-cup to her lips, and then
I heard Lucanus whisper under breath
To Martialis,—
"'Curse the woman's tongue!
Spoiling our sport! now Claudia without doubt
Will warn the game.'
"But Julia did not hear
Or did not heed,—
"'Anything in the world,'—
So she went on, 'the merest lumber, placed
Upon the groove of fear, slides swift and sure
Into the brain of Claudius. Thus, you see,
Our little tragedy was soon arranged.
Those of the actors who had need to learn
Their parts are well instructed;—for the rest,
Theirs will be better played in ignorance.'
And here she laughed again, and glanced at me
In cruel triumph:—adding, 'As I said,
By this same hour to-morrow not a soul
Of pretty Claudia's strangely chosen friends
Will be forthcoming. Sunset is the time
Given to the guards."
Here Claudia ceased and drew
A choking breath. And Julius said, "Enough,"
And rose up quickly, while with shaking hands
He girt his robe:—"Enough, O God! I see
The fearful tale is over true;—but how
Hast thon escaped to tell it?"
"I scarce know,
Myself," she answered: "Thanks to Him whose hand
Guides the most stubborn evils to good ends,
As wilder waxed the revel, Plantius ceased
To note me further;—so I ventured forth
And found the fresh morn breaking purely down
Through the sky-centre of the outer hall.
Then with my faithful nurse, who waits without,
I left the palace. But the time flies on;
And thou must hasten forth from house to house
To warn thy people. I too must be gone.
But, O! it almost breaks my heart to think
That I may never see thy face again,
Nor hear thy voice. The lessons of the Lord
May come to me, I know, by other lips,
Or even be taught in silence; yet I fear
They will seem hard, and I shall grow perverse,
And fail to learn them. Ah! thou knowest not
What hateful snares are spread about my feet.
And, O my father,—scorn not thy poor child—
The worst is this; they do not always seem.
Hateful to all my heart. O lift me up
On thy strong hands of prayer,—as thou would'st lift
A drowning creature from the weltering waves!"
Then Julius wrung her hands and wept aloud:
And bade her trust in God and watch her heart
As she would watch a treacherous enemy;
And bade her stay her soul upon the thought
That the kind Christ was near her evermore,
That when the foe pressed closest, He would be
Yet closer. So with many sighs and tears
And prayers, they parted. But or ere she passed
Through the dark door, she turned, and stood therein
Like a fair statue in a gloomy niche.
Her face subdued into a solemn calm
While all her form dilated with the thought
That swelled her soul. And Brân who had stepped forth
To give her salutation ere she went
Heard her last words:
"My father, ere I go,
Not knowing what betides me where I go,
I have a last request to make of thee:
Grant it as thou would'st grant it, were it made
By dying lips, sealed by beseeching looks
In dying eyes. Thou knowest I was born
In Britain: doubtless of the British race.
I treasure many a dim remembrance still
Of fair green meadows, russet forest-paths,
And cooler skies than these; and looks of love
That hung above my cradle, ere I dwelt
With Plantius and Pomponia in the camp.
Voices and visions haunt me in the night
Re-echoed from some far-off place and time.
My heart is bound so close to that dear land
That all her woes are mine, and make me feel
As if my mother wept and cried to me,
Calling across the melancholy seas.
But I—I cannot answer or return.
Wilt not thou go, my father? when thou camest
From Lydia's shore, thy course was like the sun
From east to west; and now that thou art driven
From hence, be like the gracious sun once more:
Still further westward bear the blessed light,
Even to the islands of the utmost sea,—
To Britain. "Tis my last request. Farewell."
So she passed out, not waiting for reply;
While Brân took up his staff to follow her,
Saying to Julius, "Hearken to her words.
For be assured the wisdom of the gods,
The wisdom of the God of gods is there.
The thoughts she uttered were the very thoughts
That held me as I watched the rolling stream.
I go to guard her steps, unseen by her;
For by this time the city is abroad,
And dangers may beset her. There's a look
In her deep violet eyes that brings to mind
One whom I lost long since, my eldest born,
Slain in the last fight of my sire, King Llyr.
Ere noon I will return."
And so the prince
Departed, following Claudia and the nurse
At distance silently. At first it seemed
A needless care; for every street was still
And empty; scarce a shutter was withdrawn
In all the lazy city. Here and there
A swarthy peasant, singing merrily,
Bound for the market-place with fruits and flowers,
From some green-nested hamlet in the hills,—
Would pass them, check his song, and turn to gaze
At Claudia's beauty, only half concealed
By her light veil;—then shake his simple head
In sad rebuke, and go upon his way,
With careful thoughts about his girls at home.
But as they neared the house of Plautius
A band of drunken revellers noisily
Burst from Narcissus' palace-gates hard by,
Ready and ripe for mischief; and forthwith
They, seeing Claudia, but through wine-dulled eyes,
That saw not she was Claudia, with a shout
Reeled after her and caught her by the veil.
Whereat she flung it off, and stood erect,
Like an indignant queen, and cried aloud,—
"Stand back! Methinks ye know not who I am."
At which they stared upon her, and two fled,
Muttering, "By Venus' eyelids, 'tis the child
Of the old general, Plautius. Let us begone!"
While other two, past reason, mad with wine,
Pressed hard upon her and the shrieking nurse.
But are their vile hands touched her—for the nurse
Had thrust her 'gainst the wall, and stood before,
To guard her darling, as the wild cat guards
Her young one,—Brân was on them unawares.
His vigorous age had left his sinews sound.
He would not honour them, such dogs as these,
With buffets of his princely hand; but wound
A long, strong arm about the waist of each,
And tore them up and hurled them to the earth
Without a word; and left them grovelling there
Like trodden worms.
Then Claudia, who had held
Her head so high in peril, voice so firm,
Finding the peril safely overpast,
Trembled like any leaf, ready to swoon;
And dared not speak her thanks, lest the great sobs
That struggled in her throat should reach her lips.
Therefore, she only lifted grateful eyes
Upon the aged prince, who took her hand,
And led her gently to her father's door.
There parted from her, saying, "My fair child,
I heard thee speak anon to Julius
Of that dear island whose dishonoured name
I cannot breathe in Rome. And thou didst speak
As if thou lovest it therefore, let this love
Be henceforth as a bond between us two.
I love that dear land next to my own soul,
And hate her foes next to the evil powers.
Should any rumour reach thy father's ears
Of this encounter, tell him that Prince Brân,
The son of Llyr, the sire of Carado c,
Has now avenged himself and all his house
Upon him, rescuing his only child."
So turned and went; while she, with grateful eyes
Shining upon him through her unfallen tears,
Stood on the topmost marble step and watched
His stately form diminish and grow pale
Along the lessening street.
Meanwhile the slave
Who kept the gate—one with her in the faith,
And guessing of her mission by the talk
That passed among his fellows yesternight,—
Brought by a secret signal from the nurse,
Gave them safe entrance;—saying, as she passed,
"Christ's blessing rest upon thy golden head,
Dear lady, dearest child;—and as to-night
Thou hast braved many perils for the sake
Of those He loves, so through the darker night
That stretches on until He shine again
In everlasting morning on the world,—
May His good angels have a charge to keep
Thy tender feet in all their doubtful ways."
So with the blessing of the poor and meek
Warm at her heart, she passed into the house;
And sought her little chamber, where she fell
Upon her knees before the unseen Shrine
That faithful hearts find everywhere; and strove
In wordless agonies of prayer; and poured
Her soul in praise for rescue, safe return,
And a new friend. At length, arising up
With looks of full contentment, like a babe
Slow-turning from his mother's liberal breast,—
Summoned the nurse and gladly laid aside
Her festal draperies and ornaments.
Then, clad in simple homespun, sat her down,
Distaff in hand, and thought within herself,
"Here will I sit and spin and sing the while,
And through the open window shall my song
Rise to Pomponia in her lonely room.
Which does she love the best? Methinks it is
That pretty little song that Seneca,
Prince Nero's tutor, made for me last year,
When I lamented for the good old times.
For though the heathen gods are named in it,
'Tis sure an innocent song; and I can think,
Stead of Minerva, of the mighty One
Named in the sacred books of Julius,
The everlasting Wisdom, whom of old,
In the beginning of His wondrous ways,
The Lord, the God of heaven and earth, possessed.
And where the words fall short of revealed truths
In these last favoured days, my inward thought,
Can shoot beyond them to a better aim."
And so she sat and span and sung the while.
"Set within the gorgeous gloom
Of a purple-linéd room,
Like a jewel in its case,
Pearly robes and pearly face,
And all along a cushioned couch reclined at ease,
Mused Valeria fair and young,
Sadly mused and sadly sung.
'Oh! I would my lot were cast
In the grand days that are past;
Their nobler manners better far my fancy please:
When the matrons of old Rome
Wrought amidst their maids at home;
When their distaffs, deftly twirled,
Span the conquest of the world.'
Of a purple-linéd room,
Like a jewel in its case,
Pearly robes and pearly face,
And all along a cushioned couch reclined at ease,
Mused Valeria fair and young,
Sadly mused and sadly sung.
'Oh! I would my lot were cast
In the grand days that are past;
Their nobler manners better far my fancy please:
When the matrons of old Rome
Wrought amidst their maids at home;
When their distaffs, deftly twirled,
Span the conquest of the world.'
So she sang a little space;
But the meaning of her face
Grew all dim and drowsy soon,
With the languid afternoon:
Her eyelids drooped with slumber and the music died.
Then, the while she slept, behold
A Minerva, wrought in gold,
Seemed to leave the silver shrine
Freshly served with flowers and wine,
And floated without footsteps slowly to her side.
There, dilated large and fair,
Breathed these words upon the air:—
'Let thy distaff, deftly twirled,
Spin the conquest of the world.'
But the meaning of her face
Grew all dim and drowsy soon,
With the languid afternoon:
Her eyelids drooped with slumber and the music died.
Then, the while she slept, behold
A Minerva, wrought in gold,
Seemed to leave the silver shrine
Freshly served with flowers and wine,
And floated without footsteps slowly to her side.
There, dilated large and fair,
Breathed these words upon the air:—
'Let thy distaff, deftly twirled,
Spin the conquest of the world.'
"'Lol thy favoured hands are full
Of a softer, whiter wool
Than the gods have e'er before
Lavished from their boundless store.
Rise! spin a finer thread to clothe a daintier age.
Let the father, husband, son,
Shine in raiment thou hast spun:
Self-denial, purity,
Learned at home and learned of thee,
So shall they pass with plaudits from the widened ⟨stage.⟩
Spin them girdles broad and fine:
Truth and justice learned from thine.
So thy distaff, deftly twirled,
Spins the conquest of the world.'"
Of a softer, whiter wool
Than the gods have e'er before
Lavished from their boundless store.
Rise! spin a finer thread to clothe a daintier age.
Let the father, husband, son,
Shine in raiment thou hast spun:
Self-denial, purity,
Learned at home and learned of thee,
So shall they pass with plaudits from the widened ⟨stage.⟩
Spin them girdles broad and fine:
Truth and justice learned from thine.
So thy distaff, deftly twirled,
Spins the conquest of the world.'"
Now, as she sang, and after through the day,
While with a habit half mechanical,
She went about her daily ministries,—
Those unobserved achievements, which if left
Undone, would ruin all the house with wrong,—
Though well persuaded that the fear was vain,
A dreadful fear would seize her suddenly;
So that her heart stopped beating, and she longed
To rush into the streets and cry aloud,
To warn the chosen people of the doom
That waited them at sunset. Yet, again,
Knowing that what was laid on her to do
She had done faithfully; she calmed herself
And left the issue in the unseen Hand.
While thus she lived her anxious hours at home,
Prince Brân and Julius went abroad through all
The dazzling length and breadth of Rome, and urged
The Jews to instant flight. Then all the few,
Who owned that Jesus was the Christ, arose
And fled with haste by twos and threes, and left
The bloody city, by all gates. Some hid
In the disguise of peasants. Some with wares
As travelling merchants. Here a brave man, pierced
To the heart's quick with agonizing fears
For those more dear to him than life itself,
Attired his face with harsh, tyrannic looks,
Driving his trembling wife and babes before,
As a slave dealer. So, by God's good hand,
Some in disguise, some openly, they passed
In safety. While the unbelieving Jews,
Judging the heart of Julius by their own,
Would heed no warning given by such as he;
Who cast their old traditions to the winds,
And in a fashion, new, heretical,
Worshipped their fathers' God. These loudly praised
Their own sharp wit that saw his subtle aim
To dispossess them of the synagogue:
Shut all their gates upon him, stayed behind,
And perished miserably.
Yet one of these,
Aristobülus, of the royal race
Of Maccabæus, listened and believed.
And bore his dark-eyed Miriam and their babes
On some pretext of summer holiday,
In a gay pleasure-galley down the stream
To Ostia, where his favourite villa stood
On a green island southward of the port.
Now as the galley glided down the stream,
It passed the humble lodging by the shore
Where Julius dwelt; and through the window came
The mournful chanting of a Hebrew psalm.
"Deliver me, my God! deliver me
From those that rise against me." And the throng
Of full-toned vowels rolling down the air
Melted the proud heart of the Maccabee
To thoughts of brotherhood; so giving charge
To steer the galley to the wall, he bade
The rowers pause; then standing at full height,
He called aloud—
"O man of God! come down.
The sun is low already, and the gates
Are far for weary limbs. Come down and speed
With us to Ostia." And Julius heard.
As weary to the death with the long toil
Of that most mournful day, and sick at heart
To think how many of his stiffnecked race
Refused to flee, he slowly moved about,
Filling his scrip, preparing to depart;
But almost praying that his feet might fail
To bear him forth: so much to be desired
Seemed a quick entrance into life, though won
By the most cruel death. But when he heard
This friendly voice that in the Hebrew tongue
Called from the river, all his mind was changed
And opened kindly to the nearer warmth.
Therefore he looked forth gratefully and knew
The Maccabee, and swift-descending came
On board the galley.
Now when they had rowed
Two furlongs' length beyond the city walls,
The ominous sun sank down as red as blood,
Behind a black-barred vapour far to sea.
The crimson on the ripples faded out;
The flush upon the cloudlets overhead
Died in a moment; and the fiery glow
That lit the city's smoky canopy
Went out in darkness, as the light goes out
From an extinguished torch. Then at that sign,
Without a word, the rowers ceased their strokes
And pale with dreadful expectation stayed
The drifting galley on the ashy stream,
With backward oars. While all on board of her
Listened in breathless silence.
Soon, too soon,
The noise of sudden tumult shook the air,
Borne down the echoing water. Mocking shouts,
Shrieks of despair, and rush of rapid feet
In timid flight or fierce pursuit; and cries
For mercy, shortened by the cruel sword;
All these were there, and all by distance blent
To ghastly harmony; but not a clash
Of meeting weapons for the slaughter fell
Upon defenceless households, gathering
For evening prayer. Then Miriam clasped her babes
So closely to her straining breast, they woke
And wailed aloud; and at the tender sound
Her dry-eyed horror melted into tears.
But Julius and the noble Maccabee
Flung themselves prostrate on the deck and cried
Within their stricken hearts—"How long, O Lord!
"How long, shall bloody and unrighteous men
Afflict thy heritage?"
At last the fear
Of overtaking night compelled them on:
The oars fell sadly in the darkening stream,
And bore them downwards to the port, and thence
To the green island.
There did Julius dwell
For many days, preaching to all the house
That Jesus was the Christ. His noble host
Heard him in troubled silence for a while,
Distracted by strange thoughts; then suddenly
A light shone round his spirit, like the light
That flashed on Saul of Tarsus; and a face
Looked forth upon him from the spirit-sphere
That bathes us all about, and smote him down
With sudden splendour to the earth, and turned
The purpose of his life.
Then, fired with zeal
To spread the conquests of the Crucified,
He sailed with Julius for the land to which
The last request of Claudia pointed them:
The island of the West, beloved by Brân.
But ere they sailed, they both adventured them
To Rome once more, finding a safe retreat
Within the palace on the Palatine,
Where dwelt the British captives. For the guard,
Won by the noble bearing of the king
And of the prince his father, and some bound
By common faith to Brân, were slow to vex
Their royal charge by prying in their ways;
And for the most part closed their ears and eyes
To such as came and went. So these two men
Dwelt safely in the palace, practising
The Cymric customs and the Cymric tongue.
And in those days Brân and the Maccabee
Passed through the mystic waters, and received
The holy symbols of the feast of Christ.
And ere the pilgrims parted, Caradoc,
Though caring little for their faith, became
Their fast and fervent friend; and when they went,
Gave them his signet ring: a talisman
Potent to charm the eyes and win the hearts
Of all the Cymri.
So at length they sailed
For the far West, ordained by holy hands;
While Claudia's ceaseless prayers smoothed all their paths
Over strange lands and seas. Meanwhile the snares
Grew thicker round her feet. For Plautius,
Having betrothed her in her earliest years
To Pudens of the order of the knights
(Whom Claudia would not, since he scorned her God),
Strove by all means, or fair or foul, to bend
Her holy purpose to his heathen will.
Therefore she dwelt in sorrow and in fear
Almost alone; or, worse than loneliness,
Compassed by vain companions. When at times
She saw Pomponia at the daily board,
Speech was forbidden them. Thus, but for One
Who still is nearest to the loneliest,
Her heart had almost broken, or her steps
Had well-nigh slipped. And Julius mourned for her
As one who mourns an only, darling child,
Dying unsuccoured on a distant shore.
While with a habit half mechanical,
She went about her daily ministries,—
Those unobserved achievements, which if left
Undone, would ruin all the house with wrong,—
Though well persuaded that the fear was vain,
A dreadful fear would seize her suddenly;
So that her heart stopped beating, and she longed
To rush into the streets and cry aloud,
To warn the chosen people of the doom
That waited them at sunset. Yet, again,
Knowing that what was laid on her to do
She had done faithfully; she calmed herself
And left the issue in the unseen Hand.
While thus she lived her anxious hours at home,
Prince Brân and Julius went abroad through all
The dazzling length and breadth of Rome, and urged
The Jews to instant flight. Then all the few,
Who owned that Jesus was the Christ, arose
And fled with haste by twos and threes, and left
The bloody city, by all gates. Some hid
In the disguise of peasants. Some with wares
As travelling merchants. Here a brave man, pierced
To the heart's quick with agonizing fears
For those more dear to him than life itself,
Attired his face with harsh, tyrannic looks,
Driving his trembling wife and babes before,
As a slave dealer. So, by God's good hand,
Some in disguise, some openly, they passed
In safety. While the unbelieving Jews,
Judging the heart of Julius by their own,
Would heed no warning given by such as he;
Who cast their old traditions to the winds,
And in a fashion, new, heretical,
Worshipped their fathers' God. These loudly praised
Their own sharp wit that saw his subtle aim
To dispossess them of the synagogue:
Shut all their gates upon him, stayed behind,
And perished miserably.
Yet one of these,
Aristobülus, of the royal race
Of Maccabæus, listened and believed.
And bore his dark-eyed Miriam and their babes
On some pretext of summer holiday,
In a gay pleasure-galley down the stream
To Ostia, where his favourite villa stood
On a green island southward of the port.
Now as the galley glided down the stream,
It passed the humble lodging by the shore
Where Julius dwelt; and through the window came
The mournful chanting of a Hebrew psalm.
"Deliver me, my God! deliver me
From those that rise against me." And the throng
Of full-toned vowels rolling down the air
Melted the proud heart of the Maccabee
To thoughts of brotherhood; so giving charge
To steer the galley to the wall, he bade
The rowers pause; then standing at full height,
He called aloud—
"O man of God! come down.
The sun is low already, and the gates
Are far for weary limbs. Come down and speed
With us to Ostia." And Julius heard.
As weary to the death with the long toil
Of that most mournful day, and sick at heart
To think how many of his stiffnecked race
Refused to flee, he slowly moved about,
Filling his scrip, preparing to depart;
But almost praying that his feet might fail
To bear him forth: so much to be desired
Seemed a quick entrance into life, though won
By the most cruel death. But when he heard
This friendly voice that in the Hebrew tongue
Called from the river, all his mind was changed
And opened kindly to the nearer warmth.
Therefore he looked forth gratefully and knew
The Maccabee, and swift-descending came
On board the galley.
Now when they had rowed
Two furlongs' length beyond the city walls,
The ominous sun sank down as red as blood,
Behind a black-barred vapour far to sea.
The crimson on the ripples faded out;
The flush upon the cloudlets overhead
Died in a moment; and the fiery glow
That lit the city's smoky canopy
Went out in darkness, as the light goes out
From an extinguished torch. Then at that sign,
Without a word, the rowers ceased their strokes
And pale with dreadful expectation stayed
The drifting galley on the ashy stream,
With backward oars. While all on board of her
Listened in breathless silence.
Soon, too soon,
The noise of sudden tumult shook the air,
Borne down the echoing water. Mocking shouts,
Shrieks of despair, and rush of rapid feet
In timid flight or fierce pursuit; and cries
For mercy, shortened by the cruel sword;
All these were there, and all by distance blent
To ghastly harmony; but not a clash
Of meeting weapons for the slaughter fell
Upon defenceless households, gathering
For evening prayer. Then Miriam clasped her babes
So closely to her straining breast, they woke
And wailed aloud; and at the tender sound
Her dry-eyed horror melted into tears.
But Julius and the noble Maccabee
Flung themselves prostrate on the deck and cried
Within their stricken hearts—"How long, O Lord!
"How long, shall bloody and unrighteous men
Afflict thy heritage?"
At last the fear
Of overtaking night compelled them on:
The oars fell sadly in the darkening stream,
And bore them downwards to the port, and thence
To the green island.
There did Julius dwell
For many days, preaching to all the house
That Jesus was the Christ. His noble host
Heard him in troubled silence for a while,
Distracted by strange thoughts; then suddenly
A light shone round his spirit, like the light
That flashed on Saul of Tarsus; and a face
Looked forth upon him from the spirit-sphere
That bathes us all about, and smote him down
With sudden splendour to the earth, and turned
The purpose of his life.
Then, fired with zeal
To spread the conquests of the Crucified,
He sailed with Julius for the land to which
The last request of Claudia pointed them:
The island of the West, beloved by Brân.
But ere they sailed, they both adventured them
To Rome once more, finding a safe retreat
Within the palace on the Palatine,
Where dwelt the British captives. For the guard,
Won by the noble bearing of the king
And of the prince his father, and some bound
By common faith to Brân, were slow to vex
Their royal charge by prying in their ways;
And for the most part closed their ears and eyes
To such as came and went. So these two men
Dwelt safely in the palace, practising
The Cymric customs and the Cymric tongue.
And in those days Brân and the Maccabee
Passed through the mystic waters, and received
The holy symbols of the feast of Christ.
And ere the pilgrims parted, Caradoc,
Though caring little for their faith, became
Their fast and fervent friend; and when they went,
Gave them his signet ring: a talisman
Potent to charm the eyes and win the hearts
Of all the Cymri.
So at length they sailed
For the far West, ordained by holy hands;
While Claudia's ceaseless prayers smoothed all their paths
Over strange lands and seas. Meanwhile the snares
Grew thicker round her feet. For Plautius,
Having betrothed her in her earliest years
To Pudens of the order of the knights
(Whom Claudia would not, since he scorned her God),
Strove by all means, or fair or foul, to bend
Her holy purpose to his heathen will.
Therefore she dwelt in sorrow and in fear
Almost alone; or, worse than loneliness,
Compassed by vain companions. When at times
She saw Pomponia at the daily board,
Speech was forbidden them. Thus, but for One
Who still is nearest to the loneliest,
Her heart had almost broken, or her steps
Had well-nigh slipped. And Julius mourned for her
As one who mourns an only, darling child,
Dying unsuccoured on a distant shore.