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Matthew Arnold (1822–88).  The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840–1867.  1909.
 
Alaric at Rome
A Prize Poem, 1840
 
          [A prize poem recited in Rugby School, June 12, 1840. Published at Rugby the same year.]

        Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, for here
There is such matter for all feeling.
Childe Harold.


I
  UNWELCOME shroud of the forgotten dead,
  Oblivion’s dreary fountain, where art thou:
  Why speed’st thou not thy deathlike wave to shed
  O’er humbled pride, and self-reproaching woe:
  Or time’s stern hand, why blots it not away        5
The saddening tale that tells of sorrow and decay?
 
II
  There are, whose glory passeth not away—
  Even in the grave their fragrance cannot fade:
  Others there are as deathless full as they,
  Who for themselves a monument have made        10
  By their own crimes—a lesson to all eyes—
Of wonder to the fool—of warning to the wise.
 
III
  Yes, there are stories registered on high,
  Yes, there are stains time’s fingers cannot blot,
  Deeds that shall live when they who did them, die;        15
  Things that may cease, but never be forgot:
  Yet some there are, their very lives would give
To be remembered thus, and yet they cannot live.
 
IV
  But thou, imperial City! that hast stood
  In greatness once, in sackcloth now and tears,        20
  A mighty name, for evil or for good,
  Even in the loneness of thy widowed years:
  Thou that hast gazed, as the world hurried by,
Upon its headlong course with sad prophetic eye.
 
V
  Is thine the laurel-crown that greatness wreathes
        25
  Round the wan temples of the hallowed dead—
  Is it the blighting taint dishonour breathes
  In fires undying o’er the guilty head,
  Or the brief splendour of that meteor light
That for a moment gleams, and all again is night?        30
 
VI
  Fain would we deem that thou hast risen so high
  Thy dazzling light an eagle’s gaze should tire;
  No meteor brightness to be seen and die,
  No passing pageant, born but to expire,
  But full and deathless as the deep dark hue        35
Of ocean’s sleeping face, or heaven’s unbroken blue.
 
VII
  Yet stains there are to blot thy brightest page,
  And wither half the laurels on thy tomb;
  A glorious manhood, yet a dim old age,
  And years of crime, and nothingness, and gloom:        40
  And then that mightiest crash, that giant fall,
Ambition’s boldest dream might sober and appal.
 
VIII
  Thou wondrous chaos, where together dwell
  Present and past, the living and the dead,
  Thou shattered mass, whose glorious ruins tell        45
  The vanisht might of that discrownèd head:
  Where all we see, or do, or hear, or say,
Seems strangely echoed back by tones of yesterday:
 
IX
  Thou solemn grave, where every step we tread
  Treads on the slumbering dust of other years;        50
  The while there sleeps within thy precincts dread
  What once had human passions, hopes, and fears;
  And memory’s gushing tide swells deep and full
And makes thy very ruin fresh and beautiful.
 
X
  Alas, no common sepulchre art thou,
        55
  No habitation for the nameless dead,
  Green turf above, and crumbling dust below,
  Perchance some mute memorial at their head,
  But one vast fane where all unconscious sleep
Earth’s old heroic forms in peaceful slumbers deep.        60
 
XI
  Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces,
  Relics of nations thy memorial-stones;
  And the dim glories of departed days
  Fold like a shroud around thy withered bones:
  And o’er thy towers the wind’s half-uttered sigh        65
Whispers, in mournful tones, thy silent elegy.
 
XII
  Yes, in such eloquent silence didst thou lie
  When the Goth stooped upon his stricken prey,
  And the deep hues of an Italian sky
  Flasht on the rude barbarian’s wild array:        70
  While full and ceaseless as the ocean roll,
Horde after horde streamed up thy frowning Capitol.
 
XIII
  Twice, ere that day of shame, the embattled foe
  Had gazed in wonder on that glorious sight;
  Twice had the eternal city bowed her low        75
  In sullen homage to the invader’s might:
  Twice had the pageant of that vast array
Swept, from thy walls, O Rome, on its triumphant way.
 
XIV
  Twice, from without thy bulwarks, hath the din
  Of Gothic clarion smote thy startled ear;        80
  Anger, and strife, and sickness are within,
  Famine and sorrow are no strangers here:
  Twice hath the cloud hung o’er thee, twice been stayed
Even in the act to burst, twice threatened, twice delayed.
 
XV
  Yet once again, stern Chief, yet once again,
        85
  Pour forth the foaming vials of thy wrath:
  There lies thy goal, to miss or to attain,
  Gird thee, and on upon thy fateful path.
  The world hath bowed to Rome, oh! cold were he
Who would not burst his bonds, and in his turn be free.        90
 
XVI
  Therefore arise and arm thee! lo, the world
  Looks on in fear! and when the seal is set,
  The doom pronounced, the battle-flag unfurled,
  Scourge of the nations, wouldst thou linger yet?
  Arise and arm thee! spread thy banners forth,        95
Pour from a thousand hills thy warriors of the north!
 
XVII
  Hast thou not marked on a wild autumn day
  When the wind slumbereth in a sudden lull,
  What deathlike stillness o’er the landscape lay,
  How calmly sad, how sadly beautiful;        100
  How each bright tint of tree, and flower, and heath
Were mingling with the sere and withered hues of death?
 
XVIII
  And thus, beneath the clear, calm vault of heaven
  In mournful loveliness that city lay,
  And thus, amid the glorious hues of even        105
  That city told of languor and decay:
  Till what at morning’s hour look warm and bright
Was cold and sad beneath that breathless, voiceless night.
 
XIX
  Soon was that stillness broken: like the cry
  Of the hoarse onset of the surging wave,        110
  Or louder rush of whirlwinds sweeping by
  Was the wild shout those Gothic myriads gave,
  As towered on high, above their moonlit road.
Scenes where a Caesar triumpht, or a Scipio trod.
 
XX
  Think ye it strikes too slow, the sword of fate,
        115
  Think ye the avenger loiters on his way,
  That your own hands must open wide the gate,
  And your own voice[s] guide him to his prey;
  Alas, it needs not; is it hard to know
Fate’s threat’nings are not vain, the spoiler comes not slow?        120
 
XXI
  And were there none, to stand and weep alone,
  And as the pageant swept before their eyes
  To hear a dim and long forgotten tone
  Tell of old times, and holiest memories,
  Till fanciful regret and dreamy woe        125
Peopled night’s voiceless shades with forms of long Ago?
 
XXII
  Oh yes! if fancy feels, beyond to-day,
  Thoughts of the past and of the future time,
  How should that mightiest city pass away
  And not bethink her of her glorious prime,        130
  Whilst every chord that thrills at thoughts of home
Jarr’d with the bursting shout, ‘they come, the Goth, they come!’
 
XXIII
  The trumpet swells yet louder: they are here!
  Yea, on your fathers’ bones the avengers tread,
  Not this the time to weep upon the bier        135
  That holds the ashes of your hero-dead,
  If wreaths may twine for you, or laurels wave,
They shall not deck your life, but sanctify your grave.
 
XXIV
  Alas! no wreaths are here. Despair may teach
  Cowards to conquer and the weak to die;        140
  Nor tongue of man, nor fear, nor shame can preach
  So stern a lesson as necessity,
  Yet here it speaks not. Yea, though all around
Unhallowed feet are trampling on this haunted ground,
 
XXV
  Though every holiest feeling, every tie
        145
  That binds the heart of man with mightiest power,
  All natural love, all human sympathy
  Be crusht, and outraged in this bitter hour,
  Here is no echo to the sound of home,
No shame that suns should rise to light a conquer’d Rome.        150
 
XXVI
  That troublous night is over: on the brow
  Of thy stern hill, thou mighty Capitol,
  One form stands gazing: silently below
  The morning mists from tower and temple roll,
  And lo! the eternal city, as they rise,        155
Bursts, in majestic beauty, on her conqueror’s eyes.
 
XXVII
  Yes, there he stood, upon that silent hill,
  And there beneath his feet his conquest lay:
  Unlike that ocean-city, gazing still
  Smilingly forth upon her sunny bay,        160
  But o’er her vanisht might and humbled pride
Mourning, as widowed Venice o’er her Adrian tide.
 
XXVIII
  Breathe there not spirits on the peopled air?
  Float there not voices on the murmuring wind?
  Oh! sound there not some strains of sadness there,        165
  To touch with sorrow even a victor’s mind,
  And wrest one tear from joy! Oh! who shall pen
The thoughts that toucht thy breast, thou lonely conqueror, then?
 
XXIX
  Perchance his wandering heart was far away,
  Lost in dim memories of his early home,        170
  And his young dreams of conquest; how to-day
  Beheld him master of Imperial Rome,
  Crowning his wildest hopes: perchance his eyes
As they looked sternly on, beheld new victories,
 
XXX
  New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher,
        175
  Come floating up from the abyss of years;
  Perchance that solemn sight might quench the fire
  Even of that ardent spirit; hopes and fears
  Might well be mingling at that murmured sigh,
Whispering from all around, ‘All earthly things must die.’        180
 
XXXI
  Perchance that wondrous city was to him
  But as one voiceless blank; a place of graves,
  And recollections indistinct and dim,
  Whose sons were conquerors once, and now were slaves:
  It may be in that desolate sight his eye        185
Saw but another step to climb to victory!
 
XXXII
  Alas! that fiery spirit little knew
  The change of life, the nothingness of power,
  How both were hastening, as they flowered and grew,
  Nearer and nearer to their closing hour:        190
  How every birth of time’s miraculous womb
Swept off the withered leaves that hide the naked tomb.
 
XXXIII
  One little year; that restless soul shall rest,
  That frame of vigour shall be crumbling clay,
  And tranquilly, above that troubled breast,        195
  The sunny waters hold their joyous way:
  And gently shall the murmuring ripples flow,
Nor wake the weary soul that slumbers on below.
 
XXXIV
  Alas! far other thoughts might well be ours
  And dash our holiest raptures while we gaze:        200
  Energies wasted, unimproved hours,
  The saddening visions of departed days:
  And while they rise here might we stand alone,
And mingle with thy ruins somewhat of our own.
 
XXXV
  Beautiful city! If departed things
        205
  Ever again put earthly likeness on,
  Here should a thousand forms on fancy’s wings
  Float up to tell of ages that are gone:
  Yea, though hand touch thee not, nor eye should see,
Still should the spirit hold communion, Rome, with thee!        210
 
XXXVI
  O! it is bitter, that each fairest dream
  Should fleet before us but to melt away;
  That wildest visions still should loveliest seem
  And soonest fade in the broad glare of day:
  That while we feel the world is dull and low,        215
Gazing on thee, we wake to find it is not so.
 
XXXVII
  A little while, alas! a little while,
  And the same world has tongue, and ear, and eye,
  The careless glance, the cold unmeaning smile,
  The thoughtless word, the lack of sympathy!        220
  Who would not turn him from the barren sea
And rest his weary eyes on the green land and thee!
 
XXXVIII
  So pass we on. But oh! to harp aright
  The vanisht glories of thine early day,
  There needs a minstrel of diviner might,        225
  A holier incense than this feeble lay;
  To chant thy requiem with more passionate breath,
And twine with bolder hand thy last memorial wreath!
 
 
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