Five Men and Pompey: A Series of Dramatic Portraits

Cicero! Pompey! But ten years ago Lucullus was the hero, Conqueror Of Mithridates, Rescuer of Rome! All’s Pompey now; he goes far--and has gone; And, with it all, is just the honest, brave, Young captain that I saw that hot, raw, day; The first day of my shame. Oh gods, gods, gods! Must Rome have always victories, victories, Incredible conquests till the whole world reels, And still thrust traps into my path until I fall at last? When Pompey came I knew. Oh he was kind, quite kind, considerate Of the old bitter man there who had failed, Recalled without a triumph! He was kind In all his splendid, conquering, strength and youth! Yet, I had beaten Mithridates. So Let the old lion growl through teeth once sharp! This sordid squabble of a vulgar crowd Of stiff patricians, ranting demagogues, Serves well for others. I, I have my trees, My cherries, rooted firm in Roman soil, Shedding a delicate whiteness on the hills When spring comes. A far greater triumph that Than all my conquests. Yes, they know me well, These young men, “That old dragon on the hill, Who gives such gorgeous dinners. Gods, his wines! Fit for Apollo!” Yes, an excellent host, Learned in sauces, skilled in oysters, game; Within whose heart no spark of ancient fire Burns on.... Oh Power! Power! Once to lead An army, once again, and see the thick Rain of the Parthian arrows and the blaze As forty brazen cohorts broke the foe! The thin lines buckle, the black masses fly! Imperator Romanus! No, Lucullus, But the good host who--plants his cherry-trees!

Love? I have loved once, once.... That awful day We stormed in through the gates of Amisus.... The loot-mad soldiers, howling, smote the town Down in a mud of blood and dirt and wine, Bodies and gold and priceless tapestries. Half-mad I rushed to stop them, beat and struck; I think they would have murdered me at once, But that one drunkard yelled “The General! Lower your swords, lads! Sir, we won this town! You take your pleasures and let us take ours!” I reeled into the blackness of an arch, And saw before me, white-robed, laurel-crowned, Just such a maiden as might once have danced Along the friezes of the Parthenon; A face like that on an old silver coin, Demetrius sent me, clear-cut, beautiful With all the burning beauty of the Greek. Pure and serene her grey eyes gazed in mine.... We spoke few words; what need to speak at all When just our eyes told all we had to tell, There in the soft, cool blackness, splashed with light From the red pools of burning wine without?

Few words. They chime like little silver bells Within my heart now, or like trumpet blasts Bear up my soul a little towards the gods.

We had three years. She died before my fall.

I thought of love as a crooked knife, As a soft and passionate lord; Born when the kings’ beards dipped in wine And the gold cups clashed on the board. But my love came like a blast of cold, A straight, clean, sword.

I thought of love as a secret thing, For an hour of incensed ease, When breast and breast together cling, Under sweet-scented trees. My love is all good-comradeship, More great than these.

I thought of love as a toy for a day, Soon to be over-passed; Light and frail as a hollow shell, That into the brook is cast. My love holds while the earth endures, And the suns stand fast.

I thought of love as mixed with earth, One with the bloom of the sods. My love is air and wine and fire, Breaker of metes and rods, A slender javelin tipped with light, Hurled at the gods.

Life lies before me like a platter of coins. “Here are the new ones! Mark the choice design!” All cry: for me the others fade and dim, And one alone shines clear, an old Greek coin Demetrius sent me ... and that lovely face....

Pompey would say that I am growing old, And Cicero would turn a phrase with me In his next great oration, as a type Of the old fool who mumbles of days past.

Meanwhile I have my orchards--and my feasts. Those turbot now; the sauce is very good, A peacock’s breast is good, too, at this time, With other things, as----old Falernian, Tarentine oysters, and sweet wines from Thrace....

Tarentine oysters and sweet wines from Thrace.

Go then, Valerius. Let the legions know, That I will answer this new embassy Within the hour.... They will mutiny, If I refuse these terms.... What shall I do? What shall I do? The trap is plain enough To me; but they, they only see the rough, Long road and the red, ever-circling cloud Of horsemen, raining arrows on them there. Gods! And the mountains are so near, so near! Scarce three days march ... that we shall never make.

I boasted once. The gods like not the proud. And I shall die in this red waste of sand, Though my heart tremble and my stiff limbs shake. A thousand slaves bowed down at my command; I lived in ivory palaces of delight; I ruled an empire ... here is all my might; An old and wearied man in a bare tent, Whence, presently, I shall go out to die.

How they will rage at Rome! Each will outvie The next in fury: none will dare lament. Caesar will listen with a little smile, A smile like two blue ice-cliffs as they part, Slow-rising from the deep caves of his heart. Pompey will bow his great gold head awhile, And say, “He died a Roman. It is well.” Perhaps be sad, a little. For the rest, That yelping pack of nobles, they will howl How, “Crassus was a madman at the best, And in this last attempt, a blind old owl, A drink-crazed miser with a wooden sword. He blundered here and here! His whole campaign Was one great blunder!” So with one accord, They howl. To praise is hard, easy to damn. I failed in this. Some other will succeed.

Yet they are right, in part. That day, far back, When by the borderline I checked my steed.... Our spies had said the Parthian army lay Encamped near by and ready for the fray. We found no army; nothing but a track, Thousands of footprints stamped in the red sand, Where a great host had passed. A sudden fear Seized on the legions and on every hand The men shrank back.... No foe stood anywhere, Nothing but scarlet sand and brassy sky, And men aghast at signs traced on the ground, A ring of white, scared faces, without sound.

Then afterwards, there came that burning march Under a sky of flame, continually. Our very armor seemed to shrink and parch Beneath that sun; our tongues grew swelled and black; And ever circling, circling, front and back, The Parthians galloped in a cloud of dust. They would not turn and fight but slew us thus. Their bitter arrows came like hail on us. Our strongest dropped and died without a blow. Then, beyond Carrhæ, trusting in our woe, They turned at last and stood to wait our thrust. But two things I remember of that fight. How Publius went out--the burning light Smote on his armor, turning it to gold, Save where, a sunset cloud, his red cloak rolled; And in his face was joy and keen delight, Youth and a boy’s high heart and great resolves.... A golden knight he stood, a golden knight.... He rides away, the crimson cloud dissolves....