Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO VALERIA (A ROMAN LADY BURIED AT CAERLEON DURING ROMAN OCCUPATION), by ARTHUR GLYN PRYS-JONES


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO VALERIA (A ROMAN LADY BURIED AT CAERLEON DURING ROMAN OCCUPATION), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: How came you to this misty, northern isle
Last Line: This isle, these mountains and this healing rain.
Subject(s): Death; Great Britain - Roman Conquest; Wales; Dead, The; Welshmen; Welshwomen


I

HOW came you to this misty, northern isle
Set on the world's grey edge—amid the foam
Of desolate seas and drear—so far from home
Where those translucent skies ... the sun-god's smile
Ripened your beauty to its perfect hour?
Who called you from your golden orange-bower
All warm with wonder, full of deep delight
Of honey-scented noons—with eyes more bright
Than almond-blossoms blown on spring-tide air:
Could not those rosy petals keep you there?

II

Sometimes I see you paling, see you age
And droop, like some vivacious, bright-plumed bird
Stolen from tropic seas—who says no word
But stares and starves bewildered in a cage.
Valeria—did you sigh—and weep—and pine
For Tiber and the purple-clustered vine,
The oleander's hues and the rich blue
Of those soft seas that summer skies fall through?
Concealing all beneath your Roman pride
Was it thus, Valeria; was it thus you died?

III

Nay—but I think that long before you went
On that lone journey which is last of all,
In this far land new marvels held you thrall
Beneath these olden hills in golden Gwent:
For, by the murmurous banks of silver Usk,
You heard upon the dim, fay-haunted dusk
Strange melodies and sweet—surpassing fair,
Struck from a hidden harp you knew not where,
Slow, subtle sounds plucked by some prophet's hands
From molten chords that spoke of wondrous things—
Of peoples countless as the ocean sands
Arising from these shadowy forest-lands,
And great sea-captains and grave lords and kings,
And poets with their strange imaginings,
And mighty cities—miracles to come
When Rome, your splendid mother, would be dumb.

IV

And so the ancient mystery of this land
Knocked at your heart, and soon became your guest—
Giving you wisdom and a mind at rest
And dreams that only you could understand:
And songs more moving than the songs of Italy
Took captive all your soul—and held it true—
So that if ever it were granted you
To dwell beside the turquoise of the sea
That moves in silken rustling tidelessly,
You would have cried for this dear isle again—
This isle, these mountains and this healing rain.





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