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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SERTORIUS by LIONEL PIGOT JOHNSON

Poem Explanation Poet Analysis

First Line: BEYOND THE STRAITS OF HERCULES
Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,

A glittering waste at break of dawn:

High on the westward plunging prow,
Beyond the straits of Hercules,
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
Behold! the strange Hesperian seas,
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
A glittering waste at break of dawn:
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
High on the westward plunging prow,
The mourning destinies of Rome
What dreams are on thy spirit now,
Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
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Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
Sertorius of the milk-white fawn?
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
Not sorrow, to have done with home!
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
The mourning destinies of Rome
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Have exiled Rome's last hope with thee:
The lightning warrior come again,
Nor dost thou think on thy lost Spain.
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
What stirs thee on the unknown main?
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
What wilt thou from the virgin sea?
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
Hailed by the faithless voice of Spain,
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
The lightning warrior come again,
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
Where wilt thou seek the flash of swords,
And here no Lusitania calls:
Voyaging toward the set of sun?
What hath the barren sea to give?
Though Rome the splendid East hath won,
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
Here thou wilt find no Roman lords.
The winds are loyal to thy will:
No Tingis here lifts fortress walls;
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
And here no Lusitania calls:
No trader thou, to northern isles,
What hath the barren sea to give?
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
Yet high designs enchaunt thee still;
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
The winds are loyal to thy will:
What spirit pilots thee thus far
Not yet art thou too tired, to live.
From the tempestuous tides of war,
No trader thou, to northern isles,
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Whom mischief-making gold beguiles
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
To sunless and unkindly coasts:
Over the visionary sea,
What spirit pilots thee thus far
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
From the tempestuous tides of war,
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
Beyond the surging of the hosts?
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
Nay! this thy secret will must be.
Far hidden down the solemn West.
Over the visionary sea,
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Thy sails are set for perfect rest:
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
Surely thy pure and holy fawn
And captains of the older time,
Hath whispered of an ancient lawn,
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
Far hidden down the solemn West.
Or in the orchard shadows keep
A gracious pleasaunce of calm things;
Old friendships of the golden prime.
There rose-leaves fall by rippling springs:
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
And captains of the older time,
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
Touched with mild light, or gently sleep,
Will not that land rise up at noon?
Or in the orchard shadows keep
There, casting Roman mail away,
Old friendships of the golden prime.
Age long to watch the falling day,
The far seas brighten with gray gleams:
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
O winds of morning! O fair dreams!
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
Will not that land rise up at noon?
Thee down to death and doom assured:
There, casting Roman mail away,
And we were proud to fall with thee.
Age long to watch the falling day,
Now, shadows of the men we were,
And silvery sea, and silvern moon.
Westward indeed we voyage here,
Dreams! for they slew thee: Dreams! they lured
Unto the end of all the sea.
Thee down to death and doom assured:
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
And we were proud to fall with thee.
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
Now, shadows of the men we were,
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
Westward indeed we voyage here,
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Unto the end of all the sea.
Passing far off from human coasts,
Woe! for the fatal, festal board:
To the wan land eternal bound.
Woe! for the signal of the sword,
The wine-cup dashed upon the ground:
We are but sad, eternal ghosts,
Passing far off from human coasts,
To the wan land eternal bound.




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