Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CELSUS AT HADRIAN'S VILLA, by EDGAR LEE MASTERS Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: This is the place, my friend aristo. Here Last Line: And watch the waterfalls, and have some wine. Subject(s): Celsus (2d Century) | ||||||||
This is the place, my friend Aristo. Here We sit and muse on the state of the world. Alas! What are we coming to? The tufa walls Inlaid with yellow lichens look like bronze Gold filagreed. And through those rifts and breaks There are the trunks of ilex, gnarled and dark. Look! Nature mocks us. Hadrian is asleep These nearly hundred years. Does cyclamen Crimson about these walls grow less profuse? Or these anemones laugh less to the sun? Or bramble, honeysuckle, bougainvillea Desert the gardens of the emperor? The merle and golden-crested wrens build nests, Sing the hymeneal song! But man, poor man, Forsakes his triumphs, work, his palaces. And barbarous weeds sprout over them and creep, And choke his wisdom and his art. Let's sit Here in this colonnade. Philosophers From Rome and Athens, Alexandria, From mystic India, walked this colonnade, And let the mind run free. It is no more, Unless we fight the human weeds that spring Under the rains that darken Rome. Let's up With hoes and root them. Here's cat-brier -- chop! Cat-brier, Christian meekness, fair to view -- But how it stinks! And briars: pain and loss For ecstasy and gain beyond -- I chop! Chop here, Aristo, get your friends to chop, Lest all the world be given up to weeds, As Hadrian's Villa is about to be. Rome soon will stretch her templed neck to breathe Above the thorns, the hyssop. Even now The state is crumbling with the heresy That Rome should not be reverenced and saved, But every soul saved. The Imperial City To which each Roman is a servitor Put by for doctrine making every heart Worthy of saving from the wreck of life -- I chop this weed. And for the soul of Rome, The lazar soul, the slave, the fuller, cobbler, The fool, the God-forsaken and the child ... What if Rome fall? The City of God remains Eternal in the Heavens. Yes, but Earth, Where is thy city, if it be not Rome? Destroy your Romans, Hadrians, what is left? -- Itinerant exorcists and prophets, idlers, And sacred beggars, leper lips that curse Rome and her beauty! These the citizens Of the City of God! What will that city be? Themselves externalized, as Rome has flowered From Roman minds; but never a Hadrian Villa In the City of God, never from scowls and sores! No! You shall have a world of trade and lies, Of itching and denials, for a world Of freedom and expression, wine and song. These huckstering Jews are planting in our Rome The faith that they persuaded God to kill His Son to save them. And a huckstering Will taint the flesh of all who eat this god. But yet how they will rub their palms and coo And ape a meekness. Here! Aristo, chop!... But just so long as stones remain in place Of Hadrian's Villa, eyes will look upon them And sense the mind of Rome, and what it was: That eyes were made for seeing, ears for hearing, Hands made to touch, tongues made to taste, minds made To think, imagine, love given to indulge For rapture. There's no law of heaven or earth That trims eyes, ears, the senses, Of use; but all were made to leaf and bloom The idea of the eye, the ear, the hand. And only reason with regard for health Of eyes, ears, hands, may guide and say: how far.... See now what Hadrian's mind created here: -- A tragic theatre, a comic theatre. What for? For eyes' sake, for exploring life. Katharsis? Yes. But use? No use to him Who thinks life sin, the world's end near, for Jews Who like the frogs in marshes croaking, say: "For our sakes was the world created, we Alone are chosen of God." No use for him Who sees enough of suffering in life Without its mimicry; sees not the art Of shooting light between the mystery Of human fate, and waking sympathy Through understanding. Christian weeds I chop, Whose roots begin to sap the tragic roots Of Sophocles. But I say eyes may see: And if I wish to watch the lions fight What interdicts me, and what reason for it? Now look how Hadrian's mind puts into flower: A temple for Greek books, and one for Latin; And there's the stadium, and there's the baths. These Christians frown the bath. If I make out Jesus may come today, and wherefore wash? Besides the naked bathers cling and kiss Within the tepidarium at times, and hence Out with all bathing! There's the palace too Which o'ertops Nero's Golden House, they say. And what guest chambers here! The laughing soul Of Hadrian glows amid his friends. What's best In life, Aristo? Why, when the soul is freed, From business, traffic, grasping, thought of self, The aches of the day, and being freed shines forth As star companions star, in smiles and words Of praise, affection. Hadrian loves the faith Of happiness, and lets his guests fare free, Wander eight miles of garden, enter vales Of Tempe, watch a mimic Peneus Flow by; encounter fauns amid the brakes; Surprise Bacchantes sleeping; hear from hills A chorus of Eurpides soothe their souls With dreams before Faustina's sculptured face, Or Antinous, Apollo, Venus; bathe Their glowing bodies in the pools; partake Of food or wine, gifts of the gods. Such life Is passing, soon will pass. Aurelius Lies under thought, which thrived before the day Of Paul for all of that, the folly sees not Of slaying Christians, while himself is teaching The Christian doctrine! Ugliness, denial, Self-laceration, beggary, are older Than Jesus -- and I chop! But let the world Submit to weeds, in time what will you have? Not Hadrian's Villa, but a villa walled, Walls spiked and guarded, and a house of walls Empty of sculpture, where a miser-man, Guarding his gold, a lone man eating bread And milk, rules realms and countries from the book Of Enoch, Exodus, the Septuagint, And these purported writings of one Paul; And who has made his heart a granary For seed of faith and trade. This weed I chop! For then your world lies flatter than the land Of that campagna, made a marsh for frogs, Dull grass and feculent roots, as it would lie If once invaders smashed the aqueducts And drowned our lovely plain! You see, my friend Why I fight back the weeds. This is not all, For I know what engenders Christian faith: Man dreams he can be saved, but saved from what? Sin? What is sin? Age? What can save from age, What keep the spring of youth, its rosy flesh, Its spirit never tiring, hope undarkened, Its courage without fears, long dreams and days? Why nothing! All's illusion that holds forth A medicine for wrinkles, shrunken arms. Therefore what saves from death? Does Jesus save? Does Jesus ease a soul's pain, cure a loss Save as these devotees may soothe their hearts With prospects of to-morrow, or of heaven? No! good Aristo, all this Roman realm, Washed by this sea, for centuries has been As fertile as the valley of the Nile For seed of this salvation dream, the seed Of Mithra and Osiris, Krishna, Budda, Adonis, Tammuz, Dionysus, Attis, What is this seed of Jesus? Nothing new: The virgin birth? That's old as human dreams. There's Dionysus born of Semele, A virgin, and of Zeus; great Dionysus The resurrection of the year, the mad Intoxicating power of nature, wine. There is a myth that Jesus at a feast Turned water into wine, a Bacchic feat. One myth blends in another like mosaics Of microscopic jewels. I go on. Zeus fathers many sons of virgins born, Is not content with one. He takes Danae And Perseus is the fruit, who slays the Gorgons And saves Andromeda, the human soul. Devaki is a virgin, weds Vishnu, And Krishna comes. A virgin is the mother Of Budda. Horus springs from virgin Isis, Our Lady, Queen of Heaven, Star of the Sea, Mother of God, so called for centuries Before the days of Mary. Neith, the virgin, Was mother of Osiris. Mithra's born Of a virgin mother. This is what I mean By fertile soil of Egypt, Persia, Greece, That crops the seed of Jesus. Is this all? All saviours tally fully. All were born In caves or stables, chambers under ground; All labored for the welfare of the race; All were light bringers, healers, mediators Between the gods and men. All fell in death, Descended to the underworld. All rose To strive for men in heaven; all created Communions, churches, rites of water, wine, Last suppers, brought the entheos, spilt their blood; God, Krishna, Dionysus, Hercules. And as for that Tammuz was crucified, Prometheus was nailed and chained. You know! These from the mysteries of the heart, from life; -- Death of the year, birth of the year, the hope That shines amid the mist of doubts and days; The dream that says if nature leave the grave Of winter, what's the life of man, to be Shut from the law that wakes the fallen seed? If God renews the wine, I drink the juice Of the grape and live! If God be in the bull, And must be, life is life, and all is life Of one divinity, I drink the blood, I wash therein, cleanse sin, and celebrate A ritual of salvation, endless life!... I trace all Krishnas, Mithras in this god, Hope's latest dream. What's needed but a flame That draws these older flames? What but a man Of inspiration, labor, sacrifice, A poet, hater of the scurvy times, Killed for his blasting eyes, accusing tongue, To have your Christos? Jesus lived. Why not? 'Tis credible; killed by the Jews, why not? And made a sacrifice for many -- doctrine World old and wide. From Babylon the Jews Brought Hammurapi, brought Sacaea too, A ritual for prisoners doomed to die, By which they would be decked in kingly robes, Stripped, scourged and hanged even as we have done At Saturnalia. How else "King of the Jews," Except by ancient custom? Think, Aristo, Would great Tiberius suffer such sedition Except as drama and in mockery? Aristo, if this Jesus were the god As Mithra, Dionysus are, 'twere well With Rome and Hadrian's Villa. Understand If these infatuate zealots, Jews would keep Their god, belief, but still conform to Rome, Rome's gods, the empire reverence, who would care? No Roman! No one! But to hear these prophets Cry through our cities, camps: to everlasting Flames commit our cities and our lands, And curse us out of Jewish scriptures, draw The imprecations of the epileptic Paul upon us, this I fight, I chop! I stand with sword against the enervation Of private judgment, that the common man Is heaven's prize. This demos mania And ruin of the empire I oppose. And when these plagues of Christians grow too loud, And Rome arouses, wants the lions fed, Or crosses painted with a little red, I go to see. These anarch colleges, Illicit schools, called churches, quiet down When in the circus Christian bones are crunched.... Now for my consolation if Rome fall; If lowliness and other worldiness; If meekness, sacrifice; if life's denial; If all this creed out of inverted thought, Shame for the lust of life, the Orient's Sick perfume, drugs, if all of this be taken Into the body of Rome, the world; the poison Of Jesus swallowed -- this my consolation: Life, being God, is stronger than God's Son; Life will digest it, and evacuate What cannot be digested, and retain What can be used. Another Rome will rise If our Rome fall. 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