Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WONDERFUL MEN (TO MY MOTHER), by JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WONDERFUL MEN (TO MY MOTHER), by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Truly a wonderful man was caius julius caesar
Last Line: Passed, as they all will pass, who have no throne for woman.
Subject(s): Caesar, Julius (100-44 B.c.); Poetry & Poets


TRULY a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cæsar,
Strong his will as his sword and both of Damascan mettle,
Wonderful in his wars, more wonderful yet in his writings,
Firm his words and quick as the tramp of a Roman legion,
Grand his thoughts and high as his standard, the Roman eagle.
Whether 'mid gloomy woods, facing a foe barbaric,
Seizing a shield and a sword to turn the Nervian torrent,
Or 'mid Thessalonian plains sweeping Pompeian forces,
Or guiding with wisdom's reins the greatest of all the nations,
Always the wonderful man—Caius Julius Cæsar.

And yet, O wonderful man, O wonderful Julius Cæsar,
In all your wonderful works no mention is made of your mother,
In all your wonderful fights, you made no fight for woman!
And know you, wonderful man, imperious Julius Cæsar,
From whom your wonderful, nerve and wonderful heart for battle?
'Twas she who flinched not beneath the cruel knife of the surgeon,
Fighting a battle for you, grander than Gaul's or Egypt's,
Bringing you into the world and moulding you in her likeness,
Stamping your soul with fire and stamping your mind with greatness.

And truly a wonderful man was Cicero, the orator,
Pure his words and free and grand as a flowing river,
Lofty his flights and swift as an eagle soaring upward,
Showing to men through the rift the glory and beauty above them.
Clenching the wisdom of years he hurled it with might Titanic,
Yet tender even to tears when a Roman life hung on it.
Musical oft his words, as the march of the planets above him,
Now sweet as the Lesbian birds, now stern as the shock of battle.

And yet, O wonderful man, O greatest of ancient speakers,
In all your wonderful works no mention is made of your mother,
Of all your speeches grand, not one was made for woman!
And yet 'twas she who gave you depth and beauty and sweetness,
The voice to mimic the wave, the brush to paint the lily.
'Twas she who sowed in your soul the seeds of fanciful flowers,
Erected aloft your goal and gave you the strength to win it.

And O, a wonderful man was Horace, the lyric poet,
Studding his sky with stars and decking his earth with meadows,
Singing a song to his love while she blushes adown the ages,
Covering the ruins of Time with the fadeless leaf of his laurel—
Concealing the broken vase with the immortal bloom of his roses.

And yet, O wonderful man, O sweetest of ancient poets,
Who gave you the hue to paint the carmiel cheek of your roses,
Your lute, that sounds even now, through the mellow twilight of ages;
Who gave you the pure, true eye for watching and loving all nature,
And tuned your wonderful lyre till old Time stops to listen?
A wonderful creature was she,—a wonderful, wonderful woman—
And yet, we ne'er had known, had we waited your muse to tell it!

O these were wonderful men, and wonderful, too, their country,
And yet it has passed away, as a bubble when Time blows on it;
Passed, as they all have passed, where might is greater than Mother,
Passed, as they all have passed, where wife is less than mistress,
Passed, as they all will pass, who have no throne for woman.




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