Classic and Contemporary Poetry
IN A COLUMBARIUM, by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD Poet's Biography First Line: The autumn sun still bravely streams Last Line: Love soars immortal to the skies. Subject(s): Autumn; Love; Past; Roman Empire; Seasons; Time; Fall | ||||||||
The autumn sun still bravely streams Along the tomb-girt Appian Way, And warms the heart of one who dreams Of all its splendor on the day When Scipio triumphed, bringing home The spoils of Africa to Rome. On this same road the conqueror came, Called "Africanus, the Divine" By thousands who adored his fame, And proudly watched the endless line Of Punic captives in his train, And trophies, won on Zama's plain. To-day the vast Campagna rolls In stately grandeur to the sea, But where are now the countless souls Whose dwelling-place this used to be, When all its space to Ostia's gate Lay peopled and inviolate? Ask of the Claudian arches gray Which stride toward Rome in broken lines; Ask of the lizards at their play On relics of the Antonines; Ask of the fever-blighted shore, Where Roman galleys ride no more! Yet some poor traces still remain Of those who here have lived and died; For underneath this solemn plain The Christian catacombs still hide, -- A city of sepulchral gloom, The martyrs' labyrinthine tomb. Moreover, in this classic soil, Where sleeps so much of ancient Rome, A simple peasant at his toil Discovered 'neath the upturned loam The spot to which I now have come, -- A Roman Columbarium. Down through its modern, open door A flood of mellow sunshine falls In golden waves from roof to floor, Revealing in its moss-grown walls The "dove-cotes", where one still discerns The fragments of old funeral urns. One vacant niche, whose ampler space Betokens special love and care, Contained no doubt a sculptured face Above the hallowed ashes there; While, just beneath, faint letters spell A faithful woman's fond farewell. How often on love's winged feet She doubtless sought this dear recess, To deck with floral offerings sweet Her sepulchre of happiness, Whose script, despite two thousand years, Preserves the memory of her tears! Rome's annals hint not of the name Of him whose dust lay treasured here, But could the fleeting breath of fame Have made him to her heart more dear? A word of tenderness outweighs In woman's soul a world of praise. What though, remote from pomp and state, At Caesar's court he could not shine? Less blest had surely been his fate Upon the lustful Palatine! And mutual love, wherever viewed, Is life's supreme beatitude. Alas! the urn no longer stands Within the little alcove dim; Gone also are the faithful hands That hung sweet roses on its rim; And vanished even is the bust Which watched above the sacred dust. Yet still its words of love survive The shocks and tragedies of time, And bid our drooping hearts revive, Inculcating the faith sublime That, while the urn in ruin lies, Love soars immortal to the skies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OUR AUTUMN by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN AN AUTUMN JOY by GEORGE ARNOLD A LEAF FALLS by MARION LOUISE BLISS THE FARMER'S BOY: AUTUMN by ROBERT BLOOMFIELD A LETTER IN OCTOBER by TED KOOSER AUTUMN EVENING by DAVID LEHMAN EVERYTHING THAT ACTS IS ACTUAL by DENISE LEVERTOV A MAY MONODY by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD |
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