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ricardienneOr: this poetry is really bad, right? (I was going to post the whole thing, but it goes on forever, so here are the highlights, as it were)
Thrasea
Henry Sewell Stokes
Of Paetus Thrasea no bust remains,
But in the graphic page of Tacitus
He lives and moves, and still before us stands
Amid the Senate—still his earnest voice.
Though few and terse his words, is eloquent;
And now, as on the World's great theatre,
In the most awful drama of all time
We see and hear him his high part sustain ;
Dauntless as Brutus, but unstain'd with blood,
And worthy to be Cato's countryman.
And yet he seldom comes upon the stage
In the bewildering scenes that shifted fast.
He never in the dazzling throng was found
When Nero graced the boards and tuned his lute,
With tribunes and centurions by his side,
While with his grim Praetorians Burrhus kept
Detractors mute, and join'd the loud applause
When the young nobles claqued at intervals,
And haughty matrons in their ecstasy
Swoon'd at the tremors of that husky voice.
Nor in the crowd of critics was he seen
Who went to hear the Imperial rhythm scann'd,
And judge it faultless both in sound and sense :
Nor with the sages at a later hour
Who, not reluctant, towards the banquet's close, A
nd while the Emperor, rising from his cups,
And his bibacious courtiers laugh'd and jeer'd,
Wrangled about some grave hypothesis
As o'er a scullery bone curs snarl and snap ;
Cynics in looks, but mongrels in their souls,
Who could outfawn the meanest flatterer there,
And lick'd their lips, scenting the savoury viands,
And sneer'd not at the bouquet of the wine.
Inebriate Nero knew them through their masks,
And their feign'd virtues made his foul heart worse.
At the same hour, under the starry skies
Of that Elysian clime, when not a breath
Disturb'd the myrtle leaves or fann'd the rose,
In bowers that seem'd more fit for serenades
Than for lone meditation or grave converse,
Stood Thrasea 'mid his group of Attic friends,
Exceptions rare of a degraded race,
Who came to listen rather than to teach,
And learn the example of his blameless life;
And with them brought ingenuous Boman youth,
Fresh from the schools of Athens, from the Porch
Where Thrasea's master centuries since had taught,
Or from the pensive groves of Academe.
In Zeno's, Plato's matchless tongue they spoke,
And the same subjects with like zest discuss'd,
If with less fluency and subtlety.
And Arria's kinsman, Persius, was there,
And, haply, in some pause his lines rehearsed,
Sounding like softer echoes of the Porch,
Till, when he sang of that degenerate age,
He struck the deeper chords that stir the soul,
Full harsh at times, but often toned with sorrow.
While breathed his harp, or calmly they discoursed,
Unceasing through the stilly air the roar
Of the great City like far thunder roll'd ;
For then the night was added to the day.
Then trumpets shrill'd and clanging armour rang,
And the firm tread of cohorts shook the ground,
Or shouts of midnight revellers rent the sky;
And bursts of music and licentious songs
Were mingled with the growl of forest beasts
In their dark lairs, who hunger'd for man's flesh,
For which they had of late acquired a taste,
Knowing the difference of a slave's lank bones
From British muscles and a Christian's blocd.
(It goes on in this vein for a while: but this next bit is one of the best)
The vernal promise of the Imperial youth
Long since had been as if by lightning sear'd :
Lust through his veins in purple torrents rush'd,
And incest could not quench its burning heat;
Incest as foul as Milton has described
'Twixt Sin and Satan ere they fell from Heaven.
Then against her he fear'd not to pollute
His hatred turn'd ; for still she thwarted him
In his fix'd purpose to divorce his wife,
Stainless, forlorn Octavia, and to wed
His bold, ambitious concubine, Poppaea.
(A long bit about Agrippina's murder, and a few other things, since stokes is obviously giving us a play by play survey of Thrasea in Tacitus. The next bit is about the banishment of Octavia, in which Thrasea does not actually figure in Tacitus, which turns out to be a problem:)
Did Thrasea in the obsequious Senate
With Seneca that blasphemy approve ?
Had it been so the historian would have told,
For he records each fact with stern precision.
Crime followed crime, and the red catalogue
Surpass'd the slaughter of Eighth Henry's reign,
Long as the Newgate Calendar when thieves
And forgers from the ropes with murderers swung.
But those this Monster slew were Earth's best men
And purest women, virtue their sole crime,
Or patriotism, or else that they declined
To join his orgies and applaud his trills.
Yet, as each more atrocious deed was done,
The Fathers did not fail to thank the gods;
But Thrasea from the rites still kept aloof.
(then there is the Great Fire, and some angst about how Thrasea might have felt about Christians -- "but whatever: Stoics were practically Christians, anyway, so it's all good." Skipping a lot of really bad purplification of Tacitus:
But what he said
At that grave moment we shall never know,
For there the record ends—the rest is lost!
Who dares supply that blank ? Shakespeare alone
Might venture, as he told how Brutus died;
Or haply his invention had forborne
To find fit words for Thrasea's dying thoughts.
Thousands of scholars have from age to age
Read to that place ; as men o'er some grand scene
Pass on till hinder'd by a chasm abrupt:
Some shudder—others sigh—and all would wish
The void fill'd up ; but like the depth profound
Of death appears to me that sudden blank.
I can't imagine anyone actually reading this all the way through.
Henry Sewell Stokes
Of Paetus Thrasea no bust remains,
But in the graphic page of Tacitus
He lives and moves, and still before us stands
Amid the Senate—still his earnest voice.
Though few and terse his words, is eloquent;
And now, as on the World's great theatre,
In the most awful drama of all time
We see and hear him his high part sustain ;
Dauntless as Brutus, but unstain'd with blood,
And worthy to be Cato's countryman.
And yet he seldom comes upon the stage
In the bewildering scenes that shifted fast.
He never in the dazzling throng was found
When Nero graced the boards and tuned his lute,
With tribunes and centurions by his side,
While with his grim Praetorians Burrhus kept
Detractors mute, and join'd the loud applause
When the young nobles claqued at intervals,
And haughty matrons in their ecstasy
Swoon'd at the tremors of that husky voice.
Nor in the crowd of critics was he seen
Who went to hear the Imperial rhythm scann'd,
And judge it faultless both in sound and sense :
Nor with the sages at a later hour
Who, not reluctant, towards the banquet's close, A
nd while the Emperor, rising from his cups,
And his bibacious courtiers laugh'd and jeer'd,
Wrangled about some grave hypothesis
As o'er a scullery bone curs snarl and snap ;
Cynics in looks, but mongrels in their souls,
Who could outfawn the meanest flatterer there,
And lick'd their lips, scenting the savoury viands,
And sneer'd not at the bouquet of the wine.
Inebriate Nero knew them through their masks,
And their feign'd virtues made his foul heart worse.
At the same hour, under the starry skies
Of that Elysian clime, when not a breath
Disturb'd the myrtle leaves or fann'd the rose,
In bowers that seem'd more fit for serenades
Than for lone meditation or grave converse,
Stood Thrasea 'mid his group of Attic friends,
Exceptions rare of a degraded race,
Who came to listen rather than to teach,
And learn the example of his blameless life;
And with them brought ingenuous Boman youth,
Fresh from the schools of Athens, from the Porch
Where Thrasea's master centuries since had taught,
Or from the pensive groves of Academe.
In Zeno's, Plato's matchless tongue they spoke,
And the same subjects with like zest discuss'd,
If with less fluency and subtlety.
And Arria's kinsman, Persius, was there,
And, haply, in some pause his lines rehearsed,
Sounding like softer echoes of the Porch,
Till, when he sang of that degenerate age,
He struck the deeper chords that stir the soul,
Full harsh at times, but often toned with sorrow.
While breathed his harp, or calmly they discoursed,
Unceasing through the stilly air the roar
Of the great City like far thunder roll'd ;
For then the night was added to the day.
Then trumpets shrill'd and clanging armour rang,
And the firm tread of cohorts shook the ground,
Or shouts of midnight revellers rent the sky;
And bursts of music and licentious songs
Were mingled with the growl of forest beasts
In their dark lairs, who hunger'd for man's flesh,
For which they had of late acquired a taste,
Knowing the difference of a slave's lank bones
From British muscles and a Christian's blocd.
(It goes on in this vein for a while: but this next bit is one of the best)
The vernal promise of the Imperial youth
Long since had been as if by lightning sear'd :
Lust through his veins in purple torrents rush'd,
And incest could not quench its burning heat;
Incest as foul as Milton has described
'Twixt Sin and Satan ere they fell from Heaven.
Then against her he fear'd not to pollute
His hatred turn'd ; for still she thwarted him
In his fix'd purpose to divorce his wife,
Stainless, forlorn Octavia, and to wed
His bold, ambitious concubine, Poppaea.
(A long bit about Agrippina's murder, and a few other things, since stokes is obviously giving us a play by play survey of Thrasea in Tacitus. The next bit is about the banishment of Octavia, in which Thrasea does not actually figure in Tacitus, which turns out to be a problem:)
Did Thrasea in the obsequious Senate
With Seneca that blasphemy approve ?
Had it been so the historian would have told,
For he records each fact with stern precision.
Crime followed crime, and the red catalogue
Surpass'd the slaughter of Eighth Henry's reign,
Long as the Newgate Calendar when thieves
And forgers from the ropes with murderers swung.
But those this Monster slew were Earth's best men
And purest women, virtue their sole crime,
Or patriotism, or else that they declined
To join his orgies and applaud his trills.
Yet, as each more atrocious deed was done,
The Fathers did not fail to thank the gods;
But Thrasea from the rites still kept aloof.
(then there is the Great Fire, and some angst about how Thrasea might have felt about Christians -- "but whatever: Stoics were practically Christians, anyway, so it's all good." Skipping a lot of really bad purplification of Tacitus:
But what he said
At that grave moment we shall never know,
For there the record ends—the rest is lost!
Who dares supply that blank ? Shakespeare alone
Might venture, as he told how Brutus died;
Or haply his invention had forborne
To find fit words for Thrasea's dying thoughts.
Thousands of scholars have from age to age
Read to that place ; as men o'er some grand scene
Pass on till hinder'd by a chasm abrupt:
Some shudder—others sigh—and all would wish
The void fill'd up ; but like the depth profound
Of death appears to me that sudden blank.
I can't imagine anyone actually reading this all the way through.
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-02 10:15 pm (UTC)...you know, if they're not going to bother with rhyme, they might as well just say "tuned his violin." :P
But, (more) seriously, WOW. Oh, Victorians! is right. It's like a sourcebook for management directives! I mean, "but like the depth profound of death appears to me that sudden blank"??? Really???
no subject
Date: 2009-11-03 02:29 am (UTC)And re: that last line, yes: way to go at saying the obvious and ruining what actually is there at the end of the Annals.