THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE.
How on an image that stood anciently in Rome were written certain words, which none understood, until a Scholar, coming there, knew their meaning, and thereby discovered great marvels, but withal died miserably.
In half-forgotten days of old, As by our fathers we were told,
Within the town of Rome there stood
An image cut of cornel wood,
And on the upraised hand of it Men might behold these letters writ "Percute hic:" which is to say, In that tongue that we speak to-day, "Strike here!" nor yet did any know The cause why this was written so.
Thus in the middle of the square, In the hot sun and summer air, The snow-drift and the driving rain, That image stood, with little pain, For twice a hundred years and ten: While many a band of striving men Were driven betwixt woe and mirth Swiftly across the weary earth, From nothing unto dark nothing: And many an emperor and king, Passing with glory or with shame, Left little record of his name, And no remembrance of the face
Once watched with awe for gifts or grace,
Fear little, then, I counsel What any son of man can do; Because a log of wood will last While many a life of man goes past, And all is over in short space.
Now so it chanced that to this place There came a man of Sicily, Who when the image he did see,
Knew full well who, in days of yore, Had set it there; for much strange lore, In Egypt and in Babylon,
This man with painful toil had won; And many secret things could do; So verily full well he knew
That master of all sorcery
Who wrought the thing in days gone by; And doubted not that some great spell It guarded, but could nowise tell What it might be. So, day by day, Still would he loiter on the way, And watch the image carefully, Well mocked of many a passer-by. And on a day he stood and gazed Upon the slender finger, raised Against a doubtful cloudy sky,
Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly The master who made thee so fair By wondrous art, had not stopped there, But made thee speak, had he not thought That thereby evil might be brought Upon his spell." But as he spoke, From out a cloud the noon sun broke With watery light, and shadows cold: Then did the Scholar well behold How, from that finger carved to tell Those words, a short black shadow fell
Upon a certain spot of ground, And thereon, looking all around
And seeing none heeding, went straightway Whereas the finger's shadow lay,
And with his knife about the place A little circle did he trace;
Then home he turned with throbbing head, And forthright gat him to his bed,
And slept until the night was late And few men stirred from gate to gate. So when at midnight he did wake, Pickaxe and shovel did he take, And, going to that now silent square, He found the mark his knife made there, And quietly with many a stroke
The pavement of the place he broke: the stones being set apart, He 'gan to dig with beating heart, And from the hole in haste he cast The marl and gravel; till at last, Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred, For suddenly his spade struck hard With clang against some metal thing:
And soon he found a brazen ring, All green with rust, twisted, and great As a man's wrist, set in a plate
Of copper, wrought all curiously
With words unknown though plain to see, Spite of the rust; and flowering trees, And beasts, and wicked images, Whereat he shuddered: for he knew What ill things he might come to do, If he should still take part with these And that Great Master strive to please.
But small time had he then to stand And think, so straight he set his hand Unto the ring, but where he thought
That by main strength it must be brought From out its place, lo! easily
It came away, and let him see
A winding staircase wrought of stone, Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan, Then thought he, "If I come alive From out this place well shall I thrive, For I may look here certainly
The treasures of a king to see,
A mightier man than men are now. So in few days what man shall know The needy Scholar, seeing me
Great in the place where great men be,
The richest man in all the land? Beside the best then shall I stand, And some unheard-of palace have; And if my soul I may not save
In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes Will I make some sweet paradise, With marble cloisters, and with trees And bubbling wells, and fantasies,
And things all men deem strange and rare, And crowds of women kind and fair, That I may see, if so I please,
Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees With half-clad bodies wandering. There, dwelling happier than the king. What lovely days may yet be mine! How shall I live with love and wine, And music, till I come to die! And then Who knoweth certainly
What haps to us when we are dead? Truly I think by likelihead
Nought haps to us of good or bad: Therefore on earth will I be glad
free from hope or fear;
And fearless will I enter here
And meet my fate, whatso it be." Now on his back a bag had he, To bear what treasure he might win, And therewith now did he begin
To go adown the winding stair; And found the walls all painted fair With images of many a thing, Warrior and priest, and queen But nothing knew what they might be. Which things full clearly could he see, For lamps were hung up here and there Of strange device, but wrought right fair, And pleasant savour came from them.
At last a curtain, on whose hem Unknown words in red gold were writ, He reached, and softly raising it Stepped back, for now did he behold A goodly hall hung round with gold, And at the upper end could see Sitting, a glorious company: Therefore he trembled, thinking well They were no men, but fiends of hell. But while he waited, trembling sore, And doubtful of his late-learned lore, A cold blast of the outer air Blew out the lamps upon the stair And all was dark behind him; then Did he fear less to face those men Than, turning round, to leave them there While he went groping up the stair. Yea, since he heard no cry or call Or any speech from them at all, He doubted they were images Set there some dying king to please By that Great Master of the art; Therefore at last with stouter heart He raised the cloth and entered in HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed.
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