Imperante Augusto Natus Est--

What it was struck the terror into me?     This, Publius: closer! while we wait our turn     Ill tell you. Waters warm (they ring inside)     At the eighth hour, till when no use to bathe.     Here in the vestibule where now we sit,     One scarce stood yesterday, the throng was such     Of loyal gapers, folk all eye and ear     While Lucius Varius Rufus in their midst     Read out that long-planned late-completed piece,     His Panegyric on the Emperor.     Nobody like him, little Flaccus laughed,     At leading forth an Epos with due pomp!     Only, when godlike Csar swells the theme,     How should mere mortals hope to praise aright?     Tell me, thou offshoot of Etruscan kings!     Whereat Mcenas smiling sighed assent.     I paid my quadrans, left the Therm roar     Of rapture as the poet asked: What place     Among the godships Jove, for Csars sake,     Would bid its actual occupant vacate     In favor of the new divinity?     And got the expected answer, Yield thine own!     Jove thus dethroned, I somehow wanted air,     And found myself a-pacing street and street,     Letting the sunset, rosy over Rome,     Clear my head dizzy with the hubbub, say,     As if thoughts dance therein had kicked up dust     By trampling on all else: the world lay prone,     As, poet-propped, in brave hexameters,     Their subject triumphed up from man to God.     Caius Octavius Csar the August,     Where was escape from his prepotency?     I judge I may have passed, how many piles     Of structure dropt like doles from his free hand     To Rome on every side? Why, right and left,     For temples youve the Thundering Jupiter,     Avenging Mars, Apollo Palatine:     How count Piazza, Forum, theres a third     All but completed. Youve the Theatre     Named of Marcellus, all his work, such work!     One thought still ending, dominating all,     With warrant Varius sang, Be Csar God!     By what a hold arrests he Fortunes wheel,     Obtaining and retaining heaven and earth     Through Fortune, if you like, but favor, no!     For the great deeds flashed by me, fast and thick     As stars which storm the sky on autumn nights,     Those conquests! but peace crowned them, so, of peace     Count up his titles only, these, in few,     Ten years Triumvir, Consul thirteen times,     Emperor, nay, the glory topping all,     Hailed Father of his Country, last and best     Of titles, by himself accepted so:     And why not? See but feats achieved in Rome,     Not to say, Italy, he planted there     Some thirty colonies, but Rome itself     All new-built, marble now, brick once, he boasts:     This Portico, that Circus. Would you sail?     He has drained Tiber for you: would you walk?     He straightened out the long Flaminian Way.     Poor? Profit by his score of donatives?     Rich, that is, mirthful? Half-a-hundred games     Challenge your choice! Theres Rome, for you and me     Only? The centre of the world besides!     For, look the wide world over, where ends Rome?     To sunrise? Theres Euphrates, all between!     To sunset? Ocean and immensity:     North, stare till Danube stops you: South, see Nile,     The Desert and the earth-upholding Mount.     Well may the poet-people each with each     Vie in his praise, our company of swans,     Virgil and Horace, singers, in their way,     Nearly as good as Varius, though less famed:     Well may they cry, No mortal, plainly God!     Thus to myself myself said, while I walked:     Or would have said, could thought attain to speech,     Clean baffled by enormity of bliss     The while I strove to scale its heights and sound     Its depths, this Amsterdam oer all the world     Of one who was but born, like you, like me,     Like all the world he owns, of flesh and blood.     But he, how grasp, how gauge his own conceit     Of bliss to me near inconceivable?     Or, since such flight too much makes reel the brain,     Lets sink, and so take refuge, as it were,     From lifes excessive altitude, to lifts     Breathable wayside shelter at its base!     If blooms thus large this Csar to myself     Of senatorial rank and somebody,     How must he strike the vulgar nameless crowd,     In numerous swarm thats nobody at all?     Why, for an instance, much as yon gold shape     Crowned, sceptred, on the temple opposite,     Fulgurant Jupiter, must daze the sense     Of, say, yon outcast begging from its step!     What, Anti-Csar, monarch in the mud,     As he is pinnacled above thy pate?     Ay, beg away! thy lot contrasts full well     With his whose bounty yields thee this support,     Our Holy and Inviolable One,     Csar, whose bounty built the fane above!     Dost read my thought? Thy garb, alack, displays     Sore usage truly in each rent and stain,     Faugh! Wash though in Suburra! Ware the dogs     Who may not so disdain a meal on thee!     What, stretchest forth a palm to catch my alms?     Aha, why yes: I must appear, who knows?     I, in my toga, to thy rags and thee,     Qustor, nay, dile, Censor, Pol! perhaps     The very City-Prtors noble self!     As to me Csar, so to thee am I?     Good: nor in vain shall prove thy quest, poor rogue!     Hither, hold palm out, take this quarter, as!     And who did take it? As he raised his head,     (My gesture was a trifle, well, abrupt,)     Back fell the broad flap of the peasants-hat,     The homespun cloak that muffled half his check     Dropped somewhat, and I had a glimpse, just one!     One was enough. Whose, whose might be the face?     That unkempt careless hair, brown, yellowish,     Those sparkling eyes beneath their eyebrows ridge     (Each meets each, and the hawk-nose rules between)     That was enough, no glimpse was needed more!     And terrifyingly into my mind     Came that quick-hushed report was whispered us,     They do say, once a year in sordid garb     He plays the mendicant, sits all day long,     Asking and taking alms of who may pass,     And so averting, if submission help,     Fates envy, the dread chance and change of things     When Fortune, for a word, a look, a naught,     Turns spiteful and, the petted lioness,     Strikes with her sudden paw, and prone falls each     Who patted late her neck superiorly,     Or trifled with those claw-tips velvet-sheathed.     Hes God! shouts Lucius Varius Rufus: Man     And worms-meat any moment! mutters low     Some Power, admonishing the mortal-born.     Ay, do you mind? Theres meaning in the fact     That whoso conquers, triumphs, enters Rome,     Climbing the Capitolian, soaring thus     To glorys summit, Publius, do you mark,     Ever the same attendant who, behind,     Above the Conquerors head supports the crown     All-too-demonstrative for human wear,     One hands employment, all the while reserves     Its fellow, backward flung, to point how, close     Appended from the car, beneath the foot     Of the up-borne exulting Conqueror,     Frown, half-descried, the instruments of shame,     The malefactors due. Crown, now, Cross, when?     Who stands secure? Are even Gods so safe?     Jupiter that just now is dominant,     Are not there ancient dismal tales how once     A predecessor reigned ere Saturn came,     And who can say if Jupiter be last?     Was it for nothing the gray Sibyl wrote     Csar Augustus regnant, shall be born     In blind Juda, one to master him,     Him and the universe? An old-wifes tale?     Bath-drudge! Here, slave! No cheating! Our turn next.     No loitering, or be sure you taste the lash!     Two strigils, two oil-drippers, each a sponge!