On the Palatine

A nostalgic poem about ancient Rome.

On the Palatine I crept up and wept

Over the sorry sight my eyes beheld.

O’ Rome, o’ Rome where have ye gone?

Has this envious world reduced you to null?

Where is your Caesar? Where is the forum?

That we may judge the culprit of your dolour?

Where is the arena? Where are its crowds? 

That his blood may be spilt on its grounds?

Oh eternal, oh divine,

I am not the Augustus you prophesize

But with my humble muse and loyal lyre

Might I reprieve you from the dire?

Come now, forget the Goths, denounce the cross,

And let’s recall the golden age of gods.

A time when ye Rome were a city sublime,

Your columns and temples kissing your skies.

Mosaic and sculpture adorned your halls

And triumphal arches lined your sacred road.

The pantheon like a second sun shone

On an earthly Olympus, a godly trove,

And the coliseum ablaze with games

Shook to its base with mirth and wails;

The circus Maximus at deadly pace

had charioteer and stallion race to their fate;

and the rostrum with its rhetorical lore

wielded the will of a people to and fro,

while the Curia in ferocious debate

decided the destiny of the race.

A time when ye, Rome, were queen of the world

Presiding over Spaniard, Greek and Gaul.

Plutarch and Pliny declaimed your name

And awe Caesar every tongue would hail.

Remember the conquest of the Gallic tribes

And that first step on Britannic isles

Or the siege round the walls of Zion

That ended the temple and its riots;

Carthage the name you crushed to dust

when Hannibal ventured to call your bluff;

And the wars against the son of Mithras

who sought to restore a Sparta by past?

Now behold ye the roman triumph

That followed with feast and illustrious pomp.

From the arch of Titus to the Capitoline

The victors marched to the beat of drums and cries.

Oh Fortuna, oh victoria

What nation ever caused you such euphoria?

Save that of the heirs of Aeneas

The pious prince and Trojan genius.

O’ Romulus, son of Venus and mars

Who claimed this hill with sweat and blood,

Did you know you were creating an empire uncurbed?

Did you know you were building the walls of the world?

Julius, father of the fatherland,

 Won’t you rise from the ashes to reign with high hand?

For your victory is sweet, your command sublime

And your caress softer than the lulling Nile.

Augustus, you clothed Rome in marble and gold

And to initiate peace you were so bold.

With artistic cunning and humble poise

You rose to become first man in Rome.

Hadrian, the man after my own heart,

You lover of verse, wisdom and mankind;

The ardent wanderer and Diana’s pride;

The saviour of the Hellenic shrine.

Oh Rome I wonder how it could be

That they call you tyrant, raider and thief.

After all you’ve toiled, after all you’ve appeased

 History only records your darkest deeds.

Alas you are but a beauty so fine

In the eyes of a poet such as I.

You’re a universal union, a transcendent awe

A beacon of light in humanity’s yore.

Yet who am I to serenade you with sweet words

A poor provincial submissive to your sword?

On this hill I cannot but prostrate

And a libation of ink dedicate

To Apollo, Roma and mighty Jove

Whom I dare not praise, I can only compose.

So sing again O’ Vestal virgins,

 Lo legions rise up and roar!

To the glory that once and will always be

The senate and people of Rome.