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Procla.
I know it. Yet, if Jesus were divine -
Pilate.
What then, you Nazarene?
Procla.
Why then 'twould be
As if you had vexed Apollo. You would bring
A sacrifice to make his anger cease.
Pilate.
My child, this Jesus, if he were divine,
Was a philosopher. Such would not snuff
Our reeking altar smokes with much delight.
What sacrifice could he have?
Procla.
I have heard
He used to say the sacrifice to him
Was sorrow for ill-doing.
Pilate.
Said he that?
If a poet now could have his pick of Gods
To put in heaven, he'd make him one for that.
My Procla, I have heard of many things
Most noble and most touching that man taught
And I believe that he, though of mean state,
Not tutored as I think in subtle lore
Of the wise Greeks nor of our reasoning schools,
Would yet have left his stamp upon the world
As deep as any sage's, would have raised
A school of teachers of the highest flight
Who might perhaps have learned for us some things
We vaguely yearn to know of, found perhaps
Something to take for real and hold fast
In the confusion of philosophies
And shifting dulled traditions of our Gods
Who let us wander on and make no sign -
For what are we to them or they to us?
Something at least to take for starting point
Amid the coil of labyrinths that twist
And fret and cross and bring us back again
To where we were, the labyrinths that seem
To wreath and puzzle round a gaping void
Where truth, we're told, should be, - a starting point
To find the clue from, and perhaps the goal....
Which our philosophers put out of count,
As if the work was to make labyrinths,
More than we have, and see where they might end.
For him, he seemed, if he had not seen truth,
At least to think he had; and that is much.
And if I could have saved him, but for this
That he might reason with me, I had done it.
And I, whom the Jews call a cruel man,
At least love justice as a Roman should,
And that man's innocence, (I tell you this
That you may cease to make my trouble worse),
Weighs on me like my guilt, though I indeed
Absolve myself from share in dooming him.
But there was no way left; you know I tried
To save him and I failed. No more of this.
Now never vex me with his name again,
Unless you'd have me loathe you as I loathe
The murderous Jews who dragged their victim from me
By threats of Cæsar.
Next |
A Woman Sold
Bartimaeus
Judas
Pilate
The Walk To Emmaus
A Bride
A March Night
A Messenger
A Mother's Cry
A Wedding
Afterwards
Dead Amy
Deserted
Dreaming
Glad Waves
Going
How The Brook Sings
If
In The Storm
In The Sunshine
Looking Downstairs
Mary Lost
Never Again
Night Whispers
On The Lake
On The Shore
Our Lily
Passing Away
Perjured
Safe
Shadow
Sunlight
The Blush Rose
The Gift
The Heiress' Wooer
The Hidden Wound
The Lake
The Land Of Happy Dreams
The Old Year Out
The Red Star On The Hill
The River
The Setting Star
The Shadow Of A Cloud
To And Fro
To One Of Many
Too faithful
Two Maidens |
