A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Dream of Lucretia (François Ponsard)
THE DREAM OF LUCRETIA.
I dreamt I entered in a sacred temple
Amidst a crowd. It might be said that Rome
Pressed to this single spot to its last man,
And that to give access to all this throng,
The human wave that ever, ever grew,
The temple walls went on enlarging still.
Then, unto Romulus, our common sire,
To render him propitious to the land,
The Quirinal Priest prepared to sacrifice.
The chosen victim by the altar stood,
Its skin already strown with flour and salt;
Wine from the vase was sprinkled on the front
Where have their base the formidable horns;
And the Priest uttered in his solemn voice
The prayer:—'O God Quirinus, we entreat
Of these libations thine acceptance. Grant
That Rome amongst the nations be supreme.'
He ceased, and silence reigned in that vast hall.
Shivered, in expectation, every soul:
When suddenly a strident voice was heard
At which the temple trembled, as with fear.
'Far, far from me these offerings! Shall I drink
The blood of beasts? I long for human blood.
The pure blood of a woman must be shed.
Then shall your prayers be heard, and Rome be great.'
Thus spake the god,—and in that very time
Vanished the victim, in some way unknown,
And on the altar I,—I found myself
Stretched in its place, awaiting for the axe
Suspended. There I lay with blanching cheek,
Paler and paler as the minutes passed,
Until a pillar opening, out there came
A deadly serpent. Crawling, it advanced,
Drawing along the flags its glittering rings,
Proud of their rich resplendence, moving slow,
And slower still, as certain of its prey.
It neared—it rose—and on my body frail
Coiled its chill slimy almost frozen length.
My hair stood up with fright, my flesh
Crept with the horror of that humid clasp;
My voice was strangled in my arid throat;
I tried to fly—I could not even move—
Fixed with wild terror and deep loathing there,
Spell-bound and fascinated. Like an arm
Of flexile iron winding round and round
The hideous monster wrapt me in its folds,
Tightening his grasp obdurate, more and more;
Then raised its head, from whence a fiery tongue,
Keen as a glave, like lightning darted forth.
It fixed its eyes, like torches, on my eyes,
It breathed upon my face an odour strange,
An odour of the tomb. The fiery tongue,
Tasting in hope beforehand human blood,
Ran o'er my frame still motionless and cold,
Meditating the deadly wound. Then came
A rush of darkness, and I saw no more,
Nor felt I aught. . . . My torturer had fled,
Leaving a sword deep-buried in my heart.
And wonder new! The rapid streaming drops
That from the wound fell down upon the stones
Gave birth, in falling, to battalions armed,
More close than on the furrows serried corn,
More numerous than the desert's endless sands,
And all the combatants had an air superb,
And carried for their ensigns, not the rods
Knotted together, but tall brazen pikes
Surmounted with an eagle each of gold,
That menaced South and East and West and North.
At last I starting woke and sat upright,
Full of my frightful dream—so full indeed,
That I believed I felt within my heart
The sharp cold of the glave, deep-buried still.