4523833Poems — Justinian and BelisariusMary Caroline Denver
JUSTINIAN AND BELISARIUS.
["It is in vain thy generosity would absolve me: shortly called to the Supreme Tribunal, there I must render an account of all your sufferings: the King of kings will say, 'What hast thou done with the faithful friend I gave thee?'"—Mad. de Genlis.]
Death, on the monarch's pallid brow Had placed his seal of fate; And all his regal honors now, "Were chill and desolate. He felt how empty and how vain The pride, the pomp, the strife,— O, he would give them all to gain One moment more of life.
He thought of all his victories won, The field in blood imbued; Of him who led his armies on, His own ingratitude. Unto his soul with leaden pain, They darkly onward came, And the monarch hid his burning face, In anguish and in shame.
But hark! a voice of other years, Rings to his very heart, Is it the foeman's shout he hears? Or why that sudden start? A darker recollection came, Of griefs beyond control, To blow on high the withering flame, That burnt within his soul.
No foeman's voice is on the gale, No banner floats on high, He hears no warrior's dying wail Rise on the troubled sky; But lowly kneeling by his side, He hears the stifled sigh Of him, who spurned with victor-pride, The crown of Italy.
Where was the strength that ever led Thy hosts to victory? Justinian! where the eye that shed A glory even on thee? 0, mighty warrior! could the brand, A fame like thine molest: Thy strength is gone, and envy's hand Has blotted out the rest.
Justinian gazed upon the form, That in a prouder hour, Had backward swept amidst the storm, The fierce barbarian power. What could such earnest woe import As that which met his eye? Conscience came trembling to his heart. And whispered, "It was I."
He heard the blessed word "forgive;" Could it new life impart? He could not hear the sound and live, For death was on his heart. And to his bosom came the thought, The burning consciousness, His own ingratitude had wrought His latest wretchedness.
Ah! Belisarius, could thine eye, Thy dying monarch see, With conscience pointing still on high, Great thy revenge would be! But love knelt down at mercy's shrine, And waved him to the tomb, Another tribunal than thine Adjudged his final doom.
