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WILLIAM MORRIS.

(b 1834.)

THE WRITING ON THE IMAGE.

ARGUMENT.

How on an image that stood anciently in Rome were written certain words, which none understood, until a Scholar, coming there, knew their meaning, and thereby discovered great marvels, but withal died miserably.

In half-forgotten days of old,
As by our fathers we were told,

Within the town of Rome there stood

An image cut of cornel wood,

And on the upraised hand of it
Men might behold these letters writ
"Percute hic:" which is to say,
In that tongue that we speak to-day,
"Strike here!" nor yet did any know
The cause why this was written so.

Thus in the middle of the square,
In the hot sun and summer air,
The snow-drift and the driving rain,
That image stood, with little pain,
For twice a hundred years and ten:
While many a band of striving men
Were driven betwixt woe and mirth
Swiftly across the weary earth,
From nothing unto dark nothing:
And many an emperor and king,
Passing with glory or with shame,
Left little record of his name,
And no remembrance of the face

Once watched with awe for gifts or grace,

you,

Fear little, then, I counsel
What any son of man can do;
Because a log of wood will last
While many a life of man goes past,
And all is over in short space.

Now so it chanced that to this place
There came a man of Sicily,
Who when the image he did see,

Knew full well who, in days of yore,
Had set it there; for much strange lore,
In Egypt and in Babylon,

This man with painful toil had won;
And many secret things could do;
So verily full well he knew

That master of all sorcery

Who wrought the thing in days gone by;
And doubted not that some great spell
It guarded, but could nowise tell
What it might be. So, day by day,
Still would he loiter on the way,
And watch the image carefully,
Well mocked of many a passer-by.
And on a day he stood and gazed
Upon the slender finger, raised
Against a doubtful cloudy sky,

Nigh noontide; and thought, "Certainly
The master who made thee so fair
By wondrous art, had not stopped there,
But made thee speak, had he not thought
That thereby evil might be brought
Upon his spell." But as he spoke,
From out a cloud the noon sun broke
With watery light, and shadows cold:
Then did the Scholar well behold
How, from that finger carved to tell
Those words, a short black shadow fell

Upon a certain spot of ground,
And thereon, looking all around

And seeing none heeding, went straightway
Whereas the finger's shadow lay,

And with his knife about the place
A little circle did he trace;

Then home he turned with throbbing head,
And forthright gat him to his bed,

And slept until the night was late
And few men stirred from gate to gate.
So when at midnight he did wake,
Pickaxe and shovel did he take,
And, going to that now silent square,
He found the mark his knife made there,
And quietly with many a stroke

And so,

The pavement of the place he broke:
the stones being set apart,
He 'gan to dig with beating heart,
And from the hole in haste he cast
The marl and gravel; till at last,
Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred,
For suddenly his spade struck hard
With clang against some metal thing:

And soon he found a brazen ring,
All green with rust, twisted, and great
As a man's wrist, set in a plate

Of copper, wrought all curiously

With words unknown though plain to see,
Spite of the rust; and flowering trees,
And beasts, and wicked images,
Whereat he shuddered: for he knew
What ill things he might come to do,
If he should still take part with these
And that Great Master strive to please.

But small time had he then to stand
And think, so straight he set his hand
Unto the ring, but where he thought

That by main strength it must be brought From out its place, lo! easily

It came away, and let him see

A winding staircase wrought of stone,
Wherethrough the new-come wind did moan,
Then thought he, "If I come alive
From out this place well shall I thrive,
For I may look here certainly

The treasures of a king to see,

A mightier man than men are now.
So in few days what man shall know
The needy Scholar, seeing me

Great in the place where great men be,

The richest man in all the land?
Beside the best then shall I stand,
And some unheard-of palace have;
And if my soul I may not save

In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes
Will I make some sweet paradise,
With marble cloisters, and with trees
And bubbling wells, and fantasies,

And things all men deem strange and rare,
And crowds of women kind and fair,
That I may see, if so I please,

Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees
With half-clad bodies wandering.
There, dwelling happier than the king.
What lovely days may yet be mine!
How shall I live with love and wine,
And music, till I come to die!
And then Who knoweth certainly

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What haps to us when we are dead?
Truly I think by likelihead

Nought haps to us of good or bad:
Therefore on earth will I be glad

A short space,

free from hope or fear;

And fearless will I enter here

And meet my fate, whatso it be."
Now on his back a bag had he,
To bear what treasure he might win,
And therewith now did he begin

and king,

To go adown the winding stair;
And found the walls all painted fair
With images of many a thing,
Warrior and priest, and queen
But nothing knew what they might be.
Which things full clearly could he see,
For lamps were hung up here and there
Of strange device, but wrought right fair,
And pleasant savour came from them.

At last a curtain, on whose hem
Unknown words in red gold were writ,
He reached, and softly raising it
Stepped back, for now did he behold
A goodly hall hung round with gold,
And at the upper end could see
Sitting, a glorious company:
Therefore he trembled, thinking well
They were no men, but fiends of hell.
But while he waited, trembling sore,
And doubtful of his late-learned lore,
A cold blast of the outer air
Blew out the lamps upon the stair
And all was dark behind him; then
Did he fear less to face those men
Than, turning round, to leave them there
While he went groping up the stair.
Yea, since he heard no cry or call
Or any speech from them at all,
He doubted they were images
Set there some dying king to please
By that Great Master of the art;
Therefore at last with stouter heart
He raised the cloth and entered in
HOEKZEMA, Poetry. 4th Ed.

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