The Watchman

My Claudia, it is long since we have met,So kissed, so held each other heart to heart!I thought to greet thee as a conqueror comes,Bearing the trophies of his prowess home,But Jove hath willed it should be otherwise—Jove, say I? Nay, some mightier stranger-godWho thus hath laid his heavy hand on me,No victor, Claudia, but a broken manWho seeks to hide his weakness in thy love.

How beautiful thou art! The years have broughtAn added splendor to thy loveliness,With passion of dark eye and lip rose-redStruggling between its dimple and its pride.And yet there is somewhat that glooms betweenThy love and mine; come, girdle me aboutWith thy true arms, and pillow on thy breastThis aching and bewildered head of mine;Here, where the fountain glitters in the sunAmong the saffron lilies, I will tell—If so that words will answer my desire—The shameful fate that hath befallen me.

Down in Jerusalem they slew a man,Or god—it may be that he was a god—Those mad, wild Jews whom Pontius Pilate rules.Thou knowest Pilate, Claudia—a vain man,Too weak to govern such a howling hordeAs those same Jews. This man they crucified.I knew nought of him—had not heard his nameUntil the day they dragged him to his death;Then all tongues wagged about him and his deeds;Some said that he had claimed to be their King,Some that he had blasphemed their deity;'Twas certain he was poor and meanly born,No warrior he, nor hero; and he taughtDoctrines that surely would upset the world;And so they killed him to be rid of him—Wise, very wise, if he were only man,Not quite so wise if he were half a god!

I know that strange things happened when he died—There was a darkness and an agony,And some were vastly frightened—not so I!What cared I if that mob of reeking JewsHad brought a nameless curse upon their heads?I had no part in that blood-guiltiness.At least he died; and some few friends of his—I think he had not very many friends—Took him and laid him in a garden tomb.A watch was set about the sepulchre,Lest these, his friends, should hide him and proclaimThat he had risen as he had fore-told.Laugh not, my Claudia. I laughed when I heardThe prophecy. I would I had not laughed!

I, Maximus, was chosen for the guardWith all my trusty fellows. Pilate knewI was a man who had no foolish heartOf softness all unworthy of a man!My eyes had looked upon a tortured slaveAs on a beetle crushed beneath my tread;I gloried in the splendid strife of war,Lusting for conquest; I had won the praiseOf our stern general on a scarlet field;Red in my veins the warrior passion ran,For I had sprung from heroes, Roman born!

That second night we watched before the tomb;My men were merry; on the velvet turf,Bestarred with early blossoms of the Spring,They diced with jest and laughter; all aroundThe moonlight washed us like a silver lake,Save where that silent, sealéd sepulchreWas hung with shadow as a purple pall.A faint wind stirred among the olive boughs—Methinks I hear the sighing of that windIn all sounds since, it was so dumbly sad;But as the night wore on it died awayAnd all was deadly stillness; Claudia,That stillness was most awful, as if someGreat heart had broken and so ceased to beat!I thought of many things, but found no joyIn any thought, even the thought of thee;The moon waned in the west and sickly grewHer light sucked from her in the breaking dawn—Never was dawn so welcome as that pale,Faint glimmer in the cloudless, brooding sky!

Claudia, how may I tell what came to pass?I have been mocked at when I told the taleFor a crazed dreamer punished by the godsBecause he slept on guard; but mock not thou!I could not bear it if thy lips should mockThe vision dread of that Judean morn.

Sudden the pallid east was all aflameWith radiance that beat upon our eyesAs from noonday sun; and then we sawTwo shapes that were as the immortal godsStanding before the tomb; around me fellMy men as dead; but I, though through my veinsRan a cold tremor never known before,Withstood the shock and saw one shining shapeRoll back the stone; the whole world seemed ablaze,And through the garden came a rushing windThundering a paeon as of victory.

Then that dead man came forth! Oh, Claudia,If thou coulds't but have seen the face of him!Never was such a conqueror! Yet no prideWas in it—nought but love and tenderness,Such as we Romans scoff at; and his eyesBespake him royal. Oh, my Claudia,Surely he was no Jew but very god!

Then he looked full upon me. I had borneMuch staunchly, but that look I could not bear!What man may front a god and live? I fellProne, as if stricken by a thunderbolt;And, though I died not, somewhat of me diedThat made me man. When my long stupor passedI was no longer Maximus—I wasA weakling with a piteous woman-soul,All strength and pride, joy and ambition gone—My Claudia, dare I tell thee what foul curseIs mine because I looked upon a god?

I care no more for glory; all desireFor conquest and for strife is gone from me,All eagerness for war; I only careTo help and heal bruised beings, and to giveSome comfort to the weak and suffering.I cannot even hate those Jews; my lipsSpeak harshly of them, but within my heartI feel a strange compassion; and I loveAll creatures, to the vilest of the slavesWho seem to me as brothers! Claudia,Scorn me not for this weakness; it will pass—Surely 'twill pass in time and I shall beMaximus strong and valiant once again,Forgetting that slain god! and yet—and yet—He looked as one who could not be forgot!