THE WATCH AT THE SEPULCHRE.
From east to west I've marched beneath the eagles;
From Pontus unto Gaul:
Kept many a watch, on which, by death surrounded,
I've seen each comrade fall. Fear! I could laugh until these rocks re-echoed,
To think that I should fear,
Who have met death in every form unshrinking,
To watch this dead man here. In Dacian forests, sitting by our watch-fire,
I've kept the wolves at bay;
On Rætian Alps escaped the ice-hills hurling,
Close where our legion lay. On moonless nights, upon the sands of Libya,
I've sat with shield firm set;
And heard the lion roar; and in this fore-arm
The tiger's teeth have met. I was star-gazing when he stole upon me,
Until I felt his breath,
And saw his jewel eyes gleam: then he seized me,
And instant met his death. My weapon in his thick-veined neck I buried,
My feet his warm blood dyed:
And then I bound my wound, and till the morning
Lay couched upon his side. Here though the stars are veiled, the peaceful city
Lies at our feet asleep;
Round us the still more peaceful dead are living,
In slumber yet more deep. A low wind moaning glides among the olives,
Till every hill-side sighs:
But round us here the moaning seems to muster
And gather where he lies. And through the darkness pale, faint, gleams are flying,
That touch this hill alone:
Whence these unearthly lights? and whence the shadows
That move upon the stone? If the Olympian Jove awoke in thunder,
His great eyes I could meet;
But his, if once again they looked upon me,
Would strike me to his feet. He looked as if my brother hung there bleeding,
And put my soul to shame:
As if my mother with his eyes was pleading,
And pity overcame. But could he save? He who in death was hanging
On the accursed tree,
Was he the Son of God? for so in dying,
He seemed to die for me. All my pitiless deeds came up before me,
Gazed at me from his face:
What if he rose again, and I should meet him!—
How awful is this place!