Behind the earthworks that ensconce Ravenna in the fens
Great Theodosius’ feckless heir throws crumbs to clucking hens.
Honorious Augustus, imperator of the West
Bears not the Trojan fire in his weak and puny breast,
And so it falls to Stilicho, a Vandal of the North,
To blaze against the coming night and lead the legions forth.
He’s let the crises pull him like a fish on many lines:
The painted Picts and southern counts and crafty Byzantines.
The agéd captain tires and the final blow comes soon.
King Radagaisus rides on Rome and raises the harpoon.
Now Stilicho is in the forum raising men to fight
While proper old patricians whisper slanders in the night.
They slip gold coins to ruffians and tell them where to go:
The Senators have bought a mob to challenge Stilicho.
“Bring out the books,” the people cry, “the old books Sibylline,
And bid the old priests read in them and tell what they divine.
As Rome is sinking low beneath your god’s nail-punctured hand,
A drought of sacred prophecy has overspread the land.
In olden times we searched the books and there within them found
To take four living victims and inter them in the ground.
Against our custom and our taste, we walled the captives in:
The sin of Carthage warding off the Carthaginian.
Since brother battered brother’s brains upon the Palatine,
We Romans have not shrunk away from murder and rapine.
We’ll dig our fathers from their tombs and burn their ancient bones