Hannibal

When Hannibal mowed down Romans
with elephants,
his skill, his artistry,
had the effect of a painter's brush.

He, scraping paint off an easel,
would thrust
empires down,
trample Graeco - Romish influence
into paint spattered dust.


He neither was aware nor knew,
the Alps and Sabine allies,
Capua and other Latin tribes
would ruin his oath,
cause Baal, the false god,
to desert Punic prayers.

Paul Cameron Brown

Paul Cameron Brown is a Canadian poet known for his extensive work in both poetry and art criticism. Born in western Canada, Brown has had a prolific career in writing, often intertwining themes of human experience and nature. His works have been showcased in various literary magazines and anthologies. With a style that is both reflective and evocative, he has gained recognition not only in Canada but also internationally.

Paul Cameron Brown

Poets Are Magic Beings

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Penny Wise, Pound Poor

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Colette

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

Paleface

Paul Cameron Brown, Simple Poetry

English

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Bonaparte

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.
The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,
Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth.
And for the soul that bade him waste the earth,
The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure,
That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,
And by destruction bids its fame endure,
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.

Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,
Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew'd;
With which she beckon'd him through fight and storm,
And all he crush'd that cross'd his desp'rate road,
Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on what he trode;
Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,
So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad,
It was Ambitio...

Walter Scott

Quo Vadis

It is as if imperial trumpets broke
Again the silence on War's iron height;
And Cæsar's armored legions marched to fight,
While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke,
Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke,
Again I see the living torches light
The horrible revels, and the bloated, white,
Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke:
And here and there a little band of slaves
Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul,
Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word:
And towards the North the tottering architraves
Of empire; and, wild-waving over all,
The flaming figure of a Gothic sword.

Madison Julius Cawein

St. Telemachus

Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak
Been hurld so high they ranged about the globe?
For day by day, thro many a blood-red eve,
In that four-hundredth summer after Christ,
The wrathful sunset glared against a cross
Reard on the tumbled ruins of an old fane
No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed
On one huge slope beyond, where in his cave
The man, whose pious hand had built the cross,
A man who never changed a word with men,
Fasted and prayd, Telemachus the Saint.
Eve after eve that haggard anchorite
Would haunt the desolated fane, and there
Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low
Vicisti Galilæe; louder again,
Spurning a shatterd fragment of the God,
Vicisti Galilæe! butwhen now
Bathed in that lurid crimsonaskd Is earth
On fire to the Wes...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

On Rome In The Pontificate Of Julius II.

Qua si fa elmi.


Here helms and swords are made of chalices:
        The blood of Christ is sold so much the quart:
        His cross and thorns are spears and shields; and short
        Must be the time ere even his patience cease.
Nay let him come no more to raise the fees
        Of this foul sacrilege beyond report!
        For Rome still flays and sells him at the court,
        Where paths are closed to virtue's fair increase.
Now were fit time for me to scrape a treasure!
        Seeing that work and gain are gone; while he
        Who wears the robe, is my Medusa still.
God welcomes poverty perchance with pleasure:
        But of that better life what hope have we,
        When the blessed banner leads to nought but ill?

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

The Hermit's Sacrifice.

From Rome's palaces and villas
    Gaily issued forth a throng;
From her humbler habitations
    Moved a human tide along.

Haughty dames and blooming maidens,
    Men who knew not mercy's sway,
Thronged into the Coliseum
    On that Roman holiday.

From the lonely wilds of Asia,
    From her jungles far away,
From the distant torrid regions,
    Rome had gathered beasts of prey.

Lions restless, roaring, rampant,
    Tigers with their stealthy tread,
Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery,
    Met in conflict wild and dread.

Fierce and fearful was the carnage
    Of the maddened beasts of prey,
As they fought and rent each other
    Urged by men more fierce than they.

Till like muffled thunders breaking
    ...

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Hide Their Scars!

A painter, high in worldy fame,
Was sought to reproduce by art
A likeness of the man whose name
Sent darts of anguish through the heart
Of mighty monarchs in his day;
For he by arms subdued the world.
Kingdoms and empires owned his sway
And bowed beneath his flag unfurled.

But Alexander bore a scar,
Deep marked upon his royal brow;
To paint him thus would greatly mar
The monarch's beauty; as a slough
Would mar the beauty of a lawn,
Where queenly feet are wont to tread;
Or like the cloud at early dawn,
Which hides some glory 'neath its spread.

To leave it out would not be true,
For Alexander bore the scar;
The painter this resolved to do,
Which would be true, yet would not mar:
To paint the monarch's head reclined,
With his ...

Joseph Horatio Chant