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Dan Cross Poem
When Burke bewailed the fall of crown and throne,
Paine rose to speak with reason's voice alone.
No gilded past, no scepter's ancient claim
Could dim the light of liberty's pure flame.
He wrote not just for France, but humankind,
To break the chains that fetter soul and mind.
The rights of man, he said, are nature's gift·
No law may bind what reason dares to lift.
Let kings beware the people's waking might,
For truth once armed will not retreat from fight.
No birthright grants a man the power to reign·
The only crown is justice, Paine made plain.
Not merely free from kings must man be made,
But lifted from the depths where hope decayed.
Paine saw the poor not as a class to scorn,
But heirs of rights, though ragged and forlorn.
Let wealth, he urged, not idle in the hands
Of those who rule by birth and old commands.
A tax on riches, just and wisely laid,
Could build the schools where future minds are made.
The widow's tears, the orphan's silent plea·
These too are cries for true democracy.
He dreamed of pensions, bread, and homes secure,
A state that serves the many, not the few and pure.
No throne nor altar held his heart in thrall·
He wrote for those whom power would not call.
And in his lines, a vision bold and wide:
A world where justice walks with human pride.
No parchment stained by kings could Paine revere,
But one inscribed by citizens sincere.
He saw in law not chains, but guiding light·
A charter born of reason, not of might.
Let constitutions rise from common voice,
Where every soul has standing, every choice.
No throne, no peerage, no divine decree
Can match the strength of laws that make men free.
A government, he wrote, must serve the whole,
Not guard the wealth of one exalted role.
Its power must be checked, its bounds defined,
Its purpose clear: uplift the human mind.
He called for rights enshrined, not left to chance,
For justice shaped by reason, not romance.
And in his dream, the world would one day see
A state designed for truth and liberty.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Epilogue: The Voice of Rome
CHORUS:
The years roll on, and men ascend and fall,
As waves that break upon time’s stony shore.
Yet virtue, like the sun, doth never set,
Though clouds may veil her face from mortal eyes.
We saw the tyrant crowned in purple pride,
And saw him cast to exile’s bitter wind.
We heard the sage rebuke with tempered flame,
And watched his seed take root in youthful hearts.
Now one who sat beneath his olive shade
Doth wear the robe once stained by Varro’s hand.
Temptation knocks, as ever it hath done,
Yet wisdom speaks, and he doth not betray.
O Rome, thy soul is not in marble bound,
Nor in the clang of arms or Senate’s cry.
It lives in minds that hold the law as sacred,
And hearts that scorn the lure of fleeting gold.
Let every age remember Lucilius,
Who taught that power is but a trust bestowed,
And that the highest rank is servitude
To truth, to justice, and the common man.
So ends our tale, but not its living flame.
For though the actors vanish from the world,
Their deeds endure, inscribed in memory’s stone.
And Rome shall rise, if Romans still be wise.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Book I: The Summons of the Muse
O Muse, descend from lofty starry sphere,
And lend thine aid to sing what men hold dear:
Not wars of kings, nor blood on Pharsal’s plain,
But forks and spoons that strove for sovereign reign.
When knives did rule the board with iron hand,
And lentils leapt like rebels through the land,
There came a wight from future’s secret shore,
Who brought strange engines ne’er beheld before.
“Behold,” quoth he, “these prongs of tempered might,
Shall pierce thy meats and set thy board aright!
No more shall broth upon thy toga stray,
Nor figs escape like traitors in dismay.”
The Senate stared: “What witchcraft dost thou bring?
A trident small? Is that Neptune’s petty thing?”
Book II: The War of Utensilia
Then spoons advanced with bowls of rounded grace,
And forks with prongs did storm the festive place.
The knives, aghast, their empire rent in twain,
Cried, “Shall these toys our sovereignty disdain?”
As Mars himself, with crimson helm and shield,
Beheld the fray upon the banquet field,
He cried to Jove: “What madness dost thou see?
Shall mortals war for broth and fricassee?”
Then Jove, with laughter shaking heaven’s dome,
Declared: “Let forks and spoons have place in Rome!
For knives alone breed chaos, stains, and strife—
Give order now to Caesar’s dinner life!”
So thunder rolled, and lightning flashed on high,
While spoons sang hymns and forks let prongs fly.
The knives fell back, their edges dulled with shame,
And cursed the hour that forks to Rome first came.
Book III: The Feast and the Folly
The traveler laughed: “My work is near complete—
Rome shall not fall to stew upon the seat!”
He dreamt of fame, of statues carved in gold,
Of Cicero declaiming, grave and bold:
“Behold the man who civil order wrought,
And tamed the chaos of the Roman pot!”
Yet Fate, that jester, played a cruel device:
He spilled his wine and paid the final price.
The toga stained, the Senate roared with mirth,
And Nero sang: “A fork hath slain his worth!”
So sing we now of him whose fork did reign,
While Nero sung an ode to spoons in vain.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
ACT I: The Rebuke of Corruption
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
O Varro, Consul crowned with fleeting fame,
The murm’ring crowd doth mark thee with disdain.
Dost thou not feel the burden of their gaze?
CONSUL VARRO:
Lucilius, thou art ever grave and stern.
Let whispers rise; I heed them not a whit.
For power dwells in hands that dare to clutch.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Yet hands that clutch oft grasp but empty air.
Thou barters reverence for servile dread,
And honor for the glitt’ring dross of gold.
What gain hast thou in riches bought with shame?
CONSUL VARRO:
Gain? Aye, the means to live, to rule, to last.
The state’s a mantle worn by those who dare.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
A mantle, say’st thou? Then is Rome a cloak,
Her laws mere threads, her virtue but a seam.
The wise man scorns such trappings of deceit,
And serves the commonwealth with upright soul.
CONSUL VARRO:
Thy Stoic lore is fit for cloistered halls,
Not for the Senate’s strife or Mars’s field.
The world is won by those who dare to strive,
Not those who muse on virtue’s idle dreams.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Yet virtue, like the stars, doth never fade.
Thy house is built upon the shifting sands;
When Fortune turns—as turn she ever must—
What then remains to shield thee from her wrath?
CONSUL VARRO:
My name shall echo through the halls of time.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Infamy echoes too, and louder still.
But fleeting praise is not the crown of worth.
Wouldst thou be lauded by the base today,
Or honored by the wise in ages hence?
CONSUL VARRO:
The victors pen the annals of the world.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Nay, Truth alone doth hold the final quill.
And Virtue, deathless, scorns the grave’s decay.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Act II: Judgment in the Forum
CHORUS:
O Rome, thou ancient nurse of law and might,
What shadows now do stretch across thy name?
The marble gleams, but virtue lies in dust,
And gold usurps the laurel of the just.
FIRST CITIZEN:
Didst hear the sage? His words were sharp as steel.
He dared to chide the Consul to his face!
SECOND CITIZEN:
Aye, but what good doth wisdom serve the poor,
When coin and cunning rule the Senate’s floor?
THIRD CITIZEN:
Yet truth, though trampled, rises from the grave.
The gods are just, though men be brave but base.
CHORUS:
Behold the tyrant, robed in purple pride,
Who feeds upon the commonwealth’s decay.
He builds his fame on broken oaths and lies,
And calls it glory when the people pay.
FOURTH CITIZEN:
Lucilius speaks as if the gods still care.
But do they hear us in their starry halls?
FIFTH CITIZEN:
They hear, though silent be their judgment now.
The wheel shall turn, and Varro’s house shall fall.
CHORUS:
O Rome, remember Brutus and his blade,
Who struck for freedom, not for selfish gain.
Let not thy soul be sold for silver’s gleam,
Nor let thy laws be writ in blood and shame.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Ye sons of Romulus, awake, arise!
The state is not a spoil for greedy hands.
Each citizen must guard the sacred flame,
Lest darkness drown the light of liberty.
CHORUS:
Speak on, good sage, thy voice is like a star
That pierces through the murk of tyranny.
We are not beasts, nor slaves to gilded chains—
We are the heirs of Cato and of Rome!
CHORUS:
So let the tyrant flee, his brow unbowed,
But know the people hath a memory.
And when the hour of reckoning draws nigh,
Let justice rise, and falsehood fall to die.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Come hither, youths, and lend your ears to truth.
The years have flown, and Rome hath changed her face.
Yet still the soul of virtue must endure,
Though tyrants rise and fall like summer dust.
FIRST PATRICIAN:
We’ve heard the tale of Varro and his fall.
They say he died alone, in foreign lands.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Aye, so he did. The gods are slow to strike,
But sure their hand when justice must be served.
He built his house on pride and perjury,
And found no peace beneath the strangers’ stars.
SECOND PATRICIAN:
And thou, good master, didst not seek revenge?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Revenge is but the shadow of the weak.
The wise man seeks no triumph o’er the beaten.
He mourns the soul that wandered from the path,
And prays the living learn from what was lost.
THIRD PATRICIAN:
But how shall we, in such a world as this,
Where coin commands and honor is but breath?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
By holding fast to what the gods esteem:
A heart unshaken, reason as thy guide,
A will that bends not to the mob’s acclaim,
Nor stoops to flatter power for its gold.
The state is sick, but not beyond all cure.
Its health depends on minds like yours and mine.
CHORUS:
Behold the sage, whose words like healing rain
Fall on the furrows of the youthful soul.
Though age hath bowed his frame, his spirit soars,
And Rome may yet be saved by such as he.
FOURTH PATRICIAN:
Teach us, dear master, how to walk the way.
What is the first of virtues we must learn?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Begin with truth, for all things rest on this.
Let not thy tongue betray thy inner thought.
Speak only what is just, and do the same.
Then temperance, that bridles wanton will.
Then courage, not in war alone, but life—
To stand for right when wrong is crowned with wreaths.
And lastly, justice, queen of all the rest,
Who weighs the soul and measures every deed.
CHORUS:
O Rome, if thou wouldst rise from ruin’s brink,
Let not thy sons be bred in ease and vice.
Let them be taught by men like Lucilius,
Whose life is scroll and sermon both in one.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
The hour is late, and I am near the end.
But ye are young, and Rome is in thy hands.
Forget not Varro, nor his bitter fate—
But let his fall be warning, not despair.
The stars still shine, though clouds may veil their light.
Go forth, and be the guardians of dawn.
CHORUS:
So pass the years, and wisdom takes its root.
The tree of virtue grows from ancient seed.
Though tyrants fall, the righteous shall endure,
And Rome shall rise where noble hearts still lead.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Beneath the blazing chariot of the Sun,
The fields lay golden, harvest nearly done.
Apollo’s lyre still hums in heated air,
While dryads dance with loosened, flowing hair.
Yet whispers stir where russet leaves descend,
And Zephyrus his gentle breath will bend.
The Horae turn the key to autumn’s gate,
And winter waits with silent hands of fate.
The nymphs retreat as chill invades the glade,
While Persephone walks the twilight shade.
Her mother weeps; the furrows lose their green,
Demeter mourns what once was summer’s sheen.
The grapes grow dark, and Bacchus drains his bowl,
As frost begins to claim the mortal soul.
Now Artemis with silver shafts will roam,
Through amber woods where stags have made their home.
Her hounds pursue beneath the copper sky,
While fading swallows trace their southward fly.
Fair Chione strews her crystal veil on earth,
While hearths grow dim and silence mocks their mirth.
Then Boreas with icy fingers sweeps,
And silent Pan among the snowdrifts sleeps.
Selene rides her argent path serene,
O’er fields that sleep beneath a glassy sheen.
Then Nyx extends her ebon wings on high,
And veils the frozen world from starry sky.
Through shadowed paths where mortal footsteps cease,
Swift Hermes guides the shades to realms of peace.
And Orpheus, whose lyre once charmed the dead,
Now strikes a mournful chord for warmth that fled.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Act III: The Trial Of Varro
PRAETOR:
Let silence reign within these hallowed walls.
The charge is grave: corruption of the state.
Let witness speak who dares to name the wrong.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Most noble lords, I speak not out of spite,
Nor seek I vengeance, nor ambition’s prize.
But truth compels, and justice bids me stand.
The Consul hath betrayed the common trust,
And bartered Rome for silver and deceit.
CONSUL VARRO:
Thou speak’st with fire, yet bring’st no proof but wind.
Is virtue now a cloak for slanderous tongues?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
The proof lies not in scrolls, but in the streets.
Ask of the people, hear their bitter cries.
Their grain is taxed, their voices bought and sold,
While Varro feasts beneath the gilded dome.
CHORUS:
O shame! O fall of honor once so proud!
The lion feeds upon the flock he swore
To guard with tooth and claw from harm near or far.
SENATOR:
Let Varro speak, if he would clear his name.
CONSUL VARRO:
I served the state with cunning and with strength.
Is that a crime? Shall Rome be ruled by fools?
The world is harsh, and power must be seized.
Would ye prefer a weakling on the throne?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Nay, strength is noble when it serves the right.
But thine is strength that tramples law and kin.
The shield that guards must not become a sword.
CHORUS:
Well said, O sage! Let justice now be done.
Let not the purple robe conceal the stain.
PRAETOR:
The Senate shall retire to weigh the charge.
Let all await the judgment of the house.
CHORUS:
O Rome, thy fate now hangs upon the scale.
Shall gold outweigh the honor of the land?
Or shall the voice of virtue yet prevail,
And cleanse the Forum with a righteous hand?
FIRST CITIZEN:
If Varro falls, let others heed the blow.
SECOND CITIZEN:
If Varro stands, then justice is a ghost.
CHORUS:
Let not the gods avert their holy gaze.
Let truth be crowned, and falsehood cast away.
PRAETOR:
By vote of peers, the Consul is condemned.
Let him be stripped of rank and cast from grace.
The treasury shall be restored in full,
And Varro sent in exile from the state.
CHORUS:
So falls the proud, and rises Rome anew.
Let every heart take heed of virtue’s voice.
For though the night be long, the dawn is true.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Act V: The Temptation of Power
FIRST PATRICIAN:
The treasury is ripe for subtle hands.
A favor here, a contract there—who sees?
SECOND PATRICIAN:
The Senate nods, the people scarce inquire.
Why shouldst thou not enjoy what fate bestows?
CONSUL MARCELLUS:
Enjoy? Is office now a gilded cup,
To drink from deep and spill upon the poor?
FIRST PATRICIAN:
Thou speak’st as if old Lucilius still lives.
His age is past. The world hath changed its face.
CONSUL MARCELLUS:
Yet virtue changes not, nor truth decays.
Though Lucilius sleeps beneath the stone,
His voice still echoes in my waking soul.
SECOND PATRICIAN:
A voice of dust. The living must prevail.
Wilt thou be ruled by shadows of the dead?
CONSUL MARCELLUS:
Nay, I am ruled by reason, not by ghosts.
But he was more than man—he was the flame
That lit my youth with honor’s sacred fire.
I sat beneath his olive tree and learned
That power is duty, not a feast for pride.
CHORUS:
O noble heart, beset by serpent tongues,
Hold fast the torch thy master placed in hand.
Let not the golden bribe eclipse the sun
Of justice, nor thy soul be bought with praise.
CONSUL MARCELLUS:
I see the path, though thorns may line its edge.
To walk with clean and upright steps is hard,
But easier than bearing guilt’s long chain.
I shall not stain the robe that Rome hath given,
Nor sell my name for fleeting luxury.
FIRST PATRICIAN:
Then thou art lost to dreams and pious lore.
SECOND PATRICIAN:
So be it. Others shall ascend in time.
CONSUL MARCELLUS:
O master, if thy shade can hear my vow,
Know that thy teachings live within my breast.
Though tempters come with honeyed words and gold,
I shall not bend, nor break beneath their weight.
Let Rome be ruled by men who still recall
That greatness lies in serving, not in gain.
CHORUS:
Thus virtue stands, though flatterers depart.
The seed once sown now blossoms in the sun.
And though the sage be dust, his wisdom breathes
In hearts made strong by truth and discipline.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2025
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Dan Cross Poem
Hear me, O Muse, as I summon the roll of his ruinous actions,
Telling the deeds that the elders recite when the fire is low-burning,
Listing the woes that the bards, with a sigh, have reluctantly counted.
First in the tale is the theft of the healing the people were promised:
He, in the stories the wandering minstrels murmur at twilight,
Stripped from the multitude blessings the healers had granted in mercy,
Leaving the sick to entreat the indifferent heavens for solace,
Praying to gods who turned their inscrutable faces to silence.
Next is the famine he birthed in the fables the grandmothers whisper:
He, who was sworn to deliver the grain to the hungering children,
Took from their mouths the sustenance meant for their trembling survival,
Hoarding the feast in his hall while the little ones waited in shadows,
Watching the smoke of his banquet ascend like a taunt to the helpless.
Then comes the tale of the travellers who trusted his guidance through exile,
Souls who had left their old hearths for the promise of gentler horizons;
He, with the voice of assurance, proclaimed he would lead them to safety,
Only to wander astray into valleys where echoes were warnings,
Paths where the stones themselves seemed to whisper of misadventure,
Till the bewildered companions cursed softly the name of their leader.
After this follows the feast where he claimed the lion’s portion:
Though he had lifted no hand in the hunt nor the labor preceding,
Still he proclaimed himself worthy of honors reserved for the valiant,
Knitting excuses as deftly as spiders weave webs in the moonlight,
Leaving the hunters astonished at gall that defied explanation.
Last do the bards recount how he turned simple choices to turmoil:
Tasks that a child could complete with a lantern and half of a notion
Swelled into crises of thunder and smoke when he laid his hand on them,
Till even the gods on Olympus looked down with a mixture of pity
And a reluctant amusement at chaos so artfully fashioned.
Thus do the singers recite the long roll of his troublesome ventures,
Not to exalt him, nor crown him with laurels of glory or triumph,
But to remind the unwary that folly, when given a herald,
Marches with grandeur and pride as though destiny walked at its shoulder,
Leaving behind it a trail that the wise will observe with a shudder.
Copyright © Dan Cross | Year Posted 2026
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