I think that this is one of the somewhat underrated John Masefield’s finest poems, showing his gift for vivid historical reconstruction, and his masterful use of a metre that drives the poem like the hoofbeats of a galloping horse. I imagine the story of Caesar’s assassination is too well known to need explanation, but just as a reminder Pompey had been at one time a political ally of Julius Caesar, and along with him and Crassus a member of the First Triumvirate, but later he became Caesar’s enemy and after being defeated by him at the Battle of Pharsalus fled to Egypt, where a faction thinking to curry favour with Caesar had him killed and decapitated. Caesar was apparently not as pleased as they had hoped – these Bullingdon types may feud among themselves but they soon close ranks when there are lower orders to be kept in their place. This happened in 48 BC, four years before Caesar’s own death.

Calpurnia: Caesar’s third or fourth wife, and wife to him at the time of his assassination.

Cressets: torches. Note how the guttering of the torches (i.e. their flickering in the wind as if about to go out) symbolically prefigures the coming end of Caesar’s life.

Loaning: a lane, an open space for passage between fields of corn; a place for milking cows.

The Rider at the Gate

A windy night was blowing on Rome,
The cressets guttered on Caesar’s home,
The fish-boats, moored at the bridge, were breaking
The rush of the river to yellow foam.

The hinges whined to the shutters shaking,
When clip-clop-clep came a horse-hoof raking
The stones of the road at Caesar’s gate;
The spear-butts jarred at the guard’s awaking.

‘Who goes there?’ said the guard at the gate.
‘What is the news, that you ride so late?’
‘News most pressing, that must be spoken
To Caesar alone, and that cannot wait.’

‘The Caesar sleeps; you must show a token
That the news suffice that he be awoken.
What is the news, and whence do you come?
For no light cause may his sleep be broken.’

‘Out of the dark of the sands I come,
From the dark of death, with news for Rome.
A word so fell that it must be uttered
Though it strike the soul of the Caesar dumb.’

Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
‘The house is falling,
The beaten men come into their own.’

‘Speak your word,’ said the guard at the gate;
‘Yes, but bear it to Caesar straight,
Say, “Your murderers’ knives are honing,
Your killers’ gang is lying in wait.”

‘Out of the wind that is blowing and moaning,
Through the city palace and the country loaning,
I cry, “For the world’s sake, Caesar, beware,
And take this warning as my atoning.

‘“Beware of the Court, of the palace stair,
Of the downcast friend who speaks so fair,
Keep from the Senate, for Death is going
On many men’s feet to meet you there.”

‘I, who am dead, have ways of knowing
Of the crop of death that the quick are sowing.
I, who was Pompey, cry it aloud
From the dark of death, from the wind blowing.

‘I, who was Pompey, once was proud,
Now I lie in the sand without a shroud;
I cry to Caesar out of my pain,
“Caesar beware, your death is vowed.”’

The light grew grey on the window-pane,
The windcocks swung in a burst of rain,
The window of Caesar flung unshuttered,
The horse-hoofs died into wind again.

Caesar turned in his bed and muttered,
With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered;
Calpurnia heard her husband moan:
‘The house is falling,
The beaten men come into their own.’

John Masefield