158

THE TRIUMPH OF ARMS

(The Prophecy of Capys.)

HURRAH! for the good weapons

That keep the War-god's land.
Hurrah! for Rome's stout pilum
In a stout Roman hand.

Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword
That through the thick array
Of levelled spears and serried shields
Hews deep its gory way.

Hurrah! for the great triumph
That stretches many a mile.
Hurrah! for the wan captives
That pass in endless file.
Ho! bold Epirotes, whither
Hath the Red King ta'en flight?
Ho! dogs of false Tarentum,

Is not the gown washed white?

Hurrah! for the great triumph
That stretches many a mile.
Hurrah! for the rich dye of Tyre,
And the fine web of Nile,
The helmets gay with plumage
Torn from the pheasant's wings,
The belt set thick with starry gems
That shone on Indian kings,

The urns of massy silver,

The goblets rough with gold,

The many-coloured tablets bright
With loves and wars of old,

The stone that breathes and struggles,
The brass that seems to speak ;—
Such cunning they who dwell on high
Have given unto the Greek.

Hurrah! for Manius Curius,

The bravest son of Rome,
Thrice in utmost need sent forth,
Thrice drawn in triumph home.
Weave, weave, for Maniùs Curius
The third embroidered gown:
Make ready the third lofty car,
And twine the third green crown:
And yoke the steeds of Rosea
With necks like a bended bow,
And deck the bull, Mevania's bull,
The bull as white as snow.

Blest and thrice blest the Roman
Who sees Rome's brightest day,
Who sees that long victorious pomp
Wind down the Sacred Way,
And through the bellowing Forum,
And round the Suppliant's Grove,
Up to the everlasting gates
Of Capitolian Jove.

Then where o'er two bright havens
The towers of Corinth frown;
Where the gigantic King of Day
On his own Rhodes looks down ;
Where soft Orontes murmurs

Beneath the laurel shades;
Where Nile reflects the endless length

Of dark-red colonnades;

Where in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts,

Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts;

Where fur-clad hunters wander

Amidst the northern ice;

Where through the sand of morning-land

The camel bears the spice;

Where Atlas flings his shadow
Far o'er the western foam,
Shall be great fear on all who hear
The mighty name of Rome.

Lord Macaulay.

159

THE TRIUMPH OF THE LYRE

(Empedocles on Etna.)

OH, that Fate had let me see,

That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre,
That famous, final victory

When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire!

When, from far Parnassus' side,
Young Apollo, all the pride

Of the Phrygian flutes to tame,

To the Phrygian highlands came;

Where the long green reed-beds sway
In the rippled waters grey

Of that solitary lake

Where Mæander's springs are born;
Where the ridged pine-wooded roots
Of Messogis westward break,
Mounting westward, high and higher.
There was held the famous strife;
There the Phrygian brought his flutes,
And Apollo brought his lyre.
And, when now the westering sun
Touched the hills, the strife was done,
And the attentive Muses said:

'Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!'

Then Apollo's minister

Hanged upon a branching fir

Marsyas, that unhappy Faun,
And began to whet his knife.
But the Mænads, who were there,
Left their friend, and with robes flowing
In the wind, and loose dark hair
O'er their polished bosoms blowing,
Each her ribboned tambourine
Flinging on the mountain-sod,
With a lovely frightened mien
Came about the youthful God.
But he turned his beauteous face
Haughtily another way,

From the grassy sun-warmed place
Where in proud repose he lay,
With one arm over his head,
Watching how the whetting sped.

But aloof, on the lake-strand,
Did the young Olympus stand,
Weeping at his master's end;
For the Faun had been his friend.
For he taught him how to sing,
And he taught him flute-playing.
Many a morning had they gone
To the glimmering mountain-lakes,
And had torn up by the roots
The tall crested water-reeds

With long plumes and soft brown seeds,
And had carved them into flutes,

Sitting on a tabled stone

Where the shoreward ripple breaks.
And he taught him how to please
The red-snooded Phrygian girls,
Whom the summer evening sees
Flashing in the dance's whirls
Underneath the starlit trees
In the mountain-villages.

Therefore now Olympus stands,
At his master's piteous cries
Pressing fast with both his hands
His white garment to his eyes,
Not to see Apollo's scorn ;-

Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun!

Matthew Arnold.

160

THE SONG OF ORPHEUS TO THE

ARGONAUTS

(The Life and Death of Jason.)

OH DEATH, that maketh life so sweet,
Oh fear, with mirth before thy feet,

What have ye yet in store for us,

The conquerors, the glorious?

Men say: 'For fear that thou shouldst die To-morrow, let to-day pass by

Flower-crowned and singing;' yet have we
Passed our to-day upon the sea,
Or in a poisonous unknown land,
With fear and death on either hand,
And listless when the day was done
Have scarcely hoped to see the sun
Dawn on the morrow of the earth,
Nor in our hearts have thought of mirth.
And while the world lasts, scarce again
Shall any sons of men bear pain
Like we have borne, yet be alive.

So surely not in vain we strive
Like other men for our reward;
Sweet peace and deep, the chequered sward
Beneath the ancient mulberry-trees,
The smoothed-paved gilded palaces,
Where the shy thin-clad damsels sweet

Make music with their gold-ringed feet.