With buyers and with sellers was humming like a hive.

Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,

And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing,

away and sold,

The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old,

'Twas in the sad September, the month of wail and fright,

Two augurs were borne forth that morn; the Consul died ere night.

I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire:

Which makes the rich man tremble, and guards the poor man's right;

There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sextius then;

But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten.

her home:

He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clinched fist,

And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist.

Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast;

And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;

The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs,

And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares,

And the strong smith Muræna, grasping a halfforged brand,

And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand.

All came in wrath and wonder; for all knew that fair child;

And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and smiled;

And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow,

The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the

maiden go.

Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled in harsh, fell tone,

"She's mine, and I will have her. I seek but for mine own:

maid,

Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,

Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,

And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his breast,

And

sprang upon that column, by many a min

strel sung,

Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rusting swords are hung,

And beckoned to the people, and in bold voice

Be men to-day, Quirites, or be forever slaves! For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?

For this was the great vengeance done on Tarquin's evil seed?

For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?

For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?

Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?

Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?

Oh for that ancient spirit, which curbed the Senate's will!

Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!

In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;

They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride:

They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome;

They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.

in a day.

Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought

fight is o'er.

We strove for honor-'twas in vain: for free

dom-'tis no more.

Nocrier to the polling summons the eager throng; No Tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong;

Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down be-
neath your will.

Riches, and lands, and power, and state-ye
have them: keep them still.

Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple
gown,

The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and lau-
rel crown:

Still press us for your cohorts, and when the
fight is done,

Still fill your garners from the soil which our
good swords have won.

Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,

Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor;

Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;

Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;

No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for freeborn backs, and holes for freeborn feet.

Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still
the grate;

Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your
hate.

cruel

But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,

Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more

cruel love!

eage springs

of wife,

soul endures,

yoke as yours.

gown.

Who could

My

footsteps on the threshold when I came back last year!

And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,

And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown!

Now, all these things are over-yes, all thy pretty

ways,

Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;

And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,

Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.

The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,

The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,

Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,

And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. See how he points his eager The time is come. hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!

With all his wit, he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,

Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge

By this the flood of people was swollen from every side,

And streets and porches round were filled with that o'erflowing tide;

And close around the body gathered a little

train

Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain.

They brought a bier, and hung it with many a cypress crown,

And

gently they uplifted her, and gently laid her down.

The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer,

And in the Claudian note he cried, "What doth this rabble here?

Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hitherward they stray?

Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away!"

Till then the voice of pity and fury was not loud, But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd,

Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the deep,

Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but halfaroused from sleep.

But when the lictors at that word, tall yoemen all and strong,

Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng,

Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin,

That in the Roman Forum was never such a din. The wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate,

Were heard beyond the Pincian hill, beyond the Latin gate.

But close around the body, where stood the little

field,

THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS.

and shield.

The Claudian triumphs all were won within the

City-towers;

The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours.

A Cossus, like a wild-cat, springs ever at the face; A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting chase;

But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite,

Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those who smite.

So, now, 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly,

He shook, and crouched, and wrung his hands, and smote upon his thigh:

"Kind clients, honest lictors, stand by me in this fray!

Must I be torn in pieces? Home, home the nearest way!"

While yet he spake, and looked around with a bewildered stare,

Four sturdy lictors put their necks beneath the curule chair;

And fourscore clients on the left, and fourscore

THE DAY WHEN MANIUS CURIUS DENTATUS, A SECOND TIME CONSUL, TRIUMPHED OVER KING PYRRHUS AND THE TARENTINES, IN THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCCLXXIX.

Now slain is King Amulius,

Of the great Sylvian line, Who reigned in Alba Longa,

Of the throne of Aventine. Slain is the Pontiff Camers,

Who spake the words of doom: "The children to the Tiber,

The mother to the tomb."

In Alba's lake no filsher

His net to-day is flinging: On the dark rind of Alba's oaks To-day no axe is ringing: The yoke hangs o'er the manger: The scythe lies in the hay: Through all the Alban villages No work is done to-day.

And every Alban burgher

Hath donned his whitest gown; And every head in Alba

Weareth a poplar crown; And every Alban door-post With boughs and flowers is gay; For to-day the dead are living;

The lost are found to-day.

They were doomed by a bloody king:
They were doomed by a lying priest;
They were cast on the raging flood:
They were tracked by the raging beast.
Raging beast and raging flood

Alike have spared the prey;
And to-day the dead are living,
The lost are found to-day.

The troubled river knew them,

And smoothed his yellow foam, And gently rocked the cradle

That bore the fate of Rome. The ravening she-wolf knew them,

And licked them o'er and o'er, And gave them of her own fierce milk, Rich with raw flesh and gore. Twenty winters, twenty springs, Since then have rolled away;

And to-day the dead are living, The lost are found to-day.

Blithe it was to see the twins, Right goodly youths and tall, Marching from Alba Longa

To their old grandsire's hall. Along their path fresh garlands Are hung from tree to tree; Before them stride the pipers, Piping a note of glee.

On the right goes Romulus,
With arms to the elbows red,
And in his hand a broadsword,
And on the blade a head-
A head in an iron helmet,

With horse-hair hanging down,
A shaggy head, a swarthy head,
Fixed in a ghastly frown-
The head of King Amulius

Of the great Sylvian line, Who reigned in Alba Longa,

On the throne of Aventine.

On the left side goes Remus,
With wrists and fingers red,
And in his hand a boar-spear,
And on the point a head-
A wrinkled head and aged,

With silver beard and hair,
And holy fillets round it,

Such as the Pontiffs wearThe head of ancient Camers, Who spake the words of doom: "The children to the Tiber,

The mother to the tomb."

Two and two behind the twins
Their trusty comrades go,
Four-and-twenty valiant men,
With club, and axe, and bow;
On each side every hamlet

Pours forth its joyous crowd,
Shouting lads, and baying dogs,
And children laughing loud,
And old men weeping fondly
As Rhea's boys go by,

And maids who shriek to see the heads,
Yet, shrieking, press more nigh.

So they marched along the lake; They marched by fold and stall, By corn-field and by vineyard, Unto the old man's hall.

In the hall-gate sate Capys,
Capys, the sightless seer;

From head to foot he trembled

As Romulus drew near.

And up stood stiff his thin white hair,

And his blind eyes flashed fire:

"Hail! foster child of the wondrous nurse! Hail! son of the wondrous sire!

"But thou-what dost thou here In the old man's peaceful hall? What doth the eagle in the coop, The bison in the stall?

Our corn fills many a garner;

Our vines clasp many a tree; Our flocks are white on many a hill; But these are not for thee.

"For thee no treasure ripens
In the Tartessian mine:

For thee no ship brings precious bales
Across the Lybian brine:

Thou shalt not drink from amber;

Thou shalt not rest on down; Arabia shall not steep thy locks, Nor Sidon tinge thy gown.

"Leave gold and myrrh and jewels,
Rich table and soft bed,

To them who of man's seed are born,
Whom woman's milk hath fed.
Thou wast not made for lucre,

For pleasure, nor for rest;

Thou that art sprung from the War-god's loins, And hast tugged at the she-wolf's breast.

"From sunrise until sunset

All earth shall hear thy fame:
A glorious city thou shalt build,
And name it by thy name:
And there unquenched through ages,
Like Vesta's sacred fire,

Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,
The spirit of thy sire.

"The ox toils through the furrow,
Obedient to the goad;

The patient ass, up flinty paths,
Plods with his weary load:
With whine and bound the spaniel
His master's whistle hears,
And the sheep yields her patiently
To the loud clashing shears.

"But thy nurse will hear no master,
Thy nurse will bear no load:
And woe to them that shear her,
And woe to them that goad!
When all the pack, loud baying,
Her bloody lair surrounds,
She dies in silence biting hard,
Amidst the dying bounds.

"Pomona loves the orchard;
And Liber loves the vine;
And Pales loves the straw-built shed
Warm with the breath of kine;
And Venus loves the whispers
Of plighted youth and maid,
In April's ivory moonlight
Beneath the chestnut shade.

"But thy father loves the clashing

Of broadsword and of shield:

He loves to drink the stream that reeks

From the fresh battle-field:

He smiles a smile more dreadful

Than his own dreadful frown,

When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke

Go up from the conquered town.

"And such as is the War-god,

The author of thy line,