And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall
Hold o'er the dead their carnival,

Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb;-
They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ;

And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,

As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull, As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed; So well had they broken a lingering fast

With those who had fallen for that night's repast.

And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand,

The foremost of these were the best of his band.

The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw.

But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf,
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf,

Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away,
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey;
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay,
Pecked by the birds, on the sands of the bay!

Alp turned him from the sickening sight:
Never had shaken his nerves in fight;

But he better could brook to behold the dying,
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying,
Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain,
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain.
-There is something of pride in the perilous hour,
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lour;
For Fame is there to say who bleeds,

And Honour's eye on daring deeds!

But when all is past, it is humbling to tread
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead,

And see worms of the earth and fowls of the air,
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there,

All regarding man as their prey,

All rejoicing in his decay!

XX.-LAY OF VIRGINIA.

(LORD MACAULAY.)

Appius Claudius, one of the Decemviri, had claimed, as his slave, Virginia, daughter of the plebeian Virginius; but the girl's father, wishing to save her from the ignominy which awaited her, and seeing no hope of redress by legal process, stabbed her in despair, as described in the lay. Icilius, the tribune, had been betrothed to the murdered maiden. The time is 449 B.C.

OVER the Alban mountains the light of morning broke; From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of smoke:

The city gates were opened; the Forum, all alive

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; And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her homeAh! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome. With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her

arm,

Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm.

She crossed the Forum shining with the stalls in alleys

gay,

And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,

When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when, ere

while,

He crouched behind his patron's heels, with the true client

smile:

He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched 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;

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

66

tone,

She's mine, and I will have her ;-I seek but for mine own. She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold, The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve years old. I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire:

Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire!"

—But ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the 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 beckoned to the people, and, in bold voice and clear, Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear:

"Now by your children's cradles, now by your fathers' graves,

Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!

For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?

For this was the great vengeance wrought 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 Quintius an outcast forth from Rome; They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.

But what their care bequeathed us, our madness flung away: All the ripe fruit of three-score years is blighted in a day. Exult, ye proud Patricians! the hard-fought fight is o'er : We strove for honour-'twas in vain: for freedom-'tis no

more.

Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will:

Riches and lands and power and state,-ye have themkeep them still!

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

The axes and the curule chair, the car and laurel 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 free-born backs, and holes for free-born
feet;

Heap heavier still the fetters, bar closer still the grate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate:-
But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and high Pontiffs, and ancient Alban Kings?
Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender
feet-

Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street

Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold, And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish

gold?

Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife— The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures

The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours!

Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,
That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood

to flame;

Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, And learn, by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare!"

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside, To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide;

Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood, Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down-Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown; And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child, farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling lovèd me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep 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 those 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 re-
turn,

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.

The time is come! See, how he points his eager hand this

way!

See, how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!