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Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
VIRGINIUS called down vengeance.-But whence spoke
They who harangued the people; turning now
To the twelve tables, now with lifted hands
To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape
In the unclouded azure shone far off,
And to the shepherd on the Alban mount
Seemed like a star new-risen? Where were ranged
In rough array as on their element,

The beaks of those old gallies, destined still*
To brave the brunt of war-at last to know

A calm far worse, a silence as in death?
All spiritless; from that disastrous hour

When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break,
Fell on his sword!

Along the Sacred Way
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round
With acclamation, and the martial clang
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil,
Stopt at the sacred stair that then appeared,
Then thro' the darkness broke, ample, star-bright,
As tho' it led to heaven. "Twas night; but now
A thousand torches, turning night to day,
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat,

The Rostra.

+ Marcus Junius Brutus.

Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer,
Entered the Capitol. But what are they
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train
In fetters? And who, yet incredulous,
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons,
On those so young, well-pleased with all they see,
Staggers along, the last ?—They are the fallen,
Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels;
And there they parted, where the road divides,
The victor and the vanquished-there withdrew;
He to the festal board, and they to die.

Well might the great, the mighty of the world,
They who were wont to fare deliciously,
And war but for a kingdom more or less,

Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look,
To think that way! Well might they in their state
Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate
To be delivered from a dream like this!

Here CINCINNATUS passed, his plough the while
Left in the furrow; and how many more,
Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth,
Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp

Sit and decide; and, as of old in ROME,

Name but their names, set every heart on fire!

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not,* The last on PHILIP's throne; and the Numidian, †

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So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe,
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness

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Thrust under-ground, How cold this bath of yours!'
And thy proud queen, PALMYRA, thro' the sands*
Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary ;

Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream
That passes not away, for many a league
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked

Death, and escaped; the Egyptian, when her asp
Came from his covert under the green leaf; †
And HANNIBAL himself; and she who said,
Taking the fatal cup between her hands, ‡
'Tell him I would it had come yesterday;
For then it had not been his nuptial gift.'

Now all is changed; and here, as in the wild,
The day is silent, dreary as the night;
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd,
Savage alike; or they that would explore,
Discuss and learnedly; or they that come,
(And there are many who have crossed the earth)
That they may give the hours to meditation,
And wander, often saying to themselves,

This was the ROMAN FORUM!'

• Zenobia.

+ Cleopatra.

Sophonisba

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'WHENCE this delay?'-' Along the crouded street
A Funeral comes, and with unusual pomp.'
So I withdrew a little and stood still,

While it went by. She died as she deserved,'
Said an Abatè, gathering up his cloak,

And with a shrug retreating as the tide.

Flowed more and more. But she was beautiful!'

Robinson

Replied a Soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
'And innocent as beautiful!' exclaimed
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke;
And I accosted her to hear her story.

The stab,' she cried,' was given in jealousy;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,

As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
When on her way from vespers-None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell-
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain-that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's—
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she passed, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven!'-But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear,

A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appeared!
Thronging, they came-as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! Oh say,' I cried,
'Do not the living here bury the dead?

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