{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_847/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_847","id":"gutenberg_847","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/847","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - Ancient","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Poetry","Rome -- History -- Poetry"],"text":"Produced by David Reed and David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nLAYS OF ANCIENT ROME\n\nBy Thomas Babington Macaulay\n\n\n\nContents:\n\n     Preface\n\n     Horatius\n       The Lay\n\n     The Battle of the Lake Regillus\n       The Lay\n\n     Virginia\n       The Lay\n\n     The Prophecy of Capys\n       The Lay\n\nThat what is called the history of the Kings and early Consuls of\nRome is to a great extent fabulous, few scholars have, since the\ntime of Beaufort, ventured to deny. It is certain that, more than\nthree hundred and sixty years after the date ordinarily assigned\nfor the foundation of the city, the public records were, with\nscarcely an exception, destroyed by the Gauls. It is certain that\nthe oldest annals of the commonwealth were compiled more than a\ncentury and a half after this destruction of the records. It is\ncertain, therefore, that the great Latin writers of the Augustan\nage did not possess those materials, without which a trustworthy\naccount of the infancy of the republic could not possibly be\nframed. Those writers own, indeed, that the chronicles to which\nthey had access were filled with battles that were never fought,\nand Consuls that were never inaugurated; and we have abundant\nproof that, in these chronicles, events of the greatest\nimportance, such as the issue of the war with Porsena and the\nissue of the war with Brennus, were grossly misrepresented. Under\nthese circumstances a wise man will look with great suspicion on\nthe legend which has come down to us. He will perhaps be inclined\nto regard the princes who are said to have founded the civil and\nreligious institutions of Rome, the sons of Mars, and the husband\nof Egeria, as mere mythological personages, of the same class\nwith Perseus and Ixion. As he draws nearer to the confines of\nauthentic history, he will become less and less hard of belief.\nHe will admit that the most important parts of the narrative have\nsome foundation in truth. But he will distrust almost all the\ndetails, not only because they seldom rest on any solid evidence,\nbut also because he will constantly detect in them, even when\nthey are within the limits of physical possibility, that peculiar\ncharacter, more easily understood than defined, which\ndistinguishes the creations of the imagination from the realities\nof the world in which we live.\n\nThe early history of Rome is indeed far more poetical than\nanything else in Latin literature. The loves of the Vestal and\nthe God of War, the cradle laid among the reeds of Tiber, the\nfig-tree, the she-wolf, the shepherd's cabin, the recognition,\nthe fratricide, the rape of the Sabines, the death of Tarpeia,\nthe fall of Hostus Hostilius, the struggle of Mettus Curtius\nthrough the marsh, the women rushing with torn raiment and\ndishevelled hair between their fathers and their husbands, the\nnightly meetings of Numa and the Nymph by the well in the sacred\ngrove, the fight of the three Romans and the three Albans, the\npurchase of the Sibylline books, the crime of Tullia, the\nsimulated madness of Brutus, the ambiguous reply of the Delphian\noracle to the Tarquins, the wrongs of Lucretia, the heroic\nactions of Horatius Cocles, of Scaevola, and of Cloelia, the\nbattle of Regillus won by the aid of Castor and Pollux, the\ndefense of Cremera, the touching story of Coriolanus, the still\nmore touching story of Virginia, the wild legend about the\ndraining of the Alban lake, the combat between Valerius Corvus\nand the gigantic Gaul, are among the many instances which will at\nonce suggest themselves to every reader.\n\nIn the narrative of Livy, who was a man of fine imagination,\nthese stories retain much of their genuine character. Nor could\neven the tasteless Dionysius distort and mutilate them into mere\nprose. The poetry shines, in spite of him, through the dreary\npedantry of his eleven books. It is discernible in the most\ntedious and in the most superficial modern works on the early\ntimes of Rome. It enlivens the dulness of the Universal History,\nand gives a charm to the most meagre abridgements of Goldsmith.\n\nEven in the age of Plutarch there were discerning men who\nrejected the popular account of the foundation of Rome, because\nthat account appeared to them to have the air, not of a history,\nbut of a romance or a drama. Plutarch, who was displeased at\ntheir incredulity, had nothing better to say in reply to their\narguments than that chance sometimes turns poet, and produces\ntrains of events not to be distinguished from the most elaborate\nplots which are constructed by art. But though the existence of a\npoetical element in the early history of the Great City was\ndetected so many ages ago, the first critic who distinctly saw\nfrom what source that poetical element had been derived was James\nPerizonius, one of the most acute and learned antiquaries of the\nseventeenth century. His theory, which in his own days attracted\nlittle or no notice, was revived in the present generation by\nNiebuhr, a man who would have been the first writer of his time,\nif his talent for communicating truths had borne any proportion\nto his talent for investigating them. That theory has been\nadopted by several eminent scholars of our own country,\nparticularly by the Bishop of St. David's, by Professor Malde,\nand by the lamented Arnold. It appears to be now generally\nreceived by men conversant with classical antiquity; and indeed\nit rests on such strong proofs, both internal and external, that\nit will not be easily subverted. A popular exposition of this\ntheory, and of the evidence by which it is supported, may not be\nwithout interest even for readers who are unacquainted with the\nancient languages.\n\nThe Latin literature which has come down to us is of later date\nthan the commencement of the Second Punic War, and consists\nalmost exclusively of works fashioned on Greek models. The Latin\nmetres, heroic, elegiac, lyric, and dramatic, are of Greek\norigin. The best Latin epic poetry is the feeble echo of the\nIliad and Odyssey. The best Latin eclogues are imitations of\nTheocritus. The plan of the most finished didactic poem in the\nLatin tongue was taken from Hesiod. The Latin tragedies are bad\ncopies of the masterpieces of Sophocles and Euripides. The Latin\nphilosophy was borrowed, without alteration, from the Portico and\nthe Academy; and the great Latin orators constantly proposed to\nthemselves as patterns the speeches of Demosthenes and Lysias.\n\nBut there was an earlier Latin literature, a literature truly\nLatin, which has wholly perished, which had, indeed almost wholly\nperished long before those whom we are in the habit of regarding\nas the greatest Latin writers were born. That literature abounded\nwith metrical romances, such as are found in every country where\nthere is much curiosity and intelligence, but little reading and\nwriting. All human beings, not utterly savage, long for some\ninformation about past times, and are delighted by narratives\nwhich present pictures to the eye of the mind. But it is only in\nvery enlightened communities that books are readily accessible.\nMetrical composition, therefore, which, in a highly civilized\nnation, is a mere luxury, is, in nations imperfectly civilized,\nalmost a necessary of life, and is valued less on account of the\npleasure which it gives to the ear, than on account of the help\nwhich it gives to the memory. A man who can invent or embellish\nan interesting story, and put it into a form which others may\neasily retain in their recollection, will always be highly\nesteemed by a people eager for amusement and information, but\ndestitute of libraries. Such is the origin of ballad-poetry, a\nspecies of composition which scarcely ever fails to spring up and\nflourish in every society, at a certain point in the progress\ntowards refinement. Tacitus informs us that songs were the only\nmemorials of the past which the ancient Germans possessed. We\nlearn from Lucan and from Ammianus Marcellinus that the brave\nactions of the ancient Gauls were commemorated in the verses of\nBards. During many ages, and through many revolution, minstrelsy\nretained its influence over both the Teutonic and the Celtic\nrace. The vengeance exacted by the spouse of Attila for the\nmurder of Siegfried was celebrated in rhymes, of which Germany is\nstill justly proud. The exploits of Athelstane were commemorated\nby the Anglo-Saxons and those of Canute by the Danes, in rude\npoems, of which a few fragments have come down to us. The chants\nof the Welsh harpers preserved, through ages of darkness, a faint\nand doubtful memory of Arthur. In the Highlands of Scotland may\nstill be gleaned some relics of the old songs about Cuthullin and\nFingal. The long struggle of the Servians against the Ottoman\npower was recorded in lays full of martial spirit. We learn from\nHerrera that, when a Peruvian Inca died, men of skill were\nappointed to celebrate him in verses, which all the people\nlearned by heart, and sang in public on days of festival. The\nfeats of Kurroglou, the great freebooter of Turkistan, recounted\nin ballads composed by himself, are known in every village of\nnorthern Persia. Captain Beechey heard the bards of the Sandwich\nIslands recite the heroic achievements of Tamehameha, the most\nillustrious of their kings. Mungo Park found in the heart of\nAfrica a class of singing men, the only annalists of their rude\ntribes, and heard them tell the story of the victory which Damel,\nthe negro prince of the Jaloffs, won over Abdulkader, the\nMussulman tyrant of Foota Torra. This species of poetry attained\na high degree of excellence among the Castilians, before they\nbegan to copy Tuscan patterns. It attained a still higher degree\nof excellence among the English and the Lowland Scotch, during\nthe fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. But it\nreached its full perfection in ancient Greece; for there can be\nno doubt that the great Homeric poems are generically ballads,\nthough widely distinguished from all other ballads, and indeed\nfrom almost all other human composition, by transcendent\nsublimity and beauty.\n\nAs it is agreeable to general experience that, at a certain stage\nin the progress of society, ballad-poetry should flourish, so is\nit also agreeable to general experience that, at a subsequent\nstage in the progress of society, ballad-poetry should be\nundervalued and neglected. Knowledge advances; manners change;\ngreat foreign models of composition are studied and imitated. The\nphraseology of the old minstrels becomes obsolete. Their\nversification, which, having received its laws only from the ear,\nabounds in irregularities, seems licentious and uncouth. Their\nsimplicity appears beggarly when compared with the quaint forms\nand gaudy coloring of such artists as Cowley and Gongora. The\nancient lays, unjustly despised by the learned and polite, linger\nfor a time in the memory of the vulgar, and are at length too\noften irretrievably lost. We cannot wonder that the ballads of\nRome should have altogether disappeared, when we remember how\nvery narrowly, in spite of the invention of printing, those of\nour own country and those of Spain escaped the same fate. There\nis indeed little doubt that oblivion covers many English songs\nequal to any that were published by Bishop Percy, and many\nSpanish songs as good as the best of those which have been so\nhappily translated by Mr. Lockhart. Eighty years ago England\npossessed only one tattered copy of Childe Waters and Sir\nCauline, and Spain only one tattered copy of the noble poem of\nthe Cid. The snuff of a candle, or a mischievous dog, might in a\nmoment have deprived the world forever of any of those fine\ncompositions. Sir Walter Scott, who united to the fire of a great\npoet the minute curiosity and patient diligence of a great\nantiquary, was but just in time to save the precious relics of\nthe Minstrelsy of the Border. In Germany, the lay of the\nNibelungs had been long utterly forgotten, when, in the\neighteenth century, it was, for the first time, printed from a\nmanuscript in the old library of a noble family. In truth, the\nonly people who, through their whole passage from simplicity to\nthe highest civilization, never for a moment ceased to love and\nadmire their old ballads, were the Greeks.\n\nThat the early Romans should have had ballad-poetry, and that\nthis poetry should have perished, is therefore not strange. It\nwould, on the contrary, have been strange if these things had not\ncome to pass; and we should be justified in pronouncing them\nhighly probable even if we had no direct evidence on the subject.\nBut we have direct evidence of unquestionable authority.\n\nEnnius, who flourished in the time of the Second Punic War, was\nregarded in the Augustan age as the father of Latin poetry. He\nwas, in truth, the father of the second school of Latin poetry,\nthe only school of which the works have descended to us. But from\nEnnius himself we learn that there were poets who stood to him in\nthe same relation in which the author of the romance of Count\nAlarcos stood to Garcilaso, or the author of the Lytell Geste of\nRobyn Hode to Lord Surrey. Ennius speaks of verses which the\nFauns and the Bards were wont to chant in the old time, when none\nhad yet studied the graces of speech, when none had yet climbed\nthe peaks sacred to the Goddesses of Grecian song. \"Where,\"\nCicero mournfully asks, \"are those old verses now?\"\n\nContemporary with Ennius was Quintus Fabius Pactor, the earliest\nof the Roman annalists. His account of the infancy and youth of\nRomulus and Remus has been preserved by Dionysius, and contains a\nvery remarkable reference to the ancient Latin poetry. Fabius\nsays that, in his time, his countrymen were still in the habit of\nsinging ballads about the Twins. \"Even in the hut of\nFaustulus,\"--so these old lays appear to have run,--\"the\nchildren of Rhea and Mars were, in port and in spirit, not like\nunto swineherds or cowherds, but such that men might well guess\nthem to be of the blood of kings and gods.\"\n\nCato the Censor, who also lived in the days of he Second Punic\nWar, mentioned this lost literature in his lost work on the\nantiquities of his country. Many ages, he said, before his time,\nthere were ballads in praise of illustrious men; and these\nballads it was the fashion for the guests at banquets to sing in\nturn while the piper played. \"Would,\" exclaims Cicero, \"that\nwe still had the old ballads of which Cato speaks!\"\n\nValerius Maximus gives us exactly similar information, without\nmentioning his authority, and observes that the ancient Roman\nballads were probably of more benefit to the young than all the\nlectures of the Athenian schools, and that to the influence of\nthe national poetry were to be ascribed the virtues of such men\nas Camillus and Fabricus.\n\nVarro, whose authority on all questions connected with the\nantiquities of his country is entitled to the greatest respect,\ntells us that at banquets it was once the fashion for boys to\nsing, sometimes with and sometimes without instrumental music,\nancient ballads in praise of men of former times. These young\nperformers, he observes, were of unblemished character, a\ncircumstance which he probably mentioned because, among the\nGreeks, and indeed, in his time among the Romans also, the morals\nof singing boys were in no high repute.\n\nThe testimony of Horace, though given incidentally, confirms the\nstatements of Cato, Valerius Maximus, and Varro. The poet\npredicts that, under the peaceful administration of Augustus, the\nRomans will, over their full goblets, sing to the pipe, after the\nfashion of their fathers, the deeds of brave captains, and the\nancient legends touching the origin of the city.\n\nThe proposition, then, that Rome had ballad-poetry is not merely\nin itself highly probable, but is fully proved by direct evidence\nof the greatest weight.\n\nThis proposition being established, it becomes easy to understand\nwhy the early history of the city is unlike almost everything\nelse in Latin literature, native where almost everything else is\nborrowed, imaginative where almost everything else is prosaic. We\ncan scarcely hesitate to pronounce that the magnificent,\npathetic, and truly national legends, which present so striking a\ncontrast to all that surrounds them, are broken and defaced\nfragments of that early poetry which, even in the age of Cato the\nCensor, had become antiquated, and of which Tully had never heard\na line.\n\nThat this poetry should have been suffered to perish will not\nappear strange when we consider how complete was the triumph of\nthe Greek genius over the public mind of Italy. It is probable\nthat, at an early period, Homer and Herodotus furnished some\nhints to the Latin Minstrels; but it was not till after the war\nwith Pyrrhus that the poetry of Rome began to put off its old\nAusonian character. The transformation was soon consummated. The\nconquered, says Horace, led captive the conquerors. It was\nprecisely at the time at which the Roman people rose to\nunrivalled political ascendency that they stooped to pass under\nthe intellectual yoke. It was precisely at the time at which the\nsceptre departed from Greece that the empire of her language and\nof her arts became universal and despotic. The revolution indeed\nwas not effected without a struggle. Naevius seems to have been\nthe last of the ancient line of poets. Ennius was the founder of\na new dynasty. Naevius celebrated the First Punic War in\nSaturnian verse, the old national verse of Italy. Ennius sang the\nSecond Punic War in numbers borrowed from the Iliad. The elder\npoet, in the epitaph which he wrote for himself, and which is a\nfine specimen of the early Roman diction and versification,\nplaintively boasted that the Latin language had died with him.\nThus what to Horace appeared to be the first faint dawn of Roman\nliterature appeared to Naevius to be its hopeless setting. In\ntruth, one literature was setting, and another dawning.\n\nThe victory of the foreign taste was decisive; and indeed we can\nhardly blame the Romans for turning away with contempt from the\nrude lays which had delighted their fathers, and giving their\nwhole admiration to the immortal productions of Greece. The\nnational romances, neglected by the great and the refined whose\neducation had been finished at Rhodes or Athens, continued, it\nmay be supposed, during some generations to delight the vulgar.\nWhile Virgil, in hexameters of exquisite modulation, described\nthe sports of rustics, those rustics were still singing their\nwild Saturnian ballads. It is not improbable that, at the time\nwhen Cicero lamented the irreparable loss of the poems mentioned\nby Cato, a search among the nooks of the Appenines, as active as\nthe search which Sir Walter Scott made among the descendents of\nthe mosstroopers of Liddesdale, might have brought to light many\nfine remains of ancient minstrelsy. No such search was made. The\nLatin ballads perished forever. Yet discerning critics have\nthought that they could still perceive in the early history of\nRome numerous fragments of this lost poetry, as the traveller on\nclassic ground sometimes finds, built into the heavy wall of a\nfort or convent, a pillar rich with acanthus leaves, or a frieze\nwhere the Amazons and Bacchanals seem to live. The theatres and\ntemples of the Greek and the Roman were degraded into the\nquarries of the Turk and the Goth. Even so did the ancient\nSaturnian poetry become the quarry in which a crowd of orators\nand annalists found the materials for their prose.\n\nIt is not difficult to trace the process by which the old songs\nwere transmuted into the form which they now wear. Funeral\npanegyric and chronicle appear to have been the intermediate\nlinks which connected the lost ballads with the histories now\nextant. From a very early period it was the usage that an oration\nshould be pronounced over the remains of a noble Roman. The\norator, as we learn from Polybius, was expected, on such\noccasions, to recapitulate all the services which the ancestors\nof the deceased had, from the earliest time, rendered to the\ncommonwealth. There can be little doubt that the speaker on whom\nthis duty was imposed would make use of all the stories suited to\nhis purpose which were to be found in the popular lays. There can\nbe as little doubt that the family of an eminent man would\npreserve a copy of the speech which had been pronounced over his\ncorpse. The compilers of the early chronicles would have recourse\nto these speeches; and the great historians of a later period\nwould have recourse to the chronicles.\n\nIt may be worth while to select a particular story, and to trace\nits probable progress through these stages. The description of\nthe migration of the Fabian house to Cremera is one of the finest\nof the many fine passages which lie thick in the earlier books of\nLivy. The Consul, clad in his military garb, stands in the\nvestibule of his house, marshalling his clan, three hundred and\nsix fighting men, all of the same proud patrician blood, all\nworthy to be attended by the fasces, and to command the legions.\nA sad and anxious retinue of friends accompanies the adventurers\nthrough the streets; but the voice of lamentation is drowned by\nthe shouts of admiring thousands. As the procession passes the\nCapitol, prayers and vows are poured forth, but in vain. The\ndevoted band, leaving Janus on the right, marches to its doom,\nthrough the Gate of Evil Luck. After achieving high deeds of\nvalor against overwhelming numbers, all perish save one child,\nthe stock from which the great Fabian race was destined again to\nspring, for the safety and glory of the commonwealth. That this\nfine romance, the details of which are so full of poetical truth,\nand so utterly destitute of all show of historical truth, came\noriginally from some lay which had often been sung with great\napplause at banquets is in the highest degree probable. Nor is it\ndifficult to imagine a mode in which the transmission might have\ntaken place. The celebrated Quintus Fabius Maximus, who died\nabout twenty years before the First Punic War, and more than\nforty years before Ennius was born, is said to have been interred\nwith extraordinary pomp. In the eulogy pronounced over his body\nall the great exploits of his ancestors were doubtless recounted\nand exaggerated. If there were then extant songs which gave a\nvivid and touching description of an event, the saddest and the\nmost glorious in the long history of the Fabian house, nothing\ncould be more natural than that the panegyrist should borrow from\nsuch songs their finest touches, in order to adorn his speech. A\nfew generations later the songs would perhaps be forgotten, or\nremembered only by shepherds and vinedressers. But the speech\nwould certainly be preserved in the archives of the Fabian\nnobles. Fabius Pictor would be well acquainted with a document so\ninteresting to his personal feelings, and would insert large\nextracts from it in his rude chronicle. That chronicle, as we\nknow, was the oldest to which Livy had access. Livy would at a\nglance distinguish the bold strokes of the forgotten poet from\nthe dull and feeble narrative by which they were surrounded,\nwould retouch them with a delicate and powerful pencil, and would\nmake them immortal.\n\nThat this might happen at Rome can scarcely be doubted; for\nsomething very like this has happened in several countries, and,\namong others, in our own. Perhaps the theory of Perizonius cannot\nbe better illustrated than by showing that what he supposes to\nhave taken place in ancient times has, beyond all doubt, taken\nplace in modern times.\n\n\"History,\" says Hume with the utmost gravity, \"has preserved\nsome instances of Edgar's amours, from which, as from a specimen,\nwe may form a conjecture of the rest.\" He then tells very\nagreeably the stories of Elfleda and Elfrida, two stories which\nhave a most suspicious air of romance, ad which, indeed, greatly\nresemble, in their character, some of the legends of early Rome.\nHe cites, as his authority for these two tales, the chronicle of\nWilliam of Malmesbury, who lived in the time of King Stephen. The\ngreat majority of readers suppose that the device by which\nElfleda was substituted for her young mistress, the artifice by\nwhich Athelwold obtained the hand of Elfrida, the detection of\nthat artifice, the hunting party, and the vengeance of the\namorous king, are things about which there is no more doubt than\nabout the execution of Anne Boleyn, or the slitting of Sir John\nCoventry's nose. But when we turn to William of Malmesbury, we\nfind that Hume, in his eagerness to relate these pleasant fables,\nhas overlooked one very important circumstance. William does\nindeed tell both the stories; but he gives us distinct notice\nthat he does not warrant their truth, and that they rest on no\nbetter authority than that of ballads.\n\nSuch is the way in which these two well-known tales have been\nhanded down. They originally appeared in a poetical form. They\nfound their way from ballads into an old chronicle. The ballads\nperished; the chronicle remained. A great historian, some\ncenturies after the ballads had been altogether forgotten,\nconsulted the chronicle. He was struck by the lively coloring of\nthese ancient fictions: he transferred them to his pages; and\nthus we find inserted, as unquestionable facts, in a narrative\nwhich is likely to last as long as the English tongue, the\ninventions of some minstrel whose works were probably never\ncommitted to writing, whose name is buried in oblivion, and whose\ndialect has become obsolete. It must, then, be admitted to be\npossible, or rather highly probable, that the stories of Romulus\nand Remus, and of the Horatii and Curiatti, may have had a\nsimilar origin.\n\nCastilian literature will furnish us with another parallel case.\nMariana, the classical historian of Spain, tells the story of the\nill-starred marriage which the King Don Alonso brought about\nbetween the heirs of Carrion and the two daughters of the Cid.\nThe Cid bestowed a princely dower on the sons-in-law. But the\nyoung men were base and proud, cowardly and cruel. They were\ntried in danger, and found wanting. They fled before the Moors,\nand once, when a lion broke out of his den, they ran and crouched\nin an unseemly hiding-place. They knew that they were despised,\nand took counsel how they might be avenged. They parted from\ntheir father-in-law with many signs of love, and set forth on a\njourney with Do\u00f1a Elvira and Do\u00f1a Sol. In a solitary place the\nbridegrooms seized their brides, stripped them, scourged them,\nand departed, leaving them for dead. But one of the House of\nBivar, suspecting foul play, had followed the travellers in\ndisguise. The ladies were brought back safe to the house of their\nfather. Complaint was made to the king. It was adjudged by the\nCortes that the dower given by the Cid should be returned, and\nthat the heirs of Carrion together with one of their kindred\nshould do battle against three knights of the party of the Cid.\nThe guilty youths would have declined the combat; but all their\nshifts were in vain. They were vanquished in the lists, and\nforever disgraced, while their injured wives were sought in\nmarriage by great princes.\n\nSome Spanish writers have labored to show, by an examination of\ndates and circumstances, that this story is untrue. Such\nconfutation was surely not needed; for the narrative is on the\nface of it a romance. How it found its way into Mariana's history\nis quite clear. He acknowledges his obligations to the ancient\nchronicles; and had doubtless before him the Cronica del famoso\nCavallero Cid Ruy Diez Campeador, which had been printed as early\nas the year 1552. He little suspected that all the most striking\npassages in this chronicle were copied from a poem of the twelfth\ncentury,--a poem of which the language and versification had long\nbeen obsolete, but which glowed with no common portion of the\nfire of the Iliad. Yet such is the fact. More than a century and\na half after the death of Mariana, this venerable ballad, of\nwhich one imperfect copy on parchment, four hundred years old,\nhad been preserved at Bivar, was for the first time printed. Then\nit was found that every interesting circumstance of the story of\nthe heirs of Carrion was derived by the eloquent Jesuit from a\nsong of which he had never heard, and which was composed by a\nminstrel whose very name had been long forgotten.\n\nSuch, or nearly such, appears to have been the process by which\nthe lost ballad-poetry of Rome was transformed into history. To\nreverse that process, to transform some portions of early Roman\nhistory back into the poetry out of which they were made, is the\nobject of this work.\n\nIn the following poems the author speaks, not in his own person,\nbut in the persons of ancient minstrels who know only what Roman\ncitizen, born three or four hundred years before the Christian\nera, may be supposed to have known, and who are in no wise above\nthe passions and prejudices of their age and nation. To these\nimaginary poets must be ascribed some blunders which are so\nobvious that is unnecessary to point them out. The real blunder\nwould have been to represent these old poets as deeply versed in\ngeneral history, and studious of chronological accuracy. To them\nmust also be attributed the illiberal sneers at the Greeks, the\nfurious party spirit, the contempt for the arts of peace, the\nlove of war for its own sake, the ungenerous exultation over the\nvanquished, which the reader will sometimes observe. To portray a\nRoman of the age of Camillus or Curius as superior to national\nantipathies, as mourning over the devastation and slaughter by\nwhich empire and triumphs were to be won, as looking on human\nsuffering with the sympathy of Howard, or as treating conquered\nenemies with the delicacy of the Black Prince, would be to\nviolate all dramatic propriety. The old Romans had some great\nvirtues, fortitude, temperance, veracity, spirit to resist\noppression, respect for legitimate authority, fidelity in the\nobserving of contracts, disinterestedness, ardent patriotism; but\nChristian charity and chivalrous generosity were alike unknown to\nthem.\n\nIt would have been obviously improper to mimic the manner of any\nparticular age or country. Something has been borrowed, however,\nfrom our own old ballads, and more from Sir Walter Scott, the\ngreat restorer of our ballad-poetry. To the Iliad still greater\nobligations are due; and those obligations have been contracted\nwith the less hesitation, because there is reason to believe that\nsome of the old Latin minstrels really had recourse to that\ninexhaustible store of poetical images.\n\nIt would have been easy to swell this little volume to a very\nconsiderable bulk, by appending notes filled with quotations; but\nto a learned reader such notes are not necessary; for an\nunlearned reader they would have little interest; and the\njudgment passed both by the learned and by the unlearned on a\nwork of the imagination will always depend much more on the\ngeneral character and spirit of such a work than on minute\ndetails.\n\n\n\n\n\n                            Horatius\n\nThere can be little doubt that among those parts of early Roman\nhistory which had a poetical origin was the legend of Horatius\nCocles. We have several versions of the story, and these versions\ndiffer from each other in points of no small importance.\nPolybius, there is reason to believe, heard the tale recited over\nthe remains of some Consul or Pr\u00e6tor descended from the old\nHoratian patricians; for he introduces it as a specimen of the\nnarratives with which the Romans were in the habit of\nembellishing their funeral oratory. It is remarkable that,\naccording to him, Horatius defended the bridge alone, and\nperished in the waters. According to the chronicles which Livy\nand Dionysius followed, Horatius had two companions, swam safe to\nshore, and was loaded with honors and rewards.\n\nThese discrepancies are easily explained. Our own literature,\nindeed, will furnish an exact parallel to what may have taken\nplace at Rome. It is highly probably that the memory of the war\nof Porsena was preserved by compositions much resembling the two\nballads which stand first in the Relics of Ancient English\nPoetry. In both those ballads the English, commanded by the\nPercy, fight with the Scots, commanded by the Douglas. In one of\nthe ballads the Douglas is killed by a nameless English archer,\nand the Percy by a Scottish spearman; in the other, the Percy\nslays the Douglas in single combat, and is himself made prisoner.\nIn the former, Sir Hugh Montgomery is shot through the heart by a\nNorthumbrian bowman; in the latter he is taken and exchanged for\nthe Percy. Yet both the ballads relate to the same event, and\nthat event which probably took place within the memory of persons\nwho were alive when both the ballads were made. One of the\nMinstrels says:--\n\n   \"Old men that knowen the grounde well yenoughe\n     Call it the battell of Otterburn:\n     At Otterburn began this spurne\n     Upon a monnyn day.\n     Ther was the dougghte Doglas slean:\n     The Perse never went away.\"\n\nThe other poet sums up the event in the following lines:\n\n   \"Thys fraye bygan at Otterborne\n       Bytwene the nyghte and the day:\n     Ther the Doglas lost hys lyfe,\n       And the Percy was lede away.\"\n\nIt is by no means unlikely that there were two old Roman lays\nabout the defence of the bridge; and that, while the story which\nLivy has transmitted to us was preferred by the multitude, the\nother, which ascribed the whole glory to Horatius alone, may have\nbeen the favorite with the Horatian house.\n\nThe following ballad is supposed to have been made about a\nhundred and twenty years after the war which it celebrates, and\njust before the taking of Rome by the Gauls. The author seems to\nhave been an honest citizen, proud of the military glory of his\ncountry, sick of the disputes of factions, and much given to\npining after good old times which had never really existed. The\nallusion, however, to the partial manner in which the public\nlands were allotted could proceed only from a plebeian; and the\nallusion to the fraudulent sale of spoils marks the date of the\npoem, and shows that the poet shared in the general discontent\nwith which the proceedings of Camullus, after the taking of Veii,\nwere regarded.\n\nThe penultimate syllable of the name Porsena has been shortened\nin spite of the authority of Niebuhr, who pronounces, without\nassigning any ground for his opinion, that Martial was guilty of\na decided blunder in the line,\n\n    \"Hanc spectare manum Porsena non potuit.\"\n\nIt is not easy to understand how any modern scholar, whatever his\nattainments may be,--and those of Niebuhr were undoubtedly\nimmense,--can venture to pronounce that Martial did not know the\nquantity of a word which he must have uttered, and heard uttered,\na hundred times before he left school. Niebuhr seems also to have\nforgotten that Martial has fellow culprits to keep him in\ncountenance. Horace has committed the same decided blunder; for\nhe give us, as a pure iambic line,--\n\n    \"Minacis aut Etrusca Porsen\u00e6 dextram;\"\n\nSilius Italicus has repeatedly offended in the same way, as when\nhe says,--\"Clusinum vulgus, cum, Porsena magne, jubebas.\" A\nmodern writer may be content to err in such company.\n\nNiebuhr's supposition that each of the three defenders of the\nbridge was the representative of one of the three patrician\ntribes is both ingenious and probable, and has been adopted in\nthe following poem.\n\n                                  Horatius\n\n\n     A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX\n\n               I\n\n     Lars Porsena of Closium\n          By the Nine Gods he swore\n     That the great house of Tarquin\n          Should suffer wrong no more.\n     By the Nine Gods he swore it,\n          And named a trysting day,\n     And bade his messengers ride forth,\n     East and west and south and north,\n          To summon his array.\n\n               II\n\n     East and west and south and north\n          The messengers ride fast,\n     And tower and town and cottage\n          Have heard the trumpet's blast.\n     Shame on the false Etruscan\n          Who lingers in his home,\n     When Porsena of Clusium\n          Is on the march for Rome.\n\n               III\n\n     The horsemen and the footmen\n          Are pouring in amain\n     From many a stately market-place,\n          From many a fruitful plain,\n     From many a lonely hamlet,\n          Which, hid by beech and pine,\n     Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest\n          Of purple Apennine;\n\n               IV\n\n     From lordly Volaterr\u00e6,\n          Where scowls the far-famed hold\n     Piled by the hands of giants\n          For godlike kings of old;\n     From seagirt Populonia,\n          Whose sentinels descry\n     Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops\n          Fringing the southern sky;\n\n               V\n\n     From the proud mart of Pis\u00e6,\n          Queen of the western waves,\n     Where ride Massilia's triremes\n          Heavy with fair-haired slaves;\n     From where sweet Clanis wanders\n          Through corn and vines and flowers;\n     From where Cortona lifts to heaven\n          Her diadem of towers.\n\n               VI\n\n     Tall are the oaks whose acorns\n          Drop in dark Auser's rill;\n     Fat are the stags that champ the boughs\n          Of the Ciminian hill;\n     Beyond all streams Clitumnus\n          Is to the herdsman dear;\n     Best of all pools the fowler loves\n          The great Volsinian mere.\n\n               VII\n\n     But now no stroke of woodman\n          Is heard by Auser's rill;\n     No hunter tracks the stag's green path\n          Up the Ciminian hill;\n     Unwatched along Clitumnus\n          Grazes the milk-white steer;\n     Unharmed the water fowl may dip\n          In the Volsminian mere.\n\n               VIII\n\n     The harvests of Arretium,\n          This year, old men shall reap;\n     This year, young boys in Umbro\n          Shall plunge the struggling sheep;\n     And in the vats of Luna,\n          This year, the must shall foam\n     Round the white feet of laughing girls\n          Whose sires have marched to Rome.\n\n               IX\n\n     There be thirty chosen prophets,\n          The wisest of the land,\n     Who alway by Lars Porsena\n          Both morn and evening stand:\n     Evening and morn the Thirty\n          Have turned the verses o'er,\n     Traced from the right on linen white\n          By mighty seers of yore.\n\n               X\n\n     And with one voice the Thirty\n          Have their glad answer given:\n     \"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;\n          Go forth, beloved of Heaven;\n     Go, and return in glory\n          To Clusium's royal dome;\n     And hang round Nurscia's altars\n          The golden shields of Rome.\"\n\n               XI\n\n     And now hath every city\n          Sent up her tale of men;\n     The foot are fourscore thousand,\n          The horse are thousands ten.\n     Before the gates of Sutrium\n          Is met the great array.\n     A proud man was Lars Porsena\n          Upon the trysting day.\n\n               XII\n\n     For all the Etruscan armies\n          Were ranged beneath his eye,\n     And many a banished Roman,\n          And many a stout ally;\n     And with a mighty following\n          To join the muster came\n     The Tusculan Mamilius,\n          Prince of the Latian name.\n\n               XIII\n\n     But by the yellow Tiber\n          Was tumult and affright:\n     From all the spacious champaign\n          To Rome men took their flight.\n     A mile around the city,\n          The throng stopped up the ways;\n     A fearful sight it was to see\n          Through two long nights and days.\n\n               XIV\n\n     For aged folks on crutches,\n          And women great with child,\n     And mothers sobbing over babes\n          That clung to them and smiled,\n     And sick men borne in litters\n          High on the necks of slaves,\n     And troops of sun-burned husbandmen\n          With reaping-hooks and staves,\n\n               XV\n\n     And droves of mules and asses\n          Laden with skins of wine,\n     And endless flocks of goats and sheep,\n          And endless herds of kine,\n     And endless trains of wagons\n          That creaked beneath the weight\n     Of corn-sacks and of household goods,\n          Choked every roaring gate.\n\n               XVI\n\n     Now, from the rock Tarpeian,\n          Could the wan burghers spy\n     The line of blazing villages\n          Red in the midnight sky.\n     The Fathers of the City,\n          They sat all night and day,\n     For every hour some horseman come\n          With tidings of dismay.\n\n               XVII\n\n     To eastward and to westward\n          Have spread the Tuscan bands;\n     Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote\n          In Crustumerium stands.\n     Verbenna down to Ostia\n          Hath wasted all the plain;\n     Astur hath stormed Janiculum,\n          And the stout guards are slain.\n\n               XVIII\n\n     I wis, in all the Senate,\n          There was no heart so bold,\n     But sore it ached, and fast it beat,\n          When that ill news was told.\n     Forthwith up rose the Consul,\n          Up rose the Fathers all;\n     In haste they girded up their gowns,\n          And hied them to the wall.\n\n               XIX\n\n     They held a council standing,\n          Before the River-Gate;\n     Short time was there, ye well may guess,\n          For musing or debate.\n     Out spake the Consul roundly:\n          \"The bridge must straight go down;\n     For, since Janiculum is lost,\n          Nought else can save the town.\"\n\n               XX\n\n     Just then a scout came flying,\n          All wild with haste and fear:\n     \"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul:\n          Lars Porsena is here.\"\n     On the low hills to westward\n          The Consol fixed his eye,\n     And saw the swarthy storm of dust\n          Rise fast along the sky.\n\n               XXI\n\n     And nearer fast and nearer\n          Doth the red whirlwind come;\n     And louder still and still more loud,\n     From underneath that rolling cloud,\n     Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud,\n          The trampling, and the hum.\n     And plainly and more plainly\n          Now through the gloom appears,\n     Far to left and far to right,\n     In broken gleams of dark-blue light,\n     The long array of helmets bright,\n          The long array of spears.\n\n               XXII\n\n     And plainly and more plainly,\n          Above that glimmering line,\n     Now might ye see the banners\n          Of twelve fair cities shine;\n     But the banner of proud Clusium\n          Was highest of them all,\n     The terror of the Umbrian,\n          The terror of the Gaul.\n\n               XXIII\n\n     And plainly and more plainly\n          Now might the burghers know,\n     By port and vest, by horse and crest,\n          Each warlike Lucumo.\n     There Cilnius of Arretium\n          On his fleet roan was seen;\n     And Astur of the four-fold shield,\n     Girt with the brand none else may wield,\n     Tolumnius with the belt of gold,\n     And dark Verbenna from the hold\n          By reedy Thrasymene.\n\n               XXIV\n\n     Fast by the royal standard,\n          O'erlooking all the war,\n     Lars Porsena of Clusium\n          Sat in his ivory car.\n     By the right wheel rode Mamilius,\n          Prince of the Latian name;\n     And by the left false Sextus,\n          That wrought the deed of shame.\n\n               XXV\n\n     But when the face of Sextus\n          Was seen among the foes,\n     A yell that rent the firmament\n          From all the town arose.\n     On the house-tops was no woman\n          But spat towards him and hissed,\n     No child but screamed out curses,\n          And shook its little fist.\n\n               XXVI\n\n     But the Consul's brow was sad,\n          And the Consul's speech was low,\n     And darkly looked he at the wall,\n          And darkly at the foe.\n     \"Their van will be upon us\n          Before the bridge goes down;\n     And if they once may win the bridge,\n          What hope to save the town?\"\n\n               XXVII\n\n     Then out spake brave Horatius,\n          The Captain of the Gate:\n     \"To every man upon this earth\n          Death cometh soon or late.\n     And how can man die better\n          Than facing fearful odds,\n     For the ashes of his fathers,\n          And the temples of his gods,\n\n               XXVIII\n\n     \"And for the tender mother\n          Who dandled him to rest,\n     And for the wife who nurses\n          His baby at her breast,\n     And for the holy maidens\n          Who feed the eternal flame,\n     To save them from false Sextus\n          That wrought the deed of shame?\n\n               XXIX\n\n     \"Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul,\n          With all the speed ye may;\n     I, with two more to help me,\n          Will hold the foe in play.\n     In yon strait path a thousand\n          May well be stopped by three.\n     Now who will stand on either hand,\n          And keep the bridge with me?\"\n\n               XXX\n\n     Then out spake Spurius Lartius;\n          A Ramnian proud was he:\n     \"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,\n          And keep the bridge with thee.\"\n     And out spake strong Herminius;\n          Of Titian blood was he:\n     \"I will abide on thy left side,\n          And keep the bridge with thee.\"\n\n               XXXI\n\n     \"Horatius,\" quoth the Consul,\n          \"As thou sayest, so let it be.\"\n     And straight against that great array\n          Forth went the dauntless Three.\n     For Romans in Rome's quarrel\n          Spared neither land nor gold,\n     Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n               XXXII\n\n     Then none was for a party;\n          Then all were for the state;\n     Then the great man helped the poor,\n          And the poor man loved the great:\n     Then lands were fairly portioned;\n          Then spoils were fairly sold:\n     The Romans were like brothers\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n               XXXIII\n\n     Now Roman is to Roman\n          More hateful than a foe,\n     And the Tribunes beard the high,\n          And the Fathers grind the low.\n     As we wax hot in faction,\n          In battle we wax cold:\n     Wherefore men fight not as they fought\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n               XXXIV\n\n     Now while the Three were tightening\n          Their harness on their backs,\n     The Consul was the foremost man\n          To take in hand an axe:\n     And Fathers mixed with Commons\n          Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,\n     And smote upon the planks above,\n          And loosed the props below.\n\n               XXXV\n\n     Meanwhile the Tuscan army,\n          Right glorious to behold,\n     Come flashing back the noonday light,\n     Rank behind rank, like surges bright\n          Of a broad sea of gold.\n     Four hundred trumpets sounded\n          A peal of warlike glee,\n     As that great host, with measured tread,\n     And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,\n     Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,\n          Where stood the dauntless Three.\n\n               XXXVI\n\n     The Three stood calm and silent,\n          And looked upon the foes,\n     And a great shout of laughter\n          From all the vanguard rose:\n     And forth three chiefs came spurring\n          Before that deep array;\n     To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,\n     And lifted high their shields, and flew\n          To win the narrrow way;\n\n               XXXVII\n\n     Aunus from green Tifernum,\n          Lord of the Hill of Vines;\n     And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves\n          Sicken in Ilva's mines;\n     And Picus, long to Clusium\n          Vassal in peace and war,\n     Who led to fight his Umbrian powers\n     From that gray crag where, girt with towers,\n     The fortress of Nequinum lowers\n          O'er the pale waves of Nar.\n\n               XXXVIII\n\n     Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus\n          Into the stream beneath;\n     Herminius struck at Seius,\n          And clove him to the teeth;\n     At Picus brave Horatius\n          Darted one fiery thrust;\n     And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms\n          Clashed in the bloody dust.\n\n               XXXIX\n\n     Then Ocnus of Falerii\n          Rushed on the Roman Three;\n     And Lausulus of Urgo,\n          The rover of the sea;\n     And Aruns of Volsinium,\n          Who slew the great wild boar,\n     The great wild boar that had his den\n     Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,\n     And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,\n          Along Albinia's shore.\n\n               XL\n\n     Herminius smote down Aruns:\n          Lartius laid Ocnus low:\n     Right to the heart of Lausulus\n          Horatius sent a blow.\n     \"Lie there,\" he cried, \"fell pirate!\n          No more, aghast and pale,\n     From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark\n     The track of thy destroying bark.\n     No more Campania's hinds shall fly\n     To woods and caverns when they spy\n          Thy thrice accursed sail.\"\n\n               XLI\n\n     But now no sound of laughter\n          Was heard among the foes.\n     A wild and wrathful clamor\n          From all the vanguard rose.\n     Six spears' lengths from the entrance\n          Halted that deep array,\n     And for a space no man came forth\n          To win the narrow way.\n\n               XLII\n\n     But hark! the cry is Astur:\n          And lo! the ranks divide;\n     And the great Lord of Luna\n          Comes with his stately stride.\n     Upon his ample shoulders\n          Clangs loud the four-fold shield,\n     And in his hand he shakes the brand\n          Which none but he can wield.\n\n               XLIII\n\n     He smiled on those bold Romans\n          A smile serene and high;\n     He eyed the flinching Tuscans,\n          And scorn was in his eye.\n     Quoth he, \"The she-wolf's litter\n          Stand savagely at bay:\n     But will ye dare to follow,\n          If Astur clears the way?\"\n\n               XLIV\n\n     Then, whirling up his broadsword\n          With both hands to the height,\n     He rushed against Horatius,\n          And smote with all his might.\n     With shield and blade Horatius\n          Right deftly turned the blow.\n     The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;\n     It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:\n     The Tuscans raised a joyful cry\n          To see the red blood flow.\n\n               XLV\n\n     He reeled, and on Herminius\n          He leaned one breathing-space;\n     Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,\n          Sprang right at Astur's face.\n     Through teeth, and skull, and helmet\n          So fierce a thrust he sped,\n     The good sword stood a hand-breadth out\n          Behind the Tuscan's head.\n\n               XLVI\n\n     And the great Lord of Luna\n          Fell at that deadly stroke,\n     As falls on Mount Alvernus\n          A thunder smitten oak:\n     Far o'er the crashing forest\n          The giant arms lie spread;\n     And the pale augurs, muttering low,\n          Gaze on the blasted head.\n\n               XLVII\n\n     On Astur's throat Horatius\n          Right firmly pressed his heel,\n     And thrice and four times tugged amain,\n          Ere he wrenched out the steel.\n     \"And see,\" he cried, \"the welcome,\n          Fair guests, that waits you here!\n     What noble Lucomo comes next\n          To taste our Roman cheer?\"\n\n               XLVIII\n\n     But at his haughty challenge\n          A sullen murmur ran,\n     Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,\n          Along that glittering van.\n     There lacked not men of prowess,\n          Nor men of lordly race;\n     For all Etruria's noblest\n          Were round the fatal place.\n\n               XLIX\n\n     But all Etruria's noblest\n          Felt their hearts sink to see\n     On the earth the bloody corpses,\n          In the path the dauntless Three:\n     And, from the ghastly entrance\n          Where those bold Romans stood,\n     All shrank, like boys who unaware,\n     Ranging the woods to start a hare,\n     Come to the mouth of the dark lair\n     Where, growling low, a fierce old bear\n          Lies amidst bones and blood.\n\n               L\n\n     Was none who would be foremost\n          To lead such dire attack;\n     But those behind cried, \"Forward!\"\n          And those before cried, \"Back!\"\n     And backward now and forward\n          Wavers the deep array;\n     And on the tossing sea of steel\n     To and frow the standards reel;\n     And the victorious trumpet-peal\n          Dies fitfully away.\n\n               LI\n\n     Yet one man for one moment\n          Strode out before the crowd;\n     Well known was he to all the Three,\n          And they gave him greeting loud.\n     \"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!\n          Now welcome to thy home!\n     Why dost thou stay, and turn away?\n          Here lies the road to Rome.\"\n\n               LII\n\n     Thrice looked he at the city;\n          Thrice looked he at the dead;\n     And thrice came on in fury,\n          And thrice turned back in dread:\n     And, white with fear and hatred,\n          Scowled at the narrow way\n     Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,\n          The bravest Tuscans lay.\n\n               LIII\n\n     But meanwhile axe and lever\n          Have manfully been plied;\n     And now the bridge hangs tottering\n          Above the boiling tide.\n     \"Come back, come back, Horatius!\"\n          Loud cried the Fathers all.\n     \"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!\n          Back, ere the ruin fall!\"\n\n               LIV\n\n     Back darted Spurius Lartius;\n          Herminius darted back:\n     And, as they passed, beneath their feet\n          They felt the timbers crack.\n     But when they turned their faces,\n          And on the farther shore\n     Saw brave Horatius stand alone,\n          They would have crossed once more.\n\n               LV\n\n     But with a crash like thunder\n          Fell every loosened beam,\n     And, like a dam, the mighty wreck\n          Lay right athwart the stream:\n     And a long shout of triumph\n          Rose from the walls of Rome,\n     As to the highest turret-tops\n          Was splashed the yellow foam.\n\n               LVI\n\n     And, like a horse unbroken\n          When first he feels the rein,\n     The furious river struggled hard,\n          And tossed his tawny mane,\n     And burst the curb and bounded,\n          Rejoicing to be free,\n     And whirling down, in fierce career,\n     Battlement, and plank, and pier,\n          Rushed headlong to the sea.\n\n               LVII\n\n     Alone stood brave Horatius,\n          But constant still in mind;\n     Thrice thirty thousand foes before,\n          And the broad flood behind.\n     \"Down with him!\" cried false Sextus,\n          With a smile on his pale face.\n     \"Now yield thee,\" cried Lars Porsena,\n          \"Now yield thee to our grace.\"\n\n               LVIII\n\n     Round turned he, as not deigning\n          Those craven ranks to see;\n     Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,\n          To Sextus nought spake he;\n     But he saw on Palatinus\n          The white porch of his home;\n     And he spake to the noble river\n          That rolls by the towers of Rome.\n\n               LVIX\n\n     \"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!\n          To whom the Romans pray,\n     A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,\n          Take thou in charge this day!\"\n     So he spake, and speaking sheathed\n          The good sword by his side,\n     And with his harness on his back,\n          Plunged headlong in the tide.\n\n               LX\n\n     No sound of joy or sorrow\n          Was heard from either bank;\n     But friends and foes in dumb surprise,\n     With parted lips and straining eyes,\n          Stood gazing where he sank;\n     And when above the surges,\n          They saw his crest appear,\n     All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,\n     And even the ranks of Tuscany\n          Could scarce forbear to cheer.\n\n               LXI\n\n     But fiercely ran the current,\n          Swollen high by months of rain:\n     And fast his blood was flowing;\n          And he was sore in pain,\n     And heavy with his armor,\n          And spent with changing blows:\n     And oft they thought him sinking,\n          But still again he rose.\n\n               LXII\n\n     Never, I ween, did swimmer,\n          In such an evil case,\n     Struggle through such a raging flood\n          Safe to the landing place:\n     But his limbs were borne up bravely\n          By the brave heart within,\n     And our good father Tiber\n          Bare bravely up his chin.\n\n               LXIII\n\n     \"Curse on him!\" quoth false Sextus;\n          \"Will not the villain drown?\n     But for this stay, ere close of day\n          We should have sacked the town!\"\n     \"Heaven help him!\" quoth Lars Porsena\n          \"And bring him safe to shore;\n     For such a gallant feat of arms\n          Was never seen before.\"\n\n               LXIV\n\n     And now he feels the bottom;\n          Now on dry earth he stands;\n     Now round him throng the Fathers;\n          To press his gory hands;\n     And now, with shouts and clapping,\n          And noise of weeping loud,\n     He enters through the River-Gate\n          Borne by the joyous crowd.\n\n               LXV\n\n     They gave him of the corn-land,\n          That was of public right,\n     As much as two strong oxen\n          Could plough from morn till night;\n     And they made a molten image,\n          And set it up on high,\n     And there is stands unto this day\n          To witness if I lie.\n\n               LXVI\n\n     It stands in the Comitium\n          Plain for all folk to see;\n     Horatius in his harness,\n          Halting upon one knee:\n     And underneath is written,\n          In letters all of gold,\n     How valiantly he kept the bridge\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n               LXVII\n\n     And still his name sounds stirring\n          Unto the men of Rome,\n     As the trumpet-blast that cries to them\n          To charge the Volscian home;\n     And wives still pray to Juno\n          For boys with hearts as bold\n     As his who kept the bridge so well\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n               LXVIII\n\n     And in the nights of winter,\n          When the cold north winds blow,\n     And the long howling of the wolves\n          Is heard amidst the snow;\n     When round the lonely cottage\n          Roars loud the tempest's din,\n     And the good logs of Algidus\n          Roar louder yet within;\n\n               LXIX\n\n     When the oldest cask is opened,\n          And the largest lamp is lit;\n     When the chestnuts glow in the embers,\n          And the kid turns on the spit;\n     When young and old in circle\n          Around the firebrands close;\n     When the girls are weaving baskets,\n          And the lads are shaping bows;\n\n               LXX\n\n     When the goodman mends his armor,\n          And trims his helmet's plume;\n     When the goodwife's shuttle merrily\n          Goes flashing through the loom;\n     With weeping and with laughter\n          Still is the story told,\n     How well Horatius kept the bridge\n          In the brave days of old.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                 The Battle of the Lake Regillus\n\n\nThe following poem is supposed to have been produced about ninety\nyears after the lay of Horatius. Some persons mentioned in the\nlay of Horatius make their appearance again, and some\nappellations and epithets used in the lay of Horatius have been\npurposely repeated: for, in an age of ballad-poetry, it scarcely\never fails to happen, that certain phrases come to be\nappropriated to certain men and things, and are regularly applied\nto those men and things by every minstrel. Thus we find, both in\nthe Homeric poems and in Hesiod, [several examples of common\nphrases, in Greek]. Thus, too, in our own national songs, Douglas\nis almost always the doughty Douglas; England is merry England;\nall the gold is red; and all the ladies are gay.\n\nThe principal distinction between the lay of Horatius and the lay\nof the Lake Regillus is that the former is meant to be purely\nRoman, while the latter, though national in its general spirit,\nhas a slight tincture of Greek learning and of Greek\nsuperstition. The story of the Tarquins, as it has come down to\nus, appears to have been compiled from the works of several\npopular poets; and one, at least, of those poets appears to have\nvisited the Greek colonies in Italy, if not Greece itself, and to\nhave had some acquaintance with the works of Homer and Herodotus.\nMany of the most striking adventures of the House of Tarquin,\nbefore Lucretia makes her appearance, have a Greek character. The\nTarquins themselves are represented as Corinthian nobles of the\ngreat House of the Bacchiad\u00e6, driven from their country by the\ntyranny of that Cypselus, the tale of whose strange escape\nHerodotus has related with incomparable simplicity and\nliveliness. Livy and Dionysius tell us that, when Tarquin the\nProud was asked what was the best mode of governing a conquered\ncity, he replied only by beating down with his staff all the\ntallest poppies in his garden. This is exactly what Herodotus, in\nthe passage to which reference has already been made, relates of\nthe counsel given to Periander, the son of Cypselus. The\nstratagem by which the town of Gabii is brought under the power\nof the Tarquins is, again, obviously copied from Herodotus. The\nembassy of the young Tarquins to the oracle at Delphi is just\nsuch a story as would be told by a poet whose head was full of\nthe Greek mythology; and the ambiguous answer returned by Apollo\nis in the exact style of the prophecies which, according to\nHerodotus, lured Croesus to destruction. Then the character of\nthe narrative changes. From the first mention of Lucretia to the\nretreat of Porsena nothing seems to be borrowed from foreign\nsources. The villainy of Sextus, the suicide of his victim, the\nrevolution, the death of the sons of Brutus, the defence of the\nbridge, Musius burning his hand, Cloelia swimming through Tiber,\nseem to be all strictly Roman. But when we have done with the\nTuscan wars, and enter upon the war with the Latines, we are\nagain struck by the Greek air of the story. The Battle of the\nLake Regillus is in all respects a Homeric battle, except that\nthe combatants ride astride on their horses, instead of driving\nchariots. The mass of fighting men is hardly mentioned. The\nleaders single each other out, and engage hand to hand. The great\nobject of the warriors on both sides is, as in the Iliad, to\nobtain possession of the spoils and bodies of the slain; and\nseveral circumstances are related which forcibly remind us of the\ngreat slaughter round the corpses of Sarpedon and Patroclus.\n\nBut there is one circumstance which deserves especial notice.\nBoth the war of Troy and the war of Regillus were caused by the\nlicentious passions of young princes, who were therefore\npeculiarly bound not to be sparing of their own persons on the\nday of battle. Now the conduct of Sextus at Regillus, as\ndescribed by Livy, so exactly resembles that of Paris, as\ndescribed at the beginning of the third book of the Iliad, that\nit is difficult to believe the resemblance accidental. Paris\nappears before the Trojan ranks, defying the bravest Greek to\nencounter him:--\n\n       3 lines from the Iliad, in Greek, probably those\n       translated by Pope as:\n\n       ...to the van, before the sons of fame\n       Whom Troy sent forth, the beauteous Paris came:\n\nLivy introduces Sextus in a similar manner: \"Ferocem juvenem\nTarquinium, ostentantem se in prima exsulum acie.\" Menelaus\nrushes to meet Paris. A Roman noble, eager for vengeance, spurs\nhis horse towards Sextus. Both the guilty princes are instantly\nterror-stricken:--\n\n       3 more lines in Greek, Pope's translation being:\n\n       ...[Menelaus] approaching near,\n       The beauteous champion views with marks of fear,\n       Smit with a conscious sense, retires behind,\n       And shuns the fate he well deserv'd to find.\n\n\"Tarquinius,\" says Livy, \"retro in agmen suorum infenso cessit\nhosti.\" If this be a fortuitous coincidence, it is also one of\nthe most extraordinary in literature.\n\nIn the following poem, therefore, images and incidents have been\nborrowed, not merely without scruple, but on principle, from the\nincomparable battle-pieces of Homer.\n\nThe popular belief at Rome, from an early period, seems to have\nbeen that the event of the great day of Regillus was decided by\nsupernatural agency. Castor and Pollux, it was said, had fought\narmed and mounted, at the head of the legions of the\ncommonwealth, and had afterwards carried the news of the victory\nwith incredible speed to the city. The well in the Forum at which\nthey had alighted was pointed out. Near the well rose their\nancient temple. A great festival was kept to their honor on the\nIdes of Quintilis, supposed to be the anniversary of the battle;\nand on that day sumptuous sacrifices were offered to them at the\npublic charge. One spot on the margin of Lake Regillus was\nregarded during many ages with superstitious awe. A mark,\nresembling in shape a horse's hoof, was discernible in the\nvolcanic rock; and this mark was believed to have been made by\none of the celestial chargers.\n\nHow the legend originated cannot now be ascertained; but we may\neasily imagine several ways in which it might have originated;\nnor is it at all necessary to suppose, with Julius Frontinus,\nthat two young men were dressed up by the Dictator to personate\nthe sons of Leda. It is probable that Livy is correct when he\nsays that the Roman general, in the hour of peril, vowed a temple\nto Castor. If so, nothing could be more natural than that the\nmultitude should ascribe the victory to the favor of the Twin\nGods. When such was the prevailing sentiment, any man who chose\nto declare that, in the midst of the confusion and slaughter, he\nhad seen two godlike forms on white horses scattering the\nLatines, would find ready credence. We know, indeed, that in\nmodern times a very similar story actually found credence among a\npeople much more civilized than the Romans of the fifth century\nbefore Christ. A chaplain of Cortes, writing about thirty years\nafter the conquest of Mexico, in an age of printing presses,\nlibraries, universities, scholars, logicians, jurists, and\nstatesmen, had the face to assert that, in one engagement against\nthe Indians, St. James had appeared on a gray horse at the head\nof the Castilian adventurers. Many of those adventurers were\nliving when this lie was printed. One of them, honest Bernal\nDiaz, wrote an account of the expedition. He had the evidence of\nhis own senses against the legend; but he seems to have\ndistrusted even the evidence of his own senses. He says that he\nwas in the battle, and that he saw a gray horse with a man on his\nback, but that the man was, to his thinking, Francesco de Morla,\nand not the ever-blessed apostle St. James. \"Nevertheless,\"\nBernal adds, \"it may be that the person on the gray horse was\nthe glorious apostle St. James, and that I, sinner that I am, was\nunworthy to see him.\" The Romans of the age of Cincinatus were\nprobably quite as credulous as the Spanish subjects of Charles\nthe Fifth. It is therefore conceivable that the appearance of\nCastor and Pollux may be become an article of faith before the\ngeneration which had fought at Regillus had passed away. Nor\ncould anything be more natural than that the poets of the next\nage should embellish this story, and make the celestial horsemen\nbear the tidings of victory to Rome.\n\nMany years after the temple of the Twin Gods had been built in\nthe Forum, an important addition was made to the ceremonial by\nwhich the state annually testified its gratitude for their\nprotection. Quintus Fabius and Publius Decius were elected\nCensors at a momentous crisis. It had become absolutely necessary\nthat the classification of the citizens should be revised. On\nthat classification depended the distribution of political power.\nParty spirit ran high; and the republic seemed to be in danger of\nfalling under the dominion either of a narrow oligarchy or of an\nignorant and headstrong rabble. Under such circumstances, the\nmost illustrious patrician and the most illustrious plebeian of\nthe age were entrusted with the office of arbitrating between the\nangry factions; and they performed their arduous task to the\nsatisfaction of all honest and reasonable men.\n\nOne of their reforms was the remodelling of the equestrian order;\nand, having effected this reform, they determined to give to\ntheir work a sanction derived from religion. In the chivalrous\nsocieties of modern times,--societies which have much more than\nmay at first sight appear in common with with the equestrian\norder of Rome,--it has been usual to invoke the special\nprotection of some Saint, and to observe his day with peculiar\nsolemnity. Thus the Companions of the Garter wear the image of\nSt. George depending from their collars, and meet, on great\noccasions, in St. George's Chapel. Thus, when Louis the\nFourteenth instituted a new order of chivalry for the rewarding\nof military merit, he commended it to the favor of his own\nglorified ancestor and patron, and decreed that all the members\nof the fraternity should meet at the royal palace on the feast of\nSt. Louis, should attend the king to chapel, should hear mass,\nand should subsequently hold their great annual assembly. There\nis a considerable resemblance between this rule of the order of\nSt. Louis and the rule which Fabius and Decius made respecting\nthe Roman knights. It was ordained that a grand muster and\ninspection of the equestrian body should be part of the\nceremonial performed, on the anniversary of the battle of\nRegillus, in honor of Castor and Pollux, the two equestrian gods.\nAll the knights, clad in purple and crowned with olive, were to\nmeet at a temple of Mars in the suburbs. Thence they were to ride\nin state to the Forum, where the temple of the Twins stood. This\npageant was, during several centuries, considered as one of the\nmost splendid sights of Rome. In the time of Dionysius the\ncavalcade sometimes consisted of five thousand horsemen, all\npersons of fair repute and easy fortune.\n\nThere can be no doubt that the Censors who instituted this august\nceremony acted in concert with the Pontiffs to whom, by the\nconstitution of Rome, the superintendence of the public worship\nbelonged; and it is probable that those high religious\nfunctionaries were, as usual, fortunate enough to find in their\nbooks or traditions some warrant for the innovation.\n\nThe following poem is supposed to have been made for this great\noccasion. Songs, we know, were chanted at religious festivals of\nRome from an early period, indeed from so early a period that\nsome of the sacred verses were popularly ascribed to Numa, and\nwere utterly unintelligible in the age of Augustus. In the Second\nPunic War a great feast was held in honor of Juno, and a song was\nsung in her praise. This song was extant when Livy wrote; and,\nthough exceedingly rugged and uncouth, seemed to him not wholly\ndestitute of merit. A song, as we learn from Horace, was part of\nthe established ritual at the great Secular Jubilee. It is\ntherefore likely that the Censors and Pontiffs, when they had\nresolved to add a grand procession of knights to the other\nsolemnities annually performed on the Ides of Quintilis, would\ncall in the aid of a poet. Such a poet would naturally take for\nhis subject the battle of Regillus, the appearance of the Twin\nGods, and the institution of their festival. He would find\nabundant materials in the ballads of his predecessors; and he\nwould make free use of the scanty stock of Greek learning which\nhe had himself acquired. He would probably introduce some wise\nand holy Pontiff enjoining the magnificent ceremonial which,\nafter a long interval, had at length been adopted. If the poem\nsucceeded, many persons would commit it to memory. Parts of it\nwould be sung to the pipe at banquets. It would be peculiarly\ninteresting to the great Posthumian House, which numbered among\nits many images that of the Dictator Aulus, the hero of Regillus.\nThe orator who, in the following generation, pronounced the\nfuneral panegyric over the remains of Lucius Posthumius Megellus,\nthrice Consul, would borrow largely from the lay; and thus some\npassages, much disfigured, would probably find their way into the\nchronicles which were afterwards in the hands of Dionysius and\nLivy.\n\nAntiquaries differ widely as to the situation of the field of\nbattle. The opinion of those who suppose that the armies met near\nCornufelle, between Frascati and the Monte Porzio, is at least\nplausible, and has been followed in the poem.\n\nAs to the details of the battle, it has not been thought\ndesirable to adhere minutely to the accounts which have come down\nto us. Those accounts, indeed, differ widely from each other,\nand, in all probability, differ as widely from the ancient poem\nfrom which they were originally derived.\n\nIt is unnecessary to point out the obvious imitations of the\nIliad, which have been purposely introduced.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                      The Battle of the Lake Regillus\n\n\nA Lay Sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux on the Ides of\nQuintilis in the year of the City CCCCLI.\n\n               I\n\n     Ho, trumpets, sound a war-note!\n          Ho, lictors, clear the way!\n     The Knights will ride, in all their pride,\n          Along the streets to-day.\n     To-day the doors and windows\n          Are hung with garlands all,\n     From Castor in the Forum,\n          To Mars without the wall.\n     Each Knight is robed in purple,\n          With olive each is crowned;\n     A gallant war-horse under each\n          Paws haughtily the ground.\n     While flows the Yellow River,\n          While stands the Sacred Hill,\n     The proud Ides of Quintilis\n          Shall have such honor still.\n     Gay are the Martian Kalends,\n          December's Nones are gay,\n     But the proud Ides, when the squadron rides,\n          Shall be Rome's whitest day.\n\n               II\n\n     Unto the Great Twin Brethren\n          We keep this solemn feast.\n     Swift, swift, the Great Twin Brethren\n          Came spurring from the east.\n     They came o'er wild Parthenius\n          Tossing in waves of pine,\n     O'er Cirrha's dome, o'er Adria's foam,\n          O'er purple Apennine,\n     From where with flutes and dances\n          Their ancient mansion rings,\n     In lordly Laced\u00e6mon,\n          The City of two kings,\n     To where, by Lake Regillus,\n          Under the Porcian height,\n     All in the lands of Tusculum,\n          Was fought the glorious fight.\n\n               III\n\n     Now on the place of slaughter\n          Are cots and sheepfolds seen,\n     And rows of vines, and fields of wheat,\n          And apple-orchards green;\n     The swine crush the big acorns\n          That fall from Corne's oaks.\n     Upon the turf by the Fair Fount\n          The reaper's pottage smokes.\n     The fisher baits his angle;\n          The hunter twangs his bow;\n     Little they think on those strong limbs\n          That moulder deep below.\n     Little they think how sternly\n          That day the trumpets pealed;\n     How in the slippery swamp of blood\n          Warrior and war-horse reeled;\n     How wolves came with fierce gallops,\n          And crows on eager wings,\n     To tear the flesh of captains,\n          And peck the eyes of kings;\n     How thick the dead lay scattered\n          Under the Porcian height;\n     How through the gates of Tusculum\n          Raved the wild stream of flight;\n     And how the Lake Regillus\n          Bubbled with crimson foam,\n     What time the Thirty Cities\n          Came forth to war with Rome.\n\n               IV\n\n     But Roman, when thou standest\n          Upon that holy ground,\n     Look thou with heed on the dark rock\n          That girds the dark lake round.\n     So shalt thou see a hoof-mark\n          Stamped deep into the flint:\n     It was not hoof of mortal steed\n          That made so strange a dint:\n     There to the Great Twin Brethren\n          Vow thou thy vows, and pray\n     That they, in tempest and in flight,\n          Will keep thy head alway.\n\n               V\n\n     Since last the Great Twin Brethren\n          Of mortal eyes were seen,\n     Have years gone by an hundred\n          And fourscore and thirteen.\n     That summer a Virginius\n          Was Consul first in place;\n     The second was stout Aulus,\n          Of the Posthumian race.\n     The Herald of the Latines\n          From Gabii came in state:\n     The Herald of the Latines\n          Passed through Rome's Eastern Gate:\n     The Herald of the Latines\n          Did in our Forum stand;\n     And there he did his office,\n          A sceptre in his hand.\n\n               VI\n\n     \"Hear, Senators and people\n          Of the good town of Rome,\n     The Thirty Cities charge you\n          To bring the Tarquins home:\n     And if ye still be stubborn\n          To work the Tarquins wrong,\n     The Thirty Cities warn you,\n          Look your walls be strong.\"\n\n               VII\n\n     Then spake the Consul Aulus,\n          He spake a bitter jest:\n     \"Once the jays sent a message\n          Unto the eagle's nest:--\n     Now yield thou up thine eyrie\n          Unto the carrion-kite,\n     Or come forth valiantly, and face\n          The jays in deadly fight.--\n     Forth looked in wrath the eagle;\n          And carrion-kite and jay,\n     Soon as they saw his beak and claw,\n          Fled screaming far away.\"\n\n               VIII\n\n     The Herald of the Latines\n          Hath hied him back in state:\n     The Fathers of the City\n          Are met in high debate.\n     Then spake the elder Consul,\n          And ancient man and wise:\n     \"Now harken, Conscript Fathers,\n          To that which I advise.\n     In seasons of great peril\n          'Tis good that one bear sway;\n     Then choose we a Dictator,\n          Whom all men shall obey.\n     Camerium knows how deeply\n          The sword of Aulus bites,\n     And all our city calls him\n          The man of seventy fights.\n     Then let him be Dictator\n          For six months and no more,\n     And have a Master of the Knights,\n          And axes twenty-four.\"\n\n               IX\n\n     So Aulus was Dictator,\n          The man of seventy fights;\n     He made \u00c6butius Elva\n          His Master of the Knights.\n     On the third morn thereafter,\n          At downing of the day,\n     Did Aulus and \u00c6butius\n          Set forth with their array.\n     Sempronius Atratinus\n          Was left in charge at home\n     With boys, and with gray-headed men,\n          To keep the walls of Rome.\n     Hard by the Lake Regillus\n          Our camp was pitched at night:\n     Eastward a mile the Latines lay,\n          Under the Porcian height.\n     Far over hill and valley\n          Their mighty host was spread;\n     And with their thousand watch-fires\n          The midnight sky was red.\n\n               X\n\n     Up rose the golden morning\n          Over the Porcian height,\n     The proud Ides of Quintilis\n          Marked evermore in white.\n     Not without secret trouble\n          Our bravest saw the foe;\n     For girt by threescore thousand spears,\n          The thirty standards rose.\n     From every warlike city\n          That boasts the Latian name,\n     Fordoomed to dogs and vultures,\n          That gallant army came;\n     From Setia's purple vineyards,\n          From Norba's ancient wall,\n     From the white streets of Tusculum,\n          The proudust town of all;\n     From where the Witch's Fortress\n          O'er hangs the dark-blue seas;\n     From the still glassy lake that sleeps\n          Beneath Aricia's trees--\n     Those trees in whose dim shadow\n          The ghastly priest doth reign,\n     The priest who slew the slayer,\n          And shall himself be slain;\n     From the drear banks of Ufens,\n          Where flights of marsh-fowl play,\n     And buffaloes lie wallowing\n          Through the hot summer's day;\n     From the gigantic watch-towers,\n          No work of earthly men,\n     Whence Cora's sentinels o'erlook\n          The never-ending fen;\n     From the Laurentian jungle,\n          The wild hog's reedy home;\n     From the green steeps whence Anio leaps\n          In floods of snow-white foam.\n\n               XI\n\n     Aricia, Cora, Norba,\n          Velitr\u00e6, with the might\n     Of Setia and of Tusculum,\n          Were marshalled on the right:\n     The leader was Mamilius,\n          Prince of the Latian name;\n     Upon his head a helmet\n          Of red gold shone like flame:\n     High on a gallant charger\n          Of dark-gray hue he rode;\n     Over his gilded armor\n          A vest of purple flowed,\n     Woven in the land of sunrise\n          By Syria's dark-browed daughters,\n     And by the sails of Carthage brought\n          Far o'er the southern waters.\n\n               XII\n\n     Lavinium and Laurentum\n          Had on the left their post,\n     With all the banners of the marsh,\n          And banners of the coast.\n     Their leader was false Sextus,\n          That wrought the deed of shame:\n     With restless pace and haggard face\n          To his last field he came.\n     Men said he saw strange visions\n          Which none beside might see;\n     And that strange sounds were in his ears\n          Which none might hear but he.\n     A woman fair and stately,\n          But pale as are the dead,\n     Oft through the watches of the night\n          Sat spinning by his bed.\n     And as she plied the distaff,\n          In a sweet voice and low,\n     She sang of great old houses,\n          And fights fought long ago.\n     So spun she, and so sang she,\n          Until the east was gray.\n     Then pointed to her bleeding breast,\n          And shrieked, and fled away.\n\n               XIII\n\n     But in the centre thickest\n          Were ranged the shields of foes,\n     And from the centre loudest\n          The cry of battle rose.\n     There Tibur marched and Pedum\n          Beneath proud Tarquin's rule,\n     And Ferentinum of the rock,\n          And Gabii of the pool.\n     There rode the Volscian succors:\n          There, in the dark stern ring,\n     The Roman exiles gathered close\n          Around the ancient king.\n     Though white as Mount Soracte,\n          When winter nights are long,\n     His beard flowed down o'er mail and belt,\n          His heart and hand were strong:\n     Under his hoary eyebrows\n          Still flashed forth quenchless rage:\n     And, if the lance shook in his gripe,\n          'Twas more with hate than age.\n     Close at his side was Titus\n          On an Apulian steed,\n     Titus, the youngest Tarquin,\n          Too good for such a breed.\n\n               XIV\n\n     Now on each side the leaders\n          Gave signal for the charge;\n     And on each side the footmen\n          Strode on with lance and targe;\n     And on each side the horsemen\n          Struck their spurs deep in gore,\n     And front to front the armies\n          Met with a mighty roar:\n     And under that great battle\n          The earth with blood was red;\n     And, like the Pomptine fog at morn,\n          The dust hung overhead;\n     And louder still and louder\n          Rose from the darkened field\n     The braying of the war-horns,\n          The clang of sword and shield,\n     The rush of squadrons sweeping\n          Like whirlwinds o'er the plain,\n     The shouting of the slayers,\n          And screeching of the slain.\n\n               XV\n\n     False Sextus rode out foremost,\n          His look was high and bold;\n     His corslet was of bison's hide,\n          Plated with steel and gold.\n     As glares the famished eagle\n          From the Digentian rock\n     On a choice lamb that bounds alone\n          Before Bandusia's flock,\n     Herminius glared on Sextus,\n          And came with eagle speed,\n     Herminius on black Auster,\n          Brave champion on brave steed;\n     In his right hand the broadsword\n          That kept the bridge so well,\n     And on his helm the crown he won\n          When proud Fiden\u00e6 fell.\n     Woe to the maid whose lover\n          Shall cross his path to-day!\n     False Sextus saw, and trembled,\n          And turned, and fled away.\n     As turns, as flies, the woodman\n          In the Calabrian brake,\n     When through the reeds gleams the round eye\n          Of that fell speckled snake;\n     So turned, so fled, false Sextus,\n          And hid him in the rear,\n     Behind the dark Lavinian ranks,\n          Bristling with crest and spear.\n\n               XVI\n\n     But far to the north \u00c6butius,\n          The Master of the Knights,\n     Gave Tubero of Norba\n          To feed the Porcian kites.\n     Next under those red horse-hoofs\n          Flaccus of Setia lay;\n     Better had he been pruning\n          Among his elms that day.\n     Mamilus saw the slaughter,\n          And tossed his golden crest,\n     And towards the Master of the Knights\n          Through the thick battle pressed.\n     \u00c6butius smote Mamilius\n          So fiercely on the shield\n     That the great lord of Tusculum\n          Well-nigh rolled on the field.\n     Mamilius smote \u00c6butius,\n          With a good aim and true,\n     Just where the next and shoulder join,\n          And pierced him through and through;\n     And brave \u00c6butius Elva\n          Fell swooning to the ground:\n     But a thick wall of bucklers\n          Encompassed him around.\n     His clients from the battle\n          Bare him some little space,\n     And filled a helm from the dark lake,\n          And bathed his brow and face;\n     And when at last he opened\n          His swimming eyes to light,\n     Men say, the earliest words he spake\n          Was, \"Friends, how goes the fight?\".\n\n               XVII\n\n     But meanwhile in the centre\n          Great deeds of arms were wrought;\n     There Aulus the Dictator\n          And there Valerius fought.\n     Aulus with his good broadsword\n          A bloody passage cleared\n     To where, amidst the thickest foes,\n          He saw the long white beard.\n     Flat lighted that good broadsword\n          Upon proud Tarquin's head.\n     He dropped the lance: he dropped the reins:\n          He fell as fall the dead.\n     Down Aulus springs to slay him,\n          With eyes like coals of fire;\n     But faster Titus hath sprung down,\n          And hath bestrode his sire.\n     Latian captains, Roman knights,\n          Fast down to earth they spring,\n     And hand to hand they fight on foot\n          Around the ancient king.\n     First Titus gave tall C\u00e6so\n          A death wound in the face;\n     Tall C\u00e6so was the bravest man\n          Of the brave Fabian race:\n     Aulus slew Rex of Gabii,\n          The priest of Juno's shrine;\n     Valerius smote down Julius,\n          Of Rome's great Julian line;\n     Julius, who left his mansion,\n          High on the Velian hill,\n     And through all turns of weal and woe\n          Followed proud Tarquin still.\n     Now right across proud Tarquin\n          A corpse was Julius laid;\n     And Titus groaned with rage and grief,\n          And at Valerius made.\n     Valerius struck at Titus,\n          And lopped off half his crest;\n     But Titus stabbed Valerius\n          A span deep in the breast.\n     Like a mast snapped by the tempest,\n          Valerius reeled and fell.\n     Ah! woe is me for the good house\n          That loves the people well!\n     Then shouted loud the Latines;\n          And with one rush they bore\n     The struggling Romans backward\n          Three lances' length and more:\n     And up they took proud Tarquin,\n          And laid him on a shield,\n     And four strong yeomen bare him,\n          Still senseless, from the field.\n\n               XVIII\n\n     But fiercer grew the fighting\n          Around Valerius dead;\n     For Titus dragged him by the foot\n          And Aulus by the head.\n     \"On, Latines, on!\" quoth Titus,\n          \"See how the rebels fly!\"\n     \"Romans, stand firm!\" quoth Aulus,\n          \"And win this fight or die!\n     They must not give Valerius\n          To raven and to kite;\n     For aye Valerius loathed the wrong,\n          And aye upheld the right:\n     And for your wives and babies\n          In the front rank he fell.\n     Now play the men for the good house\n          That loves the people well!\"\n\n               XIX\n\n     Then tenfold round the body\n          The roar of battle rose,\n     Like the roar of a burning forest,\n          When a strong north wind blows,\n     Now backward, and now forward,\n          Rocked furiously the fray,\n     Till none could see Valerius,\n          And none wist where he lay.\n     For shivered arms and ensigns\n          Were heaped there in a mound,\n     And corpses stiff, and dying men\n          That writhed and gnawed the ground;\n     And wounded horses kicking,\n          And snorting purple foam:\n     Right well did such a couch befit\n          A Consular of Rome.\n\n               XX\n\n     But north looked the Dictator;\n          North looked he long and hard,\n     And spake to Caius Cossus,\n          The Captain of his Guard;\n     \"Caius, of all the Romans\n          Thou hast the keenest sight,\n     Say, what through yonder storm of dust\n          Comes from the Latian right;\"\n\n               XXI\n\n     Then answered Caius Cossus:\n          \"I see an evil sight;\n     The banner of proud Tusculum\n          Comes from the Latian right;\n     I see the plum\u00e9d horsemen;\n          And far before the rest\n     I see the dark-gray charger,\n          I see the purple vest;\n     I see the golden helmet\n          That shines far off like flame;\n     So ever rides Mamilius,\n          Prince of the Latian name.\"\n\n               XXII\n\n     \"Now hearken, Caius Cossus:\n          Spring on thy horse's back;\n     Ride as the wolves of Apennine\n          Were all upon thy track;\n     Haste to our southward battle:\n          And never draw thy rein\n     Until thou find Herminius,\n          And bid hime come amain.\"\n\n               XXIII\n\n     So Aulus spake, and turned him\n          Again to that fierce strife;\n     And Caius Cossus mounted,\n          And rode for death and life.\n     Loud clanged beneath his horse-hoofs\n          The helmets of the dead,\n     And many a curdling pool of blood\n          Splashed him heel to head.\n     So came he far to southward,\n          Where fought the Roman host,\n     Against the banners of the marsh\n          And banners of the coast.\n     Like corn before the sickle\n          The stout Laninians fell,\n     Beneath the edge of the true sword\n          That kept the bridge so well.\n\n               XXIV\n\n     \"Herminius! Aulus greets thee;\n          He bids thee come with speed,\n     To help our central battle,\n          For sore is there our need;\n     There wars the youngest Tarquin,\n          And there the Crest of Flame,\n     The Tusculan Mamilius,\n          Prince of the Latian name.\n     Valerius hath fallen fighting\n          In front of our array;\n     And Aulus of the seventy fields\n          Alone upholds the day.\"\n\n               XXV\n\n     Herminius beat his bosom:\n          But never a word he spake.\n     He clapped his hand on Auster's mane,\n          He gave the reins a shake.\n     Away, away, went Auster,\n          Like an arrow from the bow:\n     Black Auster was the fleetest steed\n          From Aufidus to Po.\n\n               XXVI\n\n     Right glad were all the Romans\n          Who, in that hour of dread,\n     Against great odds bare up the war\n          Around Valerius dead,\n     When from the south the cheering\n          Rose with a mighty swell;\n     \"Herminius comes, Herminius,\n          Who kept the bridge so well!\"\n\n               XXVII\n\n     Mamilius spied Herminius,\n          And dashed across the way.\n     \"Herminius! I have sought thee\n          Through many a bloody day.\n     One of us two, Herminius,\n          Shall never more go home.\n     I will lay on for Tusculum,\n          And lay thou on for Rome!\"\n\n               XXVIII\n\n     All round them paused the battle,\n          While met in mortal fray\n     The Roman and the Tusculan,\n          The horses black and gray.\n     Herminius smote Mamilius\n          Through breast-plate and through breast,\n     And fast flowed out the purple blood\n          Over the purple vest.\n     Mamilius smote Herminius\n          Through head-piece and through head,\n     And side by side those chiefs of pride,\n          Together fell down dead.\n     Down fell they dead together\n          In a great lake of gore;\n     And still stood all who saw them fall\n          While men might count a score.\n\n               XXIX\n\n     Fast, fast, with heels wild spurning,\n          The dark-gray charger fled:\n     He burst through ranks of fighting men,\n          He sprang o'er heaps of dead.\n     His bridle far out-streaming,\n          His flanks all blood and foam,\n     He sought the southern mountains,\n          The mountains of his home.\n     The pass was steep and rugged,\n          The wolves they howled and whined;\n     But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass,\n          And he left the wolves behind.\n     Through many a startled hamlet\n          Thundered his flying feet;\n     He rushed through the gate of Tusculum,\n          He rushed up the long white street;\n     He rushed by tower and temple,\n          And paused not from his race\n     Till he stood before his master's door\n          In the stately market-place.\n     And straightway round him gathered\n          A pale and trembling crowd,\n     And when they knew him, cries of rage\n          Brake forth, and wailing loud:\n     And women rent their tresses\n          For their great prince's fall;\n     And old men girt on their old swords,\n          And went to man the wall.\n\n               XXX\n\n     But, like a graven image,\n          Black Auster kept his place,\n     And ever wistfully he looked\n          Into his master's face.\n     The raven-mane that daily,\n          With pats and fond caresses,\n     The young Herminia washed and combed,\n          And twined in even tresses,\n     And decked with colored ribbons\n          From her own gay attire,\n     Hung sadly o'er her father's corpse\n          In carnage and in mire.\n     Forth with a shout sprang Titus,\n          And seized black Auster's rein.\n     Then Aulus sware a fearful oath,\n          And ran at him amain.\n     \"The furies of thy brother\n          With me and mine abide,\n     If one of your accursed house\n          Upon black Auster ride!\"\n     As on a Alpine watch-tower\n          From heaven comes down the flame,\n     Full on the neck of Titus\n          The blade of Aulus came:\n     And out the red blood spouted,\n          In a wide arch and tall,\n     As spouts a fountain in the court\n          Of some rich Capuan's hall.\n     The knees of all the Latines\n          Were loosened with dismay,\n     When dead, on dead Herminius,\n          The bravest Tarquin lay.\n\n               XXXI\n\n     And Aulus the Dictator\n          Stroked Auster's raven mane,\n     With heed he looked unto the girths,\n          With heed unto the rein.\n     \"Now bear me well, black Auster,\n          Into yon thick array;\n     And thou and I will have revenge\n          For thy good lord this day.\"\n\n               XXXII\n\n     So spake he; and was buckling\n          Tighter black Auster's band,\n     When he was aware of a princely pair\n          That rode at his right hand.\n     So like they were, no mortal\n          Might one from other know:\n     White as snow their armor was:\n          Their steeds were white as snow.\n     Never on earthly anvil\n          Did such rare armor gleam;\n     And never did such gallant steeds\n          Drink of an earthly stream.\n\n               XXXIII\n\n     And all who saw them trembled,\n          And pale grew every cheek;\n     And Aulus the Dictator\n          Scarce gathered voice to speak.\n     \"Say by what name men call you?\n          What city is your home?\n     And wherefore ride ye in such guise\n          Before the ranks of Rome?\"\n\n               XXXIV\n\n     \"By many names men call us;\n          In many lands we dwell:\n     Well Samothracia knows us;\n          Cyrene knows us well.\n     Our house in gay Tarentum\n          Is hung each morn with flowers:\n     High o'er the masts of Syracuse\n          Our marble portal towers;\n     But by the proud Eurotas\n          Is our dear native home;\n     And for the right we come to fight\n          Before the ranks of Rome.\"\n\n               XXXV\n\n     So answered those strange horsemen,\n          And each couched low his spear;\n     And forthwith all the ranks of Rome\n          Were bold, and of good cheer:\n     And on the thirty armies\n          Came wonder and affright,\n     And Ardea wavered on the left,\n          And Cora on the right.\n     \"Rome to the charge!\" cried Aulus;\n          \"The foe begins to yield!\n     Charge for the hearth of Vesta!\n          Charge for the Golden Shield!\n     Let no man stop to plunder,\n          But slay, and slay, and slay;\n     The gods who live forever\n          Are on our side to-day.\"\n\n               XXXVI\n\n     Then the fierce trumpet-flourish\n          From earth to heaven arose,\n     The kites know well the long stern swell\n          That bids the Romans close.\n     Then the good sword of Aulus\n          Was lifted up to slay;\n     Then, like a crag down Apennine,\n          Rushed Auster through the fray.\n     But under those strange horsemen\n          Still thicker lay the slain;\n     And after those strange horses\n          Black Auster toiled in vain.\n     Behind them Rome's long battle\n          Came rolling on the foe,\n     Ensigns dancing wild above,\n          Blades all in line below.\n     So comes the Po in flood-time\n          Upon the Celtic plain;\n     So comes the squall, blacker than night,\n          Upon the Adrian main.\n     Now, by our Sire Quirinus,\n          It was a goodly sight\n     To see the thirty standards\n          Swept down the tide of flight.\n     So flies the spray of Adria\n          When the black squall doth blow\n     So corn-sheaves in the flood-time\n          Spin down the whirling Po.\n     False Sextus to the mountains\n          Turned first his horse's head;\n     And fast fled Ferentinum,\n          And fast Lanuvium fled.\n     The horsemen of Nomentus\n          Spurred hard out of the fray;\n     The footmen of Velitr\u00e6\n          Threw shield and spear away.\n     And underfoot was trampled,\n          Amidst the mud and gore,\n     The banner of proud Tusculum,\n          That never stooped before:\n     And down went Flavius Faustus,\n          Who led his stately ranks\n     From where the apple blossoms wave\n          On Anio's echoing banks,\n     And Tullus of Arpinum,\n          Chief of the Volscian aids,\n     And Metius with the long fair curls,\n          The love of Anxur's maids,\n     And the white head of Vulso,\n          The great Arician seer,\n     And Nepos of Laurentum\n          The hunter of the deer;\n     And in the back false Sextus\n          Felt the good Roman steel,\n     And wriggling in the dust he died,\n          Like a worm beneath the wheel:\n     And fliers and pursuers\n          Were mingled in a mass;\n     And far away the battle\n          Went roaring through the pass.\n\n               XXXVII\n\n     Semponius Atratinus\n          Sat in the Eastern Gate,\n     Beside him were three Fathers,\n          Each in his chair of state;\n     Fabius, whose nine stout grandsons\n          That day were in the field,\n     And Manlius, eldest of the Twelve\n          Who keep the Golden Shield;\n     And Sergius, the High Pontiff,\n          For wisdom far renowned;\n     In all Etruria's colleges\n          Was no such Pontiff found.\n     And all around the portal,\n          And high above the wall,\n     Stood a great throng of people,\n          But sad and silent all;\n     Young lads and stooping elders\n          That might not bear the mail,\n     Matrons with lips that quivered,\n          And maids with faces pale.\n     Since the first gleam of daylight,\n          Sempronius had not ceased\n     To listen for the rushing\n          Of horse-hoofs from the east.\n     The mist of eve was rising,\n          The sun was hastening down,\n     When he was aware of a princely pair\n          Fast pricking towards the town.\n     So like they were, man never\n          Saw twins so like before;\n     Red with gore their armor was,\n          Their steeds were red with gore.\n\n               XXXVIII\n\n     \"Hail to the great Asylum!\n          Hail to the hill-tops seven!\n     Hail to the fire that burns for aye,\n          And the shield that fell from heaven!\n     This day, by Lake Regillus,\n          Under the Porcian height,\n     All in the lands of Tusculum\n          Was fought a glorious fight.\n     Tomorrow your Dictator\n          Shall bring in triumph home\n     The spoils of thirty cities\n          To deck the shrines of Rome!\"\n\n               XXXIX\n\n     Then burst from that great concourse\n          A shout that shook the towers,\n     And some ran north, and some ran south,\n          Crying, \"The day is ours!\"\n     But on rode these strange horsemen,\n          With slow and lordly pace;\n     And none who saw their bearing\n          Durst ask their name or race.\n     On rode they to the Forum,\n          While laurel-boughs and flowers,\n     From house-tops and from windows,\n          Fell on their crests in showers.\n     When they drew nigh to Vesta,\n          They vaulted down amain,\n     And washed their horses in the well\n          That springs by Vesta's fane.\n     And straight again they mounted,\n          And rode to Vesta's door;\n     Then, like a blast, away they passed,\n          And no man saw them more.\n\n               XL\n\n     And all the people trembled,\n          And pale grew every cheek;\n     And Sergius the High Pontiff\n          Alone found voice to speak:\n     \"The gods who live forever\n          Have fought for Rome to-day!\n     These be the Great Twin Brethren\n          To whom the Dorians pray.\n     Back comes the chief in triumph,\n          Who, in the hour of fight,\n     Hath seen the Great Twin Brethren\n          In harness on his right.\n     Safe comes the ship to haven,\n          Through billows and through gales,\n     If once the Great Twin Brethren\n          Sit shining on the sails.\n     Wherefore they washed their horses\n          In Vesta's holy well,\n     Wherefore they rode to Vesta's door,\n          I know, but may not tell.\n     Here, hard by Vesta's temple,\n          Build we a stately dome\n     Unto the Great Twin Brethren\n          Who fought so well for Rome.\n     And when the months returning\n          Bring back this day of fight,\n     The proud Ides of Quintilis,\n          Marked evermore with white,\n     Unto the Great Twin Brethren\n          Let all the people throng,\n     With chaplets and with offerings,\n          With music and with song;\n     And let the doors and windows\n          Be hung with garlands all,\n     And let the knights be summoned\n          To Mars without the wall:\n     Thence let them ride in purple\n          With joyous trumpet-sound,\n     Each mounted on his war-horse,\n          And each with olive crowned;\n     And pass in solemn order\n          Before the sacred dome,\n     Where dwell the Great Twin Brethren\n          Who fought so well for Rome.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                            Virginia\n\n\nA collection consisting exclusively of war-songs would give an\nimperfect, or rather an erroneous, notion of the spirit of the\nold Latin ballads. The Patricians, during more than a century\nafter the expulsion of the Kings, held all the high military\ncommands. A Plebeian, even though, like Lucius Siccius, he were\ndistinguished by his valor and knowledge of war, could serve only\nin subordinate posts. A minstrel, therefore, who wished to\ncelebrate the early triumphs of his country, could hardly take\nany but Patricians for his heroes. The warriors who are mentioned\nin the two preceding lays, Horatius, Lartius, Herminius, Aulus\nPosthumius, \u00c6butius Elva, Sempronius Atratinus, Valerius\nPoplicola, were all members of the dominant order; and a poet who\nwas singing their praises, whatever his own political opinions\nmight be, would naturally abstain from insulting the class to\nwhich they belonged, and from reflecting on the system which had\nplaced such men at the head of the legions of the Commonwealth.\n\nBut there was a class of compositions in which the great families\nwere by no means so courteously treated. No parts of early Roman\nhistory are richer with poetical coloring than those which relate\nto the long contest between the privileged houses and the\ncommonality. The population of Rome was, from a very early\nperiod, divided into hereditary castes, which, indeed, readily\nunited to repel foreign enemies, but which regarded each other,\nduring many years, with bitter animosity. Between those castes\nthere was a barrier hardly less strong than that which, at\nVenice, parted the members of the Great Council from their\ncountrymen. In some respects, indeed, the line which separated an\nIcilius or a Duilius from a Posthumius or a Fabius was even more\ndeeply marked than that which separated the rower of gondola from\na Contarini or a Morosini. At Venice the distinction was merely\ncivil. At Rome it was both civil and religious. Among the\ngrievances under which the Plebeians suffered, three were felt as\npeculiarly severe. They were excluded from the highest\nmagistracies; they were excluded from all share in the public\nlands; and they were ground down to the dust by partial and\nbarbarous legislation touching pecuniary contracts. The ruling\nclass in Rome was a moneyed class; and it made and administered\nthe laws with a view solely to its own interest. Thus the\nrelation between lender and borrower was mixed up with the\nrelation between sovereign and subject. The great men held a\nlarge portion of the community in dependence by means of advances\nat enormous usury. The law of debt, framed by creditors, and for\nthe protection of creditors, was the host horrible that has ever\nbeen known among men. The liberty and even the life of the\ninsolvent were at the mercy of the Patrician money-lenders.\nChildren often became slaves in consequence of the misfortunes of\ntheir parents. The debtor was imprisoned, not in a public jail\nunder the care of impartial public functionaries, but in a\nprivate workhouse belonging to the creditor. Frightful stories\nwere told respecting these dungeons. It was said that torture and\nbrutal violation were common; that tight stocks, heavy chains,\nscanty measures of food, were used to punish wretches guilty of\nnothing but poverty; and that brave soldiers, whose breasts were\ncovered with honorable scars, were often marked still more deeply\non the back by the scourges of high-born usurers.\n\nThe Plebeians were, however, not wholly without constitutional\nrights. From an early period they had been admitted to some share\nof political power. They were enrolled each in his century, and\nwere allowed a share, considerable though not proportioned to\ntheir numerical strength, in the disposal of those high dignities\nfrom which they were themselves excluded. Thus their position\nbore some resemblance to that of the Irish Catholics during the\ninterval between the year 1792 and the year 1829. The Plebeians\nhad also the privilege of annually appointing officers, named\nTribunes, who had no active share in the government of the\ncommonwealth, but who, by degree, acquired a power formidable\neven to the ablest and most resolute Consuls and Dictators. The\nperson of the Tribune was inviolable; and, though he could\ndirectly effect little, he could obstruct everything.\n\nDuring more than a century after the institution of the\nTribuneship, the Commons struggled manfully for the removal of\nthe grievances under which they labored; and, in spite of many\nchecks and reverses, succeeded in wringing concession after\nconcession from the stubborn aristocracy. At length in the year\nof the city 378, both parties mustered their whole strength for\ntheir last and most desperate conflict. The popular and active\nTribune, Caius Licinius, proposed the three memorable laws which\nare called by his name, and which were intended to redress the\nthree great evils of which the Plebeians complained. He was\nsupported, with eminent ability and firmness, by his colleague,\nLucius Sextius. The struggle appears to have been the fiercest\nthat every in any community terminated without an appeal to arms.\nIf such a contest had raged in any Greek city, the streets would\nhave run with blood. But, even in the paroxysms of faction, the\nRoman retained his gravity, his respect for law, and his\ntenderness for the lives of his fellow citizens. Year after year\nLicinius and Sextius were re\u00eblected Tribunes. Year after year, if\nthe narrative which has come down to us is to be trusted, they\ncontinued to exert, to the full extent, their power of stopping\nthe whole machine of government. No curule magistrates could be\nchosen; no military muster could be held. We know too little of\nthe state of Rome in those days to be able to conjecture how,\nduring that long anarchy, the peace was kept, and ordinary\njustice administered between man and man. The animosity of both\nparties rose to the greatest height. The excitement, we may well\nsuppose, would have been peculiarly intense at the annual\nelection of Tribunes. On such occasions there can be little doubt\nthat the great families did all that could be done, by threats\nand caresses, to break the union of the Plebeians. That union,\nhowever, proved indissoluble. At length the good cause triumphed.\nThe Licinian laws were carried. Lucius Sextius was the first\nPlebeian Consul, Caius Licinius the third.\n\nThe results of this great change were singularly happy and\nglorious. Two centuries of prosperity, harmony, and victory\nfollowed the reconciliation of the orders. Men who remembered\nRome engaged in waging petty wars almost within sight of the\nCapitol lived to see her the mistress of Italy. While the\ndisabilities of the Plebeians continued, she was scarcely able to\nmaintain her ground against the Volscians and Hernicans. When\nthose disabilities were removed, she rapidly became more than a\nmatch for Carthage and Macedon.\n\nDuring the great Licinian contest the Plebeian poets were,\ndoubtless, not silent. Even in modern times songs have been by no\nmeans without influence on public affairs; and we may therefore\ninfer that, in a society where printing was unknown and where\nbooks were rare, a pathetic or humorous party-ballad must have\nproduced effects such as we can but faintly conceive. It is\ncertain that satirical poems were common at Rome from a very\nearly period. The rustics, who lived at a distance from the seat\nof government, and took little part in the strife of factions,\ngave vent to their petty local animosities in coarse Fescennine\nverse. The lampoons of the city were doubtless of a higher order;\nand their sting was early felt by the nobility. For in the Twelve\nTables, long before the time of the Licinian laws, a severe\npunishment was denounced against the citizen who should compose\nor recite verses reflecting on another. Satire is, indeed, the\nonly sort of composition in which the Latin poets, whose works\nhave come down to us, were not mere imitators of foreign models;\nand it is therefore the only sort of composition in which they\nhave never been rivalled. It was not, like their tragedy, their\ncomedy, their epic and lyric poetry, a hothouse plant which, in\nreturn for assiduous and skilful culture, gave only scanty and\nsickly fruits. It was hardy and full of sap; and in all the\nvarious juices which it yielded might be distinguished the flavor\nof the Ausonian soil. \"Satire,\" said Quinctilian, with just\npride, \"is all our own.\" Satire sprang, in truth, naturally\nfrom the constitution of the Roman government and from the spirit\nof the Roman people; and, though at length subjected to metrical\nrules derived from Greece, retained to the last an essentially\nRoman character. Lucilius was the earliest satirist whose works\nwere held in esteem under the Caesars. But many years before\nLucilius was born, N\u00e6vius had been flung into a dungeon, and\nguarded there with circumstances of unusual rigor, on account of\nthe bitter lines in which he had attacked the great Caecilian\nfamily. The genius and spirit of the Roman satirists survived the\nliberty of their country, and were not extinguished by the cruel\ndespotism of the Julian and Flavian Emperors. The great poet who\ntold the story of Domitian's turbot was the legitimate successor\nof those forgotten minstrels whose songs animated the factions of\nthe infant Republic.\n\nThose minstrels, as Niebuhr has remarked, appear to have\ngenerally taken the popular side. We can hardly be mistaken in\nsupposing that, at the great crisis of the civil conflict, they\nemployed themselves in versifying all the most powerful and\nvirulent speeches of the Tribunes, and in heaping abuse on the\nleaders of the aristocracy. Every personal defect, every domestic\nscandal, every tradition dishonorable to a noble house, would be\nsought out, brought into notice, and exaggerated. The illustrious\nhead of the aristocratical party, Marcus Furius Camillus, might\nperhaps be, in some measure, protected by his venerable age and\nby the memory of his great services to the state. But Appius\nClaudius Crassus enjoyed no such immunity. He was descended from\na long line of ancestors distinguished by their haughty demeanor,\nand by the inflexibility with which they had withstood all the\ndemands of the Plebeian order. While the political conduct and\nthe deportment of the Claudian nobles drew upon them the fiercest\npublic hatred, they were accused of wanting, if any credit is due\nto the early history of Rome, a class of qualities which, in a\nmilitary commonwealth, is sufficient to cover a multitude of\noffences. The chiefs of the family appear to have been eloquent,\nversed in civil business, and learned after the fashion of their\nage; but in war they were not distinguished by skill or valor.\nSome of them, as if conscious where their weakness lay, had, when\nfilling the highest magistracies, taken internal administration\nas their department of public business, and left the military\ncommand to their colleagues. One of them had been entrusted with\nan army, and had failed ignominiously. None of them had been\nhonored with a triumph. None of them had achieved any martial\nexploit, such as those by which Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus,\nTitus Quinctius Capitolinus, Aulus Cornelius Cossus, and, above\nall, the great Camillus, had extorted the reluctant esteem of the\nmultitude. During the Licinian conflict, Appius Claudius Crassus\nsignalized himself by the ability and severity with which he\nharangued against the two great agitators. He would naturally,\ntherefore, be the favorite mark of the Plebeian satirists; nor\nwould they have been at a loss to find a point on which he was\nopen to attack.\n\nHis grandfather, called, like himself, Appius Claudius, had left\na name as much detested as that Sextus Tarquinius. This elder\nAppius had been Consul more than seventy years before the\nintroduction of the Licinian laws. By availing himself of a\nsingular crisis in public feeling, he had obtained the consent of\nthe Commons to the abolition of the Tribuneship, and had been the\nchief of that Council of Ten to which the whole direction of the\nstate had been committed. In a new months his administration had\nbecome universally odious. It had been swept away by an\nirresistible outbreak of popular fury; and its memory was still\nheld in abhorrence by the whole city. The immediate cause of the\ndownfall of this execrable government was said to have been an\nattempt made by Appius Claudius upon the chastity of a beautiful\nyoung girl of humble birth. The story ran that the Decemvir,\nunable to succeed by bribes and solicitations, resorted to an\noutrageous act of tyranny. A vile dependent of the Claudian house\nlaid claim to the damsel as his slave. The cause was brought\nbefore the tribunal of Appius. The wicked magistrate, in defiance\nof the clearest proofs, gave judgment for the claimant. But the\ngirl's father, a brave soldier, saved her from servitude and\ndishonor by stabbing her to the heart in the sight of the whole\nForum. That blow was the signal for a general explosion. Camp and\ncity rose at once; the Ten were pulled down; the Tribuneship was\nre\u00ebstablished; and Appius escaped the hands of the executioner\nonly by a voluntary death.\n\nIt can hardly be doubted that a story so admirably adapted to the\npurposes both of the poet and of the demagogue would be eagerly\nseized upon by minstrels burning with hatred against the\nPatrician order, against the Claudian house, and especially\nagainst the grandson and namesake of the infamous Decemvir.\n\nIn order that the reader may judge fairly of these fragments of\nthe lay of Virginia, he must imagine himself a Plebeian who has\njust voted for the re\u00eblection of Sextius and Licinius. All the\npower of the Patricians has been exerted to throw out the two\ngreat champions of the Commons. Every Posthumius, \u00c6milius, and\nCornelius has used his influence to the utmost. Debtors have been\nlet out of the workhouses on condition of voting against the men\nof the people; clients have been posted to hiss and interrupt the\nfavorite candidates; Appius Claudius Crassus has spoken with more\nthan his usual eloquence and asperity: all has been in vain,\nLicinius and Sextius have a fifth time carried all the tribes:\nwork is suspended; the booths are closed; the Plebeians bear on\ntheir shoulders the two champions of liberty through the Forum.\nJust at this moment it is announced that a great poet, a zealous\nadherent of the Tribunes, has made a new song which will cut the\nClaudian nobles to the heart. The crowd gathers round him, and\ncalls on him to recite it. He takes his stand on the spot where,\naccording to tradition, Virginia, more than seventy years ago,\nwas seized by the pandar of Appius, and he begins his story.\n\n\n                                  Virginia\n\n\nFragments of a Lay Sung in the Forum on the Day Whereon Lucius\nSextius Sextinus Lateranus and Caius Licinius Calvus Stolo Were\nElected Tribunes of the Commons the Fifth Time, in the Year of\nthe City CCCLXXXII.\n\n        Ye good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true,\n   Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you,\n   Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care,\n   A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear.\n   This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine,\n   Of maids with snaky tresses, or sailors turned to swine.\n   Here, in this very Forum, under the noonday sun,\n   In sight of all the people, the bloody deed was done.\n   Old men still creep among us who saw that fearful day,\n   Just seventy years and seven ago, when the wicked Ten bare sway.\n\n        Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed,\n   And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst.\n   He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride:\n   Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side;\n   The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear\n   His lowering brow, his curling mouth which always seemed to\n   sneer;\n   That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred\n   still;\n   For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill;\n   Nor lacks he fit attendance; for close behind his heels,\n   With outstretched chin and crouching pace, the client Marcus\n   steals,\n   His loins girt up to run with speed, be the errand what it may,\n   And the smile flickering on his cheek, for aught his lord may\n   say.\n   Such varlets pimp and jest for hire among the lying Greeks:\n   Such varlets still are paid to hoot when brave Licinius speaks.\n   Where'er ye shed the honey, the buzzing flies will crowd;\n   Where'er ye fling the carrion, the raven's croak is loud;\n   Where'er down Tiber garbage floats, the greedy pike ye see;\n   And wheresoe'er such lord is found, such client still will be.\n\n      Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy\n   sky\n   Shines out the dewy morning-star, a fair young girl came by.\n   With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,\n   Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or\n   harm;\n   And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran,\n   With bright frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of\n   man;\n   And up the Sacred Street she turned, and, as she danced along,\n   She warbled gayly to herself lines of the good old song,\n   How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp,\n   And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight lamp.\n   The maiden sang as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight,\n   From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning light;\n   And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young\n   face,\n   And loved her with the accursed love of his accursed race,\n   And all along the Forum, and up the Sacred Street,\n   His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing feet.\n\n    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .\n\n      Over the Alban mountains the light of morning broke;\n   From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of\n   smoke:\n   The city-gates were opened; the Forum all alive\n   With buyers and with sellers was humming like a hive:\n   Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,\n   And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing,\n   And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home:\n   Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome!\n   With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,\n   Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or\n   harm.\n   She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay,\n   And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,\n   When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when erewhile\n   He crouched behind his patron's heels with the true client smile:\n   He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched\n   fist,\n   And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist.\n   Hard strove the frightened maiden, and screamed with look aghast;\n   And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;\n   The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs,\n   And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares,\n   And the strong smith Mur\u00e6na, grasping a half-forged brand,\n   And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand.\n   All came in wrath and wonder, for all knew that fair child;\n   And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and\n   smiled;\n   And the strong smith Mur\u00e6na gave Marcus such a blow,\n   The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go.\n   Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled in harsh, fell\n   tone,\n   \"She's mine, and I will have her, I seek but for mine own:\n   She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold,\n   The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve hours old.\n   'Twas in the sad September, the month of wail and fright,\n   Two augers were borne forth that morn; the Consul died ere night.\n   I wait on Appius Claudius, I waited on his sire:\n   Let him who works the client wrong beware the patron's ire.\"\n\n      So spake the varlet Marcus; and dread and silence came\n   On all the people at the sound of the great Claudian name.\n   For then there was no Tribune to speak the word of might,\n   Which makes the rich man tremble, and guards the poor man's\n   right.\n   There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sixtius then;\n   But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten.\n   Yet ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,\n   Who clung tight to Mur\u00e6na's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for\n   aid,\n   Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed,\n   And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his\n   breast,\n   And sprang upon that column, by many a minstrel sung,\n   Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rusting swords, are hung,\n   And beckoned to the people, and in bold voice and clear\n   Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to\n   hear.\n\n      \"Now, by your children's cradles, now by your fathers'\n   graves,\n   Be men to-day, Quirites, or be forever slaves!\n   For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?\n   For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil seed?\n   For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?\n   For this did Sc\u00e6vola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?\n   Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's\n   den?\n   Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?\n   Oh, for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will!\n   Oh, for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!\n   In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;\n   They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride:\n   They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome;\n   They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.\n   But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:\n   All the ripe fruit of threescore years was blighted in a day.\n   Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er.\n   We strove for honors--'twas in vain; for freedom--'tis no more.\n   No crier to the polling summons the eager throng;\n   No Tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from\n   wrong.\n   Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will.\n   Riches, and lands, and power, and state--ye have them:--keep them\n   still.\n   Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown,\n   The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown:\n   Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,\n   Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have\n   won.\n   Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,\n   Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor.\n   Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;\n   Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;\n   No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;\n   And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born\n   feet.\n   Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate;\n   Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate.\n   But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the gods above,\n   Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!\n   Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs\n   From Consuls, and High Pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?\n   Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet,\n   Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering\n   street,\n   Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold,\n   And breathe the Capuan odors, and shine with Spanish gold?\n   Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life--\n   The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,\n   The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,\n   The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours.\n   Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with\n   pride;\n   Still let the bridegroom's arms infold an unpolluted bride.\n   Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,\n   That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to\n   flame,\n   Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,\n   And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched\n   dare.\"\n\n    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .\n\n    .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .\n\n      Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,\n   To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide,\n   Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,\n   Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.\n   Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down:\n   Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.\n   And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,\n   And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, \"Farewell, sweet child!\n   Farewell!\n   Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,\n   To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?\n   And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear\n   My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year!\n   And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,\n   And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown!\n   Now, all those things are over--yes, all thy pretty ways,\n   Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;\n   And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,\n   Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.\n   The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,\n   The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,\n   Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,\n   And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.\n   The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way!\n   See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!\n   With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed,\n   bereft,\n   Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left.\n   He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save\n   Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;\n   Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow--\n   Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know.\n   Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more\n   kiss;\n   And now mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this.\"\n   With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,\n   And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.\n\n      Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;\n   And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;\n   And in another moment brake forth from one and all\n   A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall.\n   Some with averted faces shrieking fled home amain;\n   Some ran to call a leech; and some ran to lift the slain;\n   Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be\n   found;\n   And some tore up their garments fast, and strove to stanch the\n   wound.\n   In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; for never truer blow\n   That good right arm had dealt in fight agains a Volscian foe.\n\n      When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank\n   down,\n   And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown,\n   Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered\n   nigh,\n   And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high.\n   \"Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,\n   By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;\n   And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine,\n   Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!\"\n   So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way;\n   But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay,\n   And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, an then, with steadfast\n   feet,\n   Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street.\n\n      Then up sprang Appius Claudius: \"Stop him; alive or dead!\n   Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head.\"\n   He looked upon his clients; but none would work his will.\n   He looked upon his lictors, but they trembled, and stood still.\n   And, as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft,\n   Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left.\n   And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful home,\n   And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in\n   Rome.\n\n      By this the flood of people was swollen from every side,\n   And streets and porches round were filled with that o'erflowing\n   tide;\n   And close around the body gathered a little train\n   Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain.\n   They brought a bier, and hung it with many a cypress crown,\n   And gently they uplifted her, and gently laid her down.\n   The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer,\n   And in the Claudian note he cried, \"What doth this rabble here?\n   Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hitherward they stray?\n   Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away!\"\n   The voice of grief and fury till then had not been loud;\n   But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd,\n   Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the\n   deep,\n   Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but half aroused from sleep.\n   But when the lictors at that word, tall yeomen all and strong,\n   Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng,\n   Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin,\n   That in the Roman Forum was never such a din.\n   The wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate,\n   Were heard beyond the Pincian Hill, beyond the Latin Gate.\n   But close around the body, where stood the little train\n   Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain,\n   No cries were there, but teeth set fast, low whispers and black\n   frowns,\n   And breaking up of benches, and girding up of gowns.\n   'Twas well the lictors might not pierce to where the maiden lay,\n   Else surely had they been all twelve torn limb from limb that\n   day.\n   Right glad they were to struggle back, blood streaming from their\n   heads,\n   With axes all in splinters, and raiment all in shreads.\n   Then Appius Claudius gnawed his lip, and the blood left his\n   cheek,\n   And thrice he beckoned with his hand, and thrice he strove to\n   speak;\n   And thrice the tossing Forum set up a frightful yell:\n   \"See, see, thou dog! what thou hast done; and hide thy shame in\n   hell!\n   Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves must first make slaves\n   of men.\n   Tribunes! Hurrah for Trubunes! Down with the wicked Ten!\"\n   And straightway, thick as hailstones, came whizzing through the\n   air,\n   Pebbles, and bricks, and potsherds, all round the curule chair:\n   And upon Appius Claudius great fear and trembling came,\n   For never was a Claudius yet brave against aught but shame.\n   Though the great houses love us not, we own, to do them right,\n   That the great houses, all save one, have borne them well in\n   fight.\n   Still Caius of Corioli, his triumphs and his wrongs,\n   His vengeance and his mercy, live in our camp-fire songs.\n   Beneath the yoke of Furius oft have Gaul and Tuscan bowed:\n   And Rome may bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud.\n   But evermore a Claudius shrinks from a stricken field,\n   And changes color like a maid at sight of sword and shield.\n   The Claudian triumphs all were won within the city towers;\n   The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours.\n   A Cossus, like a wild cat, springs ever at the face;\n   A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting chase;\n   But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite,\n   Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those who\n   smite.\n   So now 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly,\n   He shook, and crouched, and wrung his hands, and smote upon his\n   thigh.\n   \"Kind clients, honest lictors, stand by me in this fray!\n   Must I be torn in pieces? Home, home the nearest way!\"\n   While yet he spake, and looked around with a bewildered stare,\n   Four sturdy lictors put their necks beneath the curule chair;\n   And fourscore clients on the left, and fourscore on the right,\n   Arrayed themselves with swords and staves, and loins girt up to\n   fight.\n   But, though without or staff or sword, so furious was the throng,\n   That scarce the train with might and main could bring their lord\n   along.\n   Twelve times the crowd made at him; five times they seized his\n   gown;\n   Small chance was his to rise again, if once they got him down:\n   And sharper came the pelting; and evermore the yell,--\n   \"Tribunes! we will have Tribunes!\"-- rose with a louder swell:\n   And the chair tossed as tosses a bark with tattered sail\n   When raves the Adriatic beneath an eastern gale,\n   When Calabrian sea-marks are lost in clouds of spume,\n   And the great Thunder-Cape has donned his veil of inky gloom.\n   One stone hit Appius in the mouth, and one beneath the ear;\n   And ere he reached Mount Palatine, he swooned with pain and fear.\n   His cursed head, that he was wont to hold so high with pride,\n   Now, like a drunken man's, hung down, and swayed from side to\n   side;\n   And when his stout retainers had brought him to his door,\n   His face and neck were all one cake of filth and clotted gore.\n   As Appius Claudius was that day, so may his grandson be!\n   God send Rome one such other sight, and send me there to see!\n       . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                      The Prophecy of Capys\n\nIt can hardly be necessary to remind any reader that according to\nthe popular tradition, Romulus, after he had slain his granduncle\nAmulius, and restored his grandfather Numitor, determined to quit\nAlba, the hereditary domain of the Sylvian princes, and to found\na new city. The gods, it was added, vouchsafed the clearest signs\nof the favor with which they regarded the enterprise, and of the\nhigh destinies reserved for the young colony.\n\nThis event was likely to be a favorite theme of the old Latin\nminstrels. They would naturally attribute the project of Romulus\nto some divine intimation of the power and prosperity which it\nwas decreed that his city should attain. They would probably\nintroduce seers foretelling the victories of unborn Consuls and\nDictators, and the last great victory would generally occupy the\nmost conspicuous place in the prediction. There is nothing\nstrange in the supposition that the poet who was employed to\ncelebrate the first great triumph of the Romans over the Greeks\nmight throw his song of exultation into this form.\n\nThe occasion was one likely to excite the strongest feelings of\nnational pride. A great outrage had been followed by a great\nretribution. Seven years before this time, Lucius Posthumius\nMegellus, who sprang from one of the noblest houses of Rome, and\nhad been thrice Consul, was sent ambassador to Tarentum, with\ncharge to demand reparation for grievous injuries. The Tarentines\ngave him audience in their theatre, where he addressed them in\nsuch Greek as he could command, which, we may well believe, was\nnot exactly such as Cineas would have spoken. An exquisite sense\nof the ridiculous belonged to the Greek character; and closely\nconnected with this faculty was a strong propensity to flippancy\nand impertinence. When Posthumius placed an accent wrong, his\nhearers burst into a laugh. When he remonstrated, they hooted\nhim, and called him barbarian; and at length hissed him off the\nstage as if he had been a bad actor. As the grave Roman retired,\na buffoon, who, from his constant drunkenness, was nicknamed the\nPint-pot, came up with gestures of the grossest indecency, and\nbespattered the senatorial gown with filth. Posthumius turned\nround to the multitude, and held up the gown, as if appealing to\nthe universal law of nations. The sight only increased the\ninsolence of the Tarentines. They clapped their hands, and set up\na shout of laughter which shook the theatre. \"Men of Tarentum,\"\nsaid Posthumius, \"it will take not a little blood to wash this\ngown.\"\n\nRome, in consequence of this insult, declared war against the\nTarentines. The Tarentines sought for allies beyond the Ionian\nSea. Phyrrhus, king of Epirus, came to their help with a large\narmy; and, for the first time, the two great nations of antiquity\nwere fairly matched against each other.\n\nThe fame of Greece in arms, as well as in arts, was then at the\nheight. Half a century earlier, the career of Alexander had\nexcited the admiration and terror of all nations from the Ganges\nto the Pillars of Hercules. Royal houses, founded by Macedonian\ncaptains, still reigned at Antioch and Alexandria. That barbarian\nwarriors, led by barbarian chiefs, should win a pitched battle\nagainst Greek valor guided by Greek science, seemed as incredible\nas it would now seem that the Burmese or the Siamese should, in\nthe open plain, put to flight an equal number of the best English\ntroops. The Tarentines were convinced that their countrymen were\nirresistible in war; and this conviction had emboldened them to\ntreat with the grossest indignity one whom they regarded as the\nrepresentative of an inferior race. Of the Greek generals then\nliving Pyrrhus was indisputably the first. Among the troops who\nwere trained in the Greek discipline his Epirotes ranked high.\nHis expedition to Italy was a turning-point in the history of the\nworld. He found there a people who, far inferior to the Athenians\nand Corinthians in the fine arts, in the speculative sciences,\nand in all the refinements of life, were the best soldiers on the\nface of the earth. Their arms, their gradations of rank, their\norder of battle, their method of intrenchment, were all of Latin\norigin, and had all been gradually brought near to perfection,\nnot by the study of foreign models, but by the genius and\nexperience of many generations of great native commanders. The\nfirst words which broke from the king, when his practised eye had\nsurveyed the Roman encampment, were full of meaning: \"These\nbarbarians,\" he said, \"have nothing barbarous in their military\narrangements.\" He was at first victorious; for his own talents\nwere superior to those of the captains who were opposed to him;\nand the Romans were not prepared for the onset of the elephants\nof the East, which were then for the first time seen in\nItaly--moving mountains, with long snakes for hands. But the\nvictories of the Epirotes were fiercely disputed, dearly\npurchased, and altogether unprofitable. At length, Manius Curius\nDentatus, who had in his first Consulship won two triumphs, was\nagain placed at the head of the Roman Commonwealth, and sent to\nconquer the invaders. A great battle was fought near Beneventum.\nPyrrhus was completely defeated. He repassed the sea; and the\nworld learned, with amazement, that a people had been discovered\nwho, in fair fighting, were superior to the best troops that had\nbeen drilled on the system of Parmenio and Antigonus.\n\nThe conquerors had a good right to exult in their success; for\ntheir glory was all their own. They had not learned from their\nenemy how to conquer him. It was with their own national arms,\nand in their own national battle array, that they had overcome\nweapons and tactics long believed to be invincible. The pilum and\nthe broadsword had vanquished the Macedonian spear. The legion\nhad broken the Macedonian phalanx. Even the elephants, when the\nsurprise produced by their first appearance was over, could cause\nno disorder in the steady yet flexible battalions of Rome.\nIt is said by Florus, and may easily be believed, that the\ntriumph far surpassed in magnificence any that Rome had\npreviously seen. The only spoils which Papirius Cursor and Fabius\nMaximus could exhibit were flocks and herds, wagons of rude\nstructure, and heaps of spears and helmets. But now, for the\nfirst time, the riches of Asia and the arts of Greece adorned a\nRoman pageant. Plate, fine stuffs, costly furniture, rare\nanimals, exquisite paintings and sculptures, formed part of the\nprocession. At the banquet would be assembled a crowd of warriors\nand statesmen, among whom Manius Curius Dentatus would take the\nhighest room. Caius Fabricius Luscinus, then, after two\nConsulships and two triumphs, Censor of the Commonwealth, would\ndoubtless occupy a place of honor at the board. In situations\nless conspicuous probably lay some of those who were, a few years\nlater, the terror of Carthage: Caius Duilius, the founder of the\nmaritime greatness of his country; Marcus Atilius Regulus, who\nowed to defeat a renown far higher than that which he had derived\nfrom his victories; and Caius Lutatius Catalus, who, while\nsuffering from a grievous wound, fought the great battle of the\n\u00c6ates, and brought the First Punic War to a triumphant close. It\nis impossible to recount the names of these eminent citizens,\nwithout reflecting that they were, without exception, Plebeians,\nand would, but for the ever memorable struggle maintained by\nCaius Licinius and Lucius Sextius, have been doomed to hide in\nobscurity, or to waste in civil broils, the capacity and energy\nwhich prevailed against Pyrrhus and Hamilcar.\n\nOn such a day we may suppose that the patriotic enthusiasm of a\nLatin poet would vent itself in reiterated shouts of \"Io\ntriumphe,\" such as were uttered by Horace on a far less exciting\noccasion, and in boasts resembling those which Virgil put into\nthe mouth of Anchises. The superiority of some foreign nations,\nand especially of the Greeks, in the lazy arts of peace, would be\nadmitted with disdainful candor; but pre\u00ebminence in all the\nqualities which fit a people to subdue and govern mankind would\nbe claimed for the Romans.\n\nThe following lay belongs to the latest age of Latin\nballad-poetry. N\u00e6vis and Livius Andronicus were probably among\nthe children whose mothers held them up to see the chariot of\nCurius go by. The minstrel who sang on that day might possibly\nhave lived to read the first hexameters of Ennius, and to see the\nfirst comedies of Plautus. His poem, as might be expected, shows\na much wider acquaintance with the geography, manners, and\nproductions of remote nations, than would have been found in\ncompositions of the age of Camillus. But he troubles himself\nlittle about dates, and having heard travellers talk with\nadmiration of the Colossus of Rhodes, and of the structures and\ngardens with which the Macedonian king of Syria had embellished\ntheir residence on the banks of the Orontes, he has never thought\nof inquiring whether these things existed in the age of Romulus.\n\n\n\n                           The Prophecy of Capys\n\n\n\nA Lay Sung at the Banquet in the Capitol, on the Day Whereon\nManius Curius Dentatus, a Second Time Consul, Triumphed Over King\nPyrrhus and the Tarentines, in the Year of the City CCCCLXXIX.\n\n               I\n\n     Now slain is King Amulius,\n          Of the great Sylvian line,\n     Who reigned in Alba Longa,\n          On the throne of Aventine.\n     Slain is the Ponfiff Camers,\n          Who spake the words of doom:\n     \"The children to the Tiber,\n          The mother to the tomb.\"\n\n               II\n\n     In Alba's lake no fisher\n          His net to-day is flinging;\n     On the dark rind of Alba's oaks\n          To-day no axe is ringing;\n     The yoke hangs o'er the manger;\n          The scythe lies in the hay:\n     Through all the Alban villages\n          No work is done to-day.\n\n               III\n\n     And every Alban burgher\n          Hath donned his whitest gown;\n     And every head in Alba\n          Weareth a poplar crown;\n     And every Alban door-post\n          With boughs and flowers is gay,\n     For to-day the dead are living,\n          The lost are found to-day.\n\n               IV\n\n     They were doomed by a bloody king,\n          They were doomed by a lying priest,\n     They were cast on the raging flood,\n          They were tracked by the raging beast;\n     Raging beast and raging flood\n          Alike have spared the prey;\n     And to-day the dead are living,\n          The lost are found to-day.\n\n               V\n\n     The troubled river knew them,\n          And smoothed his yellow foam,\n     And gently rocked the cradle\n          That bore the fate of Rome.\n     The ravening she-wolf knew them,\n          And licked them o'er and o'er,\n     And gave them of her own fierce milk,\n          Rich with raw flesh and gore.\n     Twenty winters, twenty springs,\n          Since then have rolled away;\n     And to-day the dead are living:\n          The lost are found to-day.\n\n               VI\n\n     Blithe it was to see the twins,\n          Right goodly youths and tall,\n     Marching from Alba Longa\n          To their old grandsire's hall.\n     Along their path fresh garlands\n          Are hung from tree to tree:\n     Before them stride the pipers,\n          Piping a note of glee.\n\n               VII\n\n     On the right goes Romulus,\n          With arms to the elbows red,\n     And in his hand a broadsword,\n          And on the blade a head--\n     A head in an iron helmet,\n          With horse-hair hanging down,\n     A shaggy head, a swarthy head,\n          Fixed in a ghastly frown--\n     The head of King Amulius\n          Of the great Sylvian line,\n     Who reigned in Alba Longa,\n          On the throne of Aventine.\n\n               VIII\n\n     On the left side goes Remus,\n          With wrists and fingers red,\n     And in his hand a boar-spear,\n          And on the point a head--\n     A wrinkled head and aged,\n          With silver beard and hair,\n     And holy fillets round it,\n          Such as the pontiffs wear--\n     The head of ancient Camers,\n          Who spake the words of doom:\n     \"The children to the Tiber;\n          The mother to the tomb.\"\n\n               IX\n\n     Two and two behind the twins\n          Their trusty comrades go,\n     Four and forty valiant men,\n          With club, and axe, and bow.\n     On each side every hamlet\n          Pours forth its joyous crowd,\n     Shouting lads and baying dogs,\n          And children laughing loud,\n     And old men weeping fondly\n          As Rhea's boys go by,\n     And maids who shriek to see the heads,\n          Yet, shrieking, press more nigh.\n\n               X\n\n     So marched they along the lake;\n          They marched by fold and stall,\n     By cornfield and by vineyard,\n          Unto the old man's hall.\n\n               XI\n\n     In the hall-gate sat Capys,\n          Capys, the sightless seer;\n     From head to foot he trembled\n          As Romulus drew near.\n     And up stood stiff his thin white hair,\n          And his blind eyes flashed fire:\n     \"Hail! foster child of the wondrous nurse!\n          Hail! son of the wondrous sire!\"\n\n               XII\n\n     \"But thou--what dost thou here\n          In the old man's peaceful hall?\n     What doth the eagle in the coop,\n          The bison in the stall?\n     Our corn fills many a garner;\n          Our vines clasp many a tree;\n     Our flocks are white on many a hill:\n          But these are not for thee.\n\n               XIII\n\n     \"For thee no treasure ripens\n          In the Tartessian mine;\n     For thee no ship brings precious bales\n          Across the Libyan brine;\n     Thou shalt not drink from amber;\n          Thou shalt not rest on down;\n     Arabia shall not steep thy locks,\n          Nor Sidon tinge thy gown.\n\n               XIV\n\n     \"Leave gold and myrrh and jewels,\n          Rich table and soft bed,\n     To them who of man's seed are born,\n          Whom woman's milk have fed.\n     Thou wast not made for lucre,\n          For pleasure, nor for rest;\n     Thou, that art sprung from the War-god's loins,\n          And hast tugged at the she-wolf's breast.\n\n               XV\n\n     \"From sunrise unto sunset\n          All earth shall hear thy fame:\n     A glorious city thou shalt build,\n          And name it by thy name:\n     And there, unquenched through ages,\n          Like Vesta's sacred fire,\n     Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,\n          The spirit of thy sire.\n\n               XVI\n\n     \"The ox toils through the furrow,\n          Obedient to the goad;\n     The patient ass, up flinty paths,\n          Plods with his weary load:\n     With whine and bound the spaniel\n          His master's whistle hears;\n     And the sheep yields her patiently\n          To the loud-clashing shears.\n\n               XVII\n\n     \"But thy nurse will hear no master,\n          Thy nurse will bear no load;\n     And woe to them that shear her,\n          And woe to them that goad!\n     When all the pack, loud baying,\n          Her bloody lair surrounds,\n     She dies in silence, biting hard,\n          Amidst the dying hounds.\n\n               XVIII\n\n     \"Pomona loves the orchard;\n          And Liber loves the vine;\n     And Pales loves the straw-built shed\n          Warm with the breath of kine;\n     And Venus loves the whispers\n          Of plighted youth and maid,\n     In April's ivory moonlight\n          Beneath the chestnut shade.\n\n               XIX\n\n     \"But thy father loves the clashing\n          Of broadsword and of shield:\n     He loves to drink the steam that reeks\n          From the fresh battlefield:\n     He smiles a smile more dreadful\n          Than his own dreadful frown,\n     When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke\n          Go up from the conquered town.\n\n               XX\n\n     \"And such as is the War-god,\n          The author of thy line,\n     And such as she who suckled thee,\n          Even such be thou and thine.\n     Leave to the soft Campanian\n          His baths and his perfumes;\n     Leave to the sordid race of Tyre\n          Their dyeing-vats and looms;\n     Leave to the sons of Carthage\n          The rudder and the oar;\n     Leave to the Greek his marble Nymphs\n          And scrolls of wordy lore.\n\n               XXI\n\n     \"Thine, Roman, is the pilum:\n          Roman, the sword is thine,\n     The even trench, the bristling mound,\n          The legion's ordered line;\n     And thine the wheels of triumph,\n          Which with their laurelled train\n     Move slowly up the shouting streets\n          To Jove's eternal flame.\n\n               XXII\n\n     \"Beneath thy yoke the Volscian\n          Shall vail his lofty brow;\n     Soft Capua's curled revellers\n          Before thy chairs shall bow:\n     The Lucumoes of Arnus\n          Shall quake thy rods to see;\n     And the proud Samnite's heart of steel\n          Shall yield to only thee.\n\n               XXIII\n\n     \"The Gaul shall come against thee\n          From the land of snow and night;\n     Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies\n          To the raven and the kite.\n\n               XXIV\n\n     \"The Greek shall come against thee,\n          The conqueror of the East.\n     Beside him stalks to battle\n          The huge earth-shaking beast,\n     The beast on whom the castle\n          With all its guards doth stand,\n     The beast who hath between his eyes\n          The serpent for a hand.\n     First march the bold Epirotes,\n          Wedged close with shield and spear\n     And the ranks of false Tarentum\n          Are glittering in the rear.\n\n               XXV\n\n     \"The ranks of false Tarentum\n          Like hunted sheep shall fly:\n     In vain the bold Epirotes\n          Shall round their standards die:\n     And Apennine's gray vultures\n          Shall have a noble feast\n     On the fat and the eyes\n          Of the the huge earth-shaking beast.\n\n               XXVI\n\n     \"Hurrah! for the good weapons\n          That keep the War-god's land.\n     Hurrah! for Rome's stout pilum\n          In a stout Roman hand.\n     Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword\n          That through the thick array\n     Of levelled spears and serried shields\n          Hews deep its gory way.\n\n               XXVII\n\n     \"Hurrah! for the great triumph\n          That stretches many a mile.\n     Hurrah! for the wan captives\n          That pass in endless file.\n     Ho! bold Epirotes, whither\n          Hath the Red King taken flight?\n     Ho! dogs of false Tarentum,\n          Is not the gown washed white?\n\n               XXVIII\n\n     \"Hurrah! for the great triumph\n          That stretches many a mile.\n     Hurrah! for the rich dye of Tyre,\n          And the fine web of Nile,\n     The helmets gay with plumage\n          Torn from the pheasant's wings,\n     The belts set thick with starry gem\n          That shone on Indian kings,\n     The urns of massy silver,\n          The goblets rough with gold,\n     The many-colored tablets bright\n          With loves and wars of old,\n     The stone that breathes and struggles,\n          The brass that seems to speak;--\n     Such cunning they who dwell on high\n          Have given unto the Greek.\n\n               XXIX\n\n     \"Hurrah! for Manius Curius,\n          The bravest son of Rome,\n     Thrice in utmost need sent forth,\n          Thrice drawn in triumph home.\n     Weave, weave, for Manius Curius\n          The third embroidered gown:\n     Make ready the third lofty car,\n          And twine the third green crown;\n     And yoke the steeds of Rosea\n          With necks like a bended bow,\n     And deck the bull, Mevania's bull,\n          The bull as white as snow.\n\n               XXX\n\n     \"Blest and thrice blest the Roman\n          Who sees Rome's brightest day,\n     Who sees that long victorious pomp\n          Wind down the Sacred Way,\n     And through the bellowing Forum,\n          And round the Suppliant's Grove,\n     Up to the everlasting gates\n          Of Capitolian Jove.\n\n               XXXI\n\n     \"Then where, o'er two bright havens,\n          The towers of Corinth frown;\n     Where the gigantic King of Day\n          On his own Rhodes looks down;\n     Where oft Orontes murmurs\n          Beneath the laurel shades;\n     Where Nile reflects the endless length\n          Of dark red colonnades;\n     Where in the still deep water,\n          Sheltered from waves and blasts,\n     Bristles the dusky forest\n          Of Byrsa's thousand masts;\n     Where fur-clad hunters wander\n          Amidst the northern ice;\n     Where through the sand of morning-land\n          The camel bears the spice;\n     Where Atlas flings his shadow\n          Far o'er the western foam,\n     Shall be great fear on all who hear\n          The might name of Rome.\"","title":"Lays of Ancient Rome","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":24806}