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And gave them of her own fierce milk,
Rich with raw flesh and

gore. Twenty winters, twenty springs,

Since then have rolled away ; And to-day the dead are living:

The lost are found to-day.

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So they marched along the lake ;

They marched by fold and stall, By corn-field and by vineyard,

Unto the old man's hall.

In the hall-gate sate Capys,

Capys the sightless seer;
From head to foot he trembled,

As Romulus drew near.
And up stood stiff his thin white hair,
And his blind

eyes

flashed fire: “ Hail ! foster child of the wondrous nurse!

Hail! son of the wondrous sire!

“ But thou-what dost thou here

In the old man's peaceful hall ? What doth the eagle in the coop,

The bison in the stall ?

Our corn fills many a garner;

Our vines clasp many a tree; Our flocks are white on many a hill;

But these are not for thee.

“From sunrise until sunset

All earth shall hear thy fame: A glorious city thou shalt build,

And name it by thy name:
And there unquenched through ages,

Like Vesta's sacred fire,
Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,

The spirit of thy sire.

“The ox toils through the furrow,

Obedient to the goad;
The patient ass, up flinty paths,

Plods with his weary load:
With whine and bound the spaniel

His master's whistle hears;
And the sheep yields her patiently

To the loud clashing shears.

“But thy nurse will hear no master,

Thy nurse will bear no load; And woe to them that shear her,

And woe to them that goad! When all the pack, loud baying,

Her bloody lair surrounds, She dies in silence, biting hard,

Amidst the dying hounds.

“ Pomona loves the orchard ;

And Liber loves the wine;

And Pales loves the straw-built shed

Warm with the breath of kine;
And Venus loves the whispers

Of plighted youth and maid,
In April's ivory moonlight,

Beneath the chesnut shade.
“But thy father loves the clashing

Of broadsword and of shield:
He loves to drink the stream that reeks

From the fresh battle-field:
He smiles a smile more dreadful

Than his own dreadful frown,
When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke

Go up from the conquered town. “And such as is the War-god,

The author of thy line,
And such as she who suckled thee,

Even such be thou and thine.
Leave to the soft Campanian

His bath and his perfumes;
Leave to the sordid race of Tyre

Their dyeing-vats and looms;
Leave to the sons of Carthage

The rudder and the oar;
Leave to the Greek his marble nymphs,

And scrolls of wordy lore.
Thine, Roman, is the pilum :

Roman, the sword is thine,
The even trench, the bristling mound,

The legion's ordered line;
And thine the wheels of triumph,

Which, with their laurelled train,
Move slowly up the shouting streets

To Jove's eternal fane.

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“ Beneath thy voke the Volscian

Shall vail his lofty brow: Soft Capua's curled revellers

Before thy chairs shall bow: The Lncumoes of Arnus

Shall quake thy rods to see; And the proud Samnite's heart of steel

Shall yield to only thee.

“ The Gaul shall come against thee

From the land of snow and night; Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies

To the raven and the kite.

“ The Greek shall come against thee,

The conqueror of the East. Beside him stalks to battle

The huge earth-shaking beast, The beast on whom the castle

With all its guards doth stand, The beast who hath between his eyes

The serpent for a hand. First march the bold Epirotes,

Wedged close with shield and spear; And the ranks of false Tarentum

Are glittering in the rear.

“ The ranks of false Tarentum

Like hunted sheep shall fly: In vain the bold Epirotes

Shall round their standards die : And Apennine's grey vultures

Shall have a noble feast On the fat and the eyes

Of the huge earth-shaking beast.

“Hurrah ! for the good weapons

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

In a stout Roman hand.
Hurrah ! for Rome's short broadsword,

That through the thick array
Of levelled spears and serried shields

Hews deep its gory way.

“ Then where, o’er two bright havens,

The towers of Corinth frown; Where the gigantic King of Day

On his own Rhodes looks down;
Where soft Orontes murmurs

Beneath the laurel shades;
Where Nile reflects the endless length

Of dark-red colonnades;
Where, in the still deep water,

Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts;
Where fur-clad hunters wander

Amidst the northern ice;
Where through the sand of morning-land

The camel bears the spice;
Where Atlas flings his shadow

Far o'er the western foam,
Shall be great fear on all who hear
The mighty name of Rome.”

MACAULAY.

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