Would blush to rubies in their shame :
The blade would quiver in thy breast,
Ashamed of such ignoble rest!
No; thus I rend thy tyrant's chain,
And fling him back a boy's disdain!"
A moment, and the funeral light
Flash'd on the jewell'd weapon bright;
Another, and his young heart's blood
Leap'd to the floor a crimson flood.
Quick to his mother's side he sprang,
And on the air his clear voice rang,
"Up, mother, up! I'm free! I'm free!
The choice was death or slavery;
Up! mother, up! look on my face,
I only wait for thy embrace.
One last, last word, a blessing, one,
To prove thou know'st what I have done!
No look? no word? Canst thou not feel
My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal?
Speak, mother, speak, lift up thy head.
What! silent still? Then art thou dead!
Great God, I thank thee! Mother, I
Rejoice, with thee and thus, to die."
Slowly he falls: the clustering hair
Rolls back, and leaves that forehead bare:
One long, deep breath, and his pale head
Lay on his mother's bosom, dead.
VIRGINIA: A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME.
OVER the Alban mountains the light of morning broke;
From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curl'd the thin wreaths of
The city gates were open; the Forum, all alive
With buyers and with sellers, was humming like a hive;
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home,-
Ah! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome.
With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm,
Forth she went, bounding, to the school, nor dream'd of shame or
She cross'd the Forum, shining with the stalls in alleys gay,
And had just reach'd the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when, erewhile,
He crouch'd behind his patron's heels, with the true client smile:
He came with louring forehead, swollen features, and clench'd fist,
And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist :
Hard strove the frighten'd maiden, and scream'd with look aghast;
And at her scream from right to left the folk came running fast;
And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow,
The caitiff reel'd three paces back, and let the maiden go;
Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growl'd, in harsh fell tone,
"She's mine, and I will have her: I seek but for mine own.
She is my slave, born in my house, and stolen away and sold,
The year of the sore sickness, ere she was twelve years old.
I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire :
Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire!" But, ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,
Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobb'd, and shriek'd for aid,
Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius press'd,
And stamp'd his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his
And beckon❜d to the people, and, in bold voice and clear,
Pour'd thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to
"Now, by your children's cradles, now, by your father's graves, Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that storm'd the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
O, for that ancient spirit which curb'd the Senate's will!
O, for the tents which in old time whiten'd the Sacred Hill!
In those brave days, our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury, they tamed the Fabian pride:
But, look, the maiden's father comes, - behold Virginius here!"
Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,
To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide;
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down;
Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown;
And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, “Farewell, sweet child, farewell!
O, how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footsteps on the threshold, when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,
And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my
gown!
Now, all those things are over, - yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needle-work, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;
And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.-
The time has come! See, how he points his eager hand this way!
See, how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey.
With all his wit he little deems that, spurn'd, betray'd, bereft,
Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left.
He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow, -
Foul outrage which thou knowest not,
Then clasp me round the neck once more; and give me one more
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way-but-this!"
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died!
When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shudder'd and sank down,
And hid his face, some little space, with the corner of his gown,
Till, with white lips and blood-shot eyes, Virginius totter'd nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high:
"O! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;
And, even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal thou by Appius Claudius, and all the Claudian line!"
He writhed and groan'd a fearful groan, and then with steadfast
Strode right across the market-place into the Sacred Street.
Then up sprang Appius Claudius: "Stop him, alive or dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper to the man who brings his head ! ̈*
He look'd upon his clients, — but none would work his will;
He looked upon his lictors, — but they trembled and stood still; And, as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left:
And he has pass'd in safety unto his woeful home,
And there ta’en horse to tell the Camp what deeds are done in Rome.
Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree,
Here, low on the trampled grass, where I may see
The surge of the combat, and where I may hear
The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer:
Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph to share;
The tempest, its fury and thunder were there:
On, on, o'er intrenchments, o'er living and dead,
With the foe under foot, and our flag overhead:
O, it was grand !
Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest,
With this shot-shatter'd head and sabre-pierced breast?
Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be sought,
Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought,
Wounded and faint.
Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel and shell,
Through without faltering, clear through with a yell!
Right in their midst, in the turmoil and gloom,
Like heroes we dash'd, at the mandate of doom!
O, that last charge!
Some things are worthless, and some others so good
That nations who buy them pay only in blood.
For Freedom and Country each man owes his part;
And here I pay my share, all warm from my heart:
It is duty.
My mother, dear mother! with meek tearful eye,
Farewell! and God bless you, for ever and aye!
O that I now lay on your pillowing breast,
To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest!
Dying at last!
Great Heaven! this bullet-hole gapes like a grave;
A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave!
Is there never a one of you knows how to pray,
Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away?
Pray! Pray!
Our Father! our Father! why don't you proceed?
Can't you see I am dying? Great God, how I bleed!
Ebbing away! The light of the day is turning to gray.
Our Father in Heaven, - boys tell me the rest,
While I stanch the hot blood from this hole in
There's something about the forgiveness of sin;
Put that in! put that in! and then
I'll follow your words and say an amen.
Here, Morris, old fellow, get hold of my hand,
And, Wilson, my comrade, -O! wasn't it grand
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