"Blest and thrice blest the Roman Who sees Rome's brightest day, Of Capitolian Jove. "Then where, o'er two bright havens, In his own Rhodes looks down; Where in the still deep water, Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forests 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." The horsemen and the footmen From many a stately market place; From many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, Which hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterræ, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants Whose sentinels descry From the proud mart of PISÆ, Heavy with fair-haired slaves; Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. Tall are the oaks whose acorns Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves But now no stroke of woodman No hunter tracks the stag's green path Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk white steer; Unharmed the waterfowl may dip In the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, This year old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome. There be thirty chosen prophets, And with one voice the Thirty To Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Rome." And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena For all the Etruscan armies Prince of the Latian name. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: The throng stopped up the ways; Through two long nights and days. And droves of mules and asses And endless flocks of goats and sheep, That creaked beneath the weight Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. |