Over the Alban mountains the light of morning broke;

From all the roofs of the Seven Hills curled the thin wreaths of smoke :

The city gates were opened; the Forum, all alive,

With buyers and with sellers was humming like a hive.

Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing,
And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing,
And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home:
Ah! wo 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 dreamed of shame or
harm.

She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay,

And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day,
When up the varlet Marcus came; not such as when erewhile
He crouched behind his patron's heels with the true client smile:
He came with lowering forehead, swollen features, and clenched
fist,

And strode across Virginia's path, and caught her by the wrist.
Hard strove the frighted maiden, and screamed with look aghast;
And at her scream from right and left the folk came running fast;
The money-changer Crispus, with his thin silver hairs,
And Hanno from the stately booth glittering with Punic wares,
And the strong smith Muræna, grasping a half-forged brand,
And Volero the flesher, his cleaver in his hand.

All came in wrath and wonder; for all knew that fair child;
And, as she passed them twice a day, all kissed their hands and
smiled;

And the strong smith Muræna gave Marcus such a blow, The caitiff reeled three paces back, and let the maiden go. Yet glared he fiercely round him, and growled 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 hours old. 'Twas in the sad September, the month of wail and fright, Two augurs were borne forth that morn; the Consul died ere night.

I wait on Appius Claudius; I waited on his sire:

Let him who works the client wrong, beware the patron's ire."

So spake the varlet Marcus; and dread and silence came On all the people at the sound of the great Claudian name. For then there was no Tribune to speak the word of might, Which makes the rich man tremble, and guards the poor man's right.

There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sextius then;

But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten.
Yet ere the varlet Marcus again might seize the maid,

Who clung tight to Muræna's skirt, and sobbed, and shrieked for aid,

Forth through the throng of gazers the young Icilius pressed, And stamped his foot, and rent his gown, and smote upon his

breast,

And sprang upon that column, by many a minstrel sung,

Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rustling swords are

hung,

And beckoned to the people, and in bold voice and clear

Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear.

"Now, by your children's cradles, now, by your father's graves, Be men to-day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!

For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?
For this was the great vengeance done on Tarquin's evil seed?
For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?
For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
Oh for that ancient spirit, which curbed the Senate's will!
Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill
In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride:
They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.
But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of threescore years was blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er.
We strove for honours-'twas in vain: for freedom-'tis no more.
No crier to the polling, summons the eager throng;

No Tribune breathes the word of might that guards the weak from wrong.

Our very hearts, that were so high, sink down beneath your will. Riches, and lands, and power, and state-ye have them :-keep them still.

Still keep the holy fillets; still keep the purple gown,

The axes, and the curule chair, the car, and laurel crown:
Still press us for your cohorts, and, when the fight is done,

Still fill your garners from the soil which our good swords have

won.

Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,
Let your foul usance eat away the substance of the poor.
Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;
Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;

No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for freeborn backs, and holes for freeborn feet.
Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate.
But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and High Pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?
VOL. IV.-29

Ladies, who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet, Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street?

Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold,

And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?
Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life-

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,
The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,
The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours.
Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride;
Still let the bridegroom's arms enfold an unpolluted bride.
Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame.

Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair, And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare."

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide.
Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
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!

Oh 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 needlework, 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 house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is 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, spurned, betrayed, 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 know'st not, which thou shalt never know.

Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more

kiss;

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.

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment brake forth from one and all
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall.
Some with averted faces shrieking fled home amain;
Some ran to call a leech; and some ran to lift the slain:

Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be found; And some tore up their garments fast, and strove to stanch the wound.

In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; for never truer blow That good right arm had dealt in fight against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down,

And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown,
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high.
"Oh! 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 you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line!"

So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way;
But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay,
And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan; and then, with stead-
fast feet

Strode right across the market-place unto 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 looked 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 hath passed in safety unto his woful home,

And there ta en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.

By this the flood of people was swollen from every side, And streets and porches round were filled with that o'erflowing

tide;

And close around the body gathered a little train

Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain.

They brought a bier, and hung it with many a cypress crown, And gently they uplifted her, and gently laid her down.

The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer,
And in the Claudian note he cried, "What doth this rabble here?
Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hitherward they stray?
Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away!"
Till then the voice of pity and fury was not loud,
But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd,
Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the deep,
Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but half-aroused from sleep.
But when the lictors at that word, tall yeomen all and strong,
Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng,
Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin,
That in the Roman Forum was never such a din.
The wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate,
Were heard beyond the Pincian hill, beyond the Latin gate.
But close around the body, where stood the little train
Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain,
No cries were there, but teeth set fast, low whispers, and black
frowns,

And breaking up of benches, and girding up of gowns.

'Twas well the lictors might not pierce to where the maiden lay, Else surely had they been all twelve torn limb from limb that day. Right glad they were to struggle back, blood streaming from their heads,

With axes all in splinters, and raiment all in shreds.

Then Appius Claudius gnawed his lip, and the blood left his cheek; And thrice he beckoned with his hand, and thrice he strove to

speak;

And thrice the tossing Forum sent up a frightful yell

'See, see, thou dog! what thou hast done; and hide thy shame in hell!

Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves, must first make slaves

of men.

Tribunes!-Hurrah for Tribunes! Down with the wicked Ten!" And straightway, thick as hailstones, came whizzing through the air

Pebbles, and bricks, and potsherds, all round the curule chair:
And upon Appius Claudius great fear and trembling came;
For never was a Claudius yet brave against aught but shame.
Though the great houses love us not, we own, to do them right,
That the great houses, all save one, have borne them well in fight.
Still Caius of Corioli, his triumphs and his wrongs,
His vengeance and his mercy, live in our camp-fire songs.
Beneath the yoke of Furius oft have Gaul and Tuscan bowed;
And Rome may bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud.
But evermore a Claudius shrinks from a stricken field,
And changes colour like a maid at sight of sword and shield.
The Claudian triumphs all were won within the City-towers;
The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours.
A Cossus, like a wild cat, springs ever at the face;
A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting chase;