Within Rome’s forum, suddenly, a wide gap opened in a night,
Astounding those who gazed on it,--a strange, terrific sight.
In Senate all their sages met, and, seated in their chairs of state,
Their faces blanched with deadly fear, debated long and late.
A sign inimical to Rome, they deemed it,--a prognostic dire,
A visitation from the gods, in token of their ire.
Yet how to have their minds resolved, how ascertain in this
their need,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, if thus it were indeed?
In silence brooded they awhile, unbroken by a single word,
While from the capital without the lightest sounds were heard.
Then rose the eldest magistrate, a tall old man, with locks
like snow,
Straight as a dart, and with an eye that oft had quelled the foe.
And thus, with ripe, sonorous voice, no note or tone of which
did shake,
Or indicate the wear of time, the aged Nestor spake:
“Fathers, the Oracle is nigh: to it then let us promptly send,
And at the shrine inquire what this dread marvel doth portend.
“And if to Rome it augurs ill, then ask we, ere it be too late,
How we may best avert the doom, and save the sacred state.--
That state to every Roman dear, as dear as brother, friend, or wife,
For which each true-born son would give, if needful, even life.
“For what, O fathers! what were life apart from altar, hearth,
and home?
Yea, is not all our highest good bound up with that of Rome?
And now adjourn we for a space, till three full days have
circled round,
And on the morning of the fourth, let each one here be found.”
Then gat they up, and gloomily for such short interval did part,
For they were Romans stanch and tried, and sad was every heart.
The fourth day dawned, and when they met, the Oracle’s response
was known:
Something most precious in the chasm to close it must be thrown.
But if _un_closed it shall remain, thereon shall follow
Rome’s decay,
And all the splendor of her state shall pale and pass away.
Something most precious! What the gift that may prevent the
pending fate,
What costly offering will the gods indeed propitiate?
While this they pondered, lo! a sound of footsteps fell on
every ear,
And in their midst a Roman youth did presently appear.
Apollo’s brow, a mien like Mars, in Beauty’s mould he seemed
new-made,
As on his golden hair the sun with dazzling dalliance played.
’Tis Marcus Curtius! Purer blood none there could boast, and none
more brave:
There stands the youthful patriot, come, a Roman, Rome to save.
His own young life, he offers that, yea, volunteers _himself_
to throw
Within the cleft to make it close, and stay the heavy woe.
And now on horseback, fully armed, behold him, for the hour
hath come.
The Roman guards keep watch and ward, and beats the muffled drum.
The consuls, proctors, soothsayers, within the forum group around,
Young Curtius in the saddle sits,--there yawns the severed ground.
[Illustration]
Each pulse is stayed. He lifts his helm, and bares his forehead
to the sky,
And to the broad, blue heaven above upturns his flashing eye.
“O Rome, O country best beloved, thou land in which I first
drew breath,
I render back the life thou gav’st, to rescue _thee_
from death!”
Then spurring on his gallant steed, a last and brief farewell
he said,
And leapt within the gaping gulf, _which closed above his head_.
[Illustration]