A Roman matron thus addressed her son:
“Why, at this time, wilt thou put armor on;
No foreign foes menace thy native land,
No hostile galleys seek her guarded strand—
At peace with all but Gods, thou dost not hope
In martial pride with Heavenly power to cope?
Oh say thou goest not, as much I fear,
To view yon gulph of terror and despair:
It open'd at the word of angry Jove,
And 'till our prayers win mercy from above, {546}
A million, brave as thou, might spend in vain
Their strength or lives to close its depths again.
No answer, Marcus? Ah, my heart sinks down
With sad presentiment of ills unknown.
Why shade those ringlets, trimm'd with scrup'lous care,
A brow whose gloom thy mother cannot cheer?
And deck'd more gaily than a bridegroom—why
Turn'st thou on me a grave and mournful eye?
Remain with me, my son, but this one day—
To-morrow take my blessing with thee;—say,
Shall she who gave thee birth implore in vain?
Unblest by me, what canst thou hope to gain?”
To this alone he calmly made reply— |
His gaze on her, his right hand raised on high— |
“Safety for Rome——renown that ne'er shall die!” |
No kind farewell, tho' shower'd her grief like rain—
He knew himself, nor dar'd to look again;
But shook his plume, suppress'd the gathering tear,
Turn'd his proud horse, and urg'd his fleet career.
His parent gazed in that convulsive grief
Which burns the heart, nor finds in tears relief—
No Spartan she to bid him wear his shield,
Or be borne on it from the battle field.
“Oh Death,” she cried, “a desolate mother see!
In mercy strike, and set my spirit free!
I'll seek my son on thy unfriendly shore,
My heart assures me he returns no more.”
* * * * *
Though Rome's ten thousands throng'd the Forum: there—
All stood aloof in more than mortal fear,
Save now and then, a veteran or a priest
Approach'd the gulph, more hardy than the rest,
And gaz'd on what the boldest might confound—
So vast its depth, so black, and so profound.
Sulphurous, stifling exhalations rose,
With hollow sounds, perchance the laboring throes
Of a new Ætna, whose volcanic ire
Might burst ere long, and deluge Rome with fire:
But when the priestly train, in pomp and state,
Proclaimed aloud the stern decree of Fate,
That never more should close that dread abyss,
Or Rome know safety, 'till the appointed price
Of peace with Heav'n were paid, by burying there
All that she held most precious—then despair
Gave way to patriotic hope, and soon
Money and costliest goods were tossing down
With eager haste, 'till Curtius rode along
The precipice, and thus bespoke the throng.
“Romans, withhold your gifts—the Gods behold
Unmoved this reckless waste of gems and gold!
Think ye the wealth of conquer'd realms can save
Th' imperill'd city from this yawning grave—
That Rome, whose banner to the skies unfurl'd,
Proclaims the future mistress of the world,
Can bring, when to her last resources driven,
No purer, costlier boon to proffer Heaven
Than sordid ore, which every miser craves,
The bane of freedom, and the life of slaves?
Be sure it needs in this abyss to throw
What gold ne'er bought, and Gods alone bestow.
Our guardian deities do most approve
Of military courage, and the love
Of native land; and if within my heart
These virtues may be found, I now depart
Alone to fathom the impervious gloom,
And be this gulph my altar and my tomb!
Oh may propitious Jove with favor see
This sacrifice, and Rome remember me!”
Rider and horse have reached the brink—one bound,
And, like a dream, he disappeared!——no sound,
No shout of triumph, or of dread, to tell
His fate, who dar'd so nobly and so well.
Strange horror, admiration, and regret,
Spell-bound that multitude—thereon was set
Silence unearthly—even as with a seal
Unbroken—'till a muttering thunder-peal,
Low, sad and solemn, through the empyrean rung,
As tho' the Gods his funeral requiem sung—
While slowly to its music closed the tomb
That held the saviour and the pride of Rome.
The act—its motives—its results, imprest
A sacred awe on every Roman breast.
In silence to their rescued homes they turn'd,
And inly blest the hero while they mourn'd;
They rais'd no arch, in vain triumphal pride,
Recording how or wherefore Curtius died—
No column trophy-crown'd: no sculptured stone;
These but emblazon what were else unknown:
A death whose influence might ne'er depart,
Had shrin'd his heroism in every heart.
Immortal Curtius, Heaven hath deigned to hear
Thy aspirations and thy dying prayer
For Rome and for thy memory: it shall be
A watchword to the patriot and the free
'Till Rome shall perish. Since thy deed sublime,
Two thousand years have join'd the flight of Time;
Earth's mightiest empires, one by one o'erthrown,
Have seen thy country matchless and alone;
Supreme in arts and arms. Her godlike race
Of statesmen, poets, orators, who grace
Th' eternal city's annals, have arisen,
And shone, and set like stars—and o'er the scene
Of her departing greatness, trod the throng
Of unredeeming tyranny and wrong;
The Goth, the Vandal, and the Hun have given
Her pride and grandeur to the winds of heaven.
New times, new creeds, new worlds have sprung to birth,
And countless changes overswept the earth,
But kindles still the generous emotion
Of youth, at thy heroic self-devotion;
Nor may the votaries of a purer faith,
And loftier hopes, think slightly of thy death—
For had thy lot in after days been thrown,
Thou might'st have been a Christian, and have known
The ardent zeal which, shrinking not t' engage
The fangs of beasts, or man's more brutal rage,
Had given thy spirit from the flames to rise,
And seek a martyr's crown beyond the skies;
By thy example fired in many a land
Shall future Washingtons and Hampdens stand,
Unbought by gold, unaw'd by despot power,
Between their country and her perilous hour—
And in the historic page their names shall shine
In stainless lustre, unimpaired, like thine.
_Richmond, July 25._
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