The warrior doffed his heavy helm,
Unclasped the sheath from off his breast;
He turned aside from sword and lance,
Yet sought no couch of needful rest.
His soul was filled with new, strange dread,
Since haunting ghosts of evil done
Uprose, and banished from his mind
All war plans for the rising sun.
Again the blazing holocaust
Of patriot Xanthus greets his eyes;
Again before his ruthless hand
The plundered Lycian peasant flies.
Once more within the Senate House
He lists those accents, full and clear,
Which plead the sacred rights of Rome;--
Brave warrior! statesman without peer!
He sees the quivering sunbeams play
Upon the sandal's burnished gold;
And light the gorgeous Tyrian dyes
Which deck that form of princely mould,
Then stream o'er proud, patrician crest
Down to the swaying mass below;
Whose wills imbibe the speaker's will,
As well aimed darts from high strung bow.
Ingrate, he joins the dastard few
That round the mighty Cæsar stand,
And stains his weapon to the hilt
With noblest blood in Roman land.
He hears the astonished "Brutus, thou!"
He marks the sad, reproachful eye,
Ere, wrapped within the toga folds,
The lofty head bows down to die.
No war blast wakes a sleeping world;
Deep silence broodeth o'er the camp;
Still, careless as to wanted rest
Sits Brutus by the flickering lamp.
Is it a phantom, that giant form,
Or spirit to human shape lent,
Which glideth, with never a warning,
From shadow land into the tent?
Of stature majestic; erect;
Terrific of feature, stern-eyed;
No token, save only a look;
Such look as all welcome defied.
"Thy name," said the awe struck warrior
"Thy name and thy purpose unfold?"
His tones wore the mask of fortitude,
But the stream from his heart ran cold.
"My name"--and the dark scowl deepened
As the lips of the mystic unsealed;
"My name is--thy genius of evil;--
We shall meet on Philippi's red field!"
Hushed were the dire, prophetic tones;
The vision vanished as it came;
But, from that hour in Brutus' soul
Was crushed Ambition's furious flame.
No more he dreamt to enter Rome
In laurel-wreathed triumphal car;
With captive monarchs in his train,
With spoils and trophies from afar.
Nor e'er to quaff the festive bowl
'Neath purple canopy of state;
Whilst bard and sage his feats rehearse,
And martial throngs his bidding wait.
Ah, Cæsar! thou wert well avenged,
When on its lowly, greenwood bed,
Defeated valour stooped to swell
The army of ignoble dead.
Though on those ancient battle-fields,
Sapped with the blood of myriad slain,
The suns of centuries have smiled,
And reapers gathered golden grain.
Though pomp and power of ancient Rome
With Roman idols passed away,
The thirst of power, and greed of gain
Live on to mar this later day.
Still boastful arrogance excels,
And moneyed ignorance soareth high;
Still fashion rules the world of sham;
Still man for man in strife must die.
Yet, sure as rills from mountain source
Through varied channels seaward run;
So surely ill will track the course
Of him that hath the evil done.
And conscience seared, lethargic-souled,
Who deal in evil to the last
Must realize, beyond the bourne,
Deservèd doom, and mercy past.