I saw--yes, as plain as could be, She said that she had just espoused I saw a friend, and freely spoke We met-I fell-that brother's ball I have two legs, true-one is cork! Thomas Haynes Bayley. VIRGINIA. (By permission of Messrs. Longman, Greens, & Co.) YE good men of the Commons, with loving hearts and true, Who stand by the bold Tribunes that still have stood by you,. Come, make a circle round me, and mark my tale with care, A tale of what Rome once hath borne, of what Rome yet may bear. This is no Grecian fable, of fountains running wine, bare sway. Of all the wicked Ten still the names are held accursed, And of all the wicked Ten Appius Claudius was the worst. He stalked along the Forum like King Tarquin in his pride: Twelve axes waited on him, six marching on a side. The townsmen shrank to right and left, and eyed askance with fear His lowering brow, his curling mouth, which alway seemed to sneer; That brow of hate, that mouth of scorn, marks all the kindred still, For never was there Claudius yet but wished the Commons ill. Nor lacks he fit attendance; for close behind his heels, With outstretched chin and crouching pace, the client Marcus steals, His loins girt up to run with speed, be the errand what it may, And the smile flickering on his cheek, for aught his lord may say. Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy sky Shines out the dewy morning star, a fair young girl came by, With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm; And past those dreaded axes she innocently ran, With bright, frank brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of man; And up the sacred street she turned, and, as she danced along, She warbled gaily to herself lines of the good old song, How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp, And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight lamp. The maiden sang as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight, From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning light; And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw her sweet young face, And loved her with the accursed love of his accursed race; And all along the Forum, and up the sacred street, His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing I feet. 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 homeAh! woe for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in RomeWith her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, For 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 ere while 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 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 upor his breast, And sprang upon that column, by many a minstrel sung, Whereon three mouldering helmets, three rusting 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 wrought 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, have won ; Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure, Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate; Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold, 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 e'en 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." |