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 footstep 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; 160 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.

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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 blowFoul outrage which thou knowest 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 181 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,

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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 steadfast feet, 199 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 woeful 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

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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!"

The voice of grief and fury till then had not been loud; But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd, Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the deep, 221

Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but half aroused from sleep.

But when the lictors at that word, tall yoemen 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, 231

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 set up a frightful yell;

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

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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;

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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;
But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite,
Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those
who smite.
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So now 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly,