Is it fatigue of battle? why pales the warrior now?
Is it chagrin in triumph's hour which clouds that martial brow?
Both lend their aid, yet greater far than aught on earth beside,
The sore and bitter struggle 'twixt love and wounded pride;
'Twixt patriot-love and brother-love, the love of life's young day;
When sympathy of sisterhood charmed every grief away.
Horatius paused; out flashed the sword which drank her lover's blood;
He plunged it in his sister's heart, he slew her where she stood;
And, as he sheathed the reeking blade which struck the dastard blow,
"So perish every maid" he said "who wails a Roman foe!"
Oh cruel fate! Oh hapless twain! Oh tragic scenes of old!
Go! thank high Heaven these later times are cast in Christian mould.
[PYRRHUS.]
AFTER HIS DEFEAT OF THE ROMAN ARMY.
B.C. 280.
"If these were my soldiers," he said,
As he glanced o'er the gory field Where mingled the dying and dead
Of foemen who knew not to yield. "If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should gather the reins of a vanquished world.
"Seven times did we charge on the foe;
As oft did we order retreat; Seven times, till the ebb and the flow
Brought the battle-tide under our feet. Yet, unto destruction their courage held fast,
Till destiny weighted the balance at last.
"A victor! yet mourning the lost!
The flower of my army, my pride, Who led in the conquering host
Lie mute as the serfs by their side. Oh! mothers of Epirus, what shall atone!
Must the victor ride back with his laurels—alone!
"Unmatched as to numbers we met;
Well mated in ardor we fought; Ah! never was victory yet
With bloodier sacrifice bought. Peace be to our dead 'neath Lucanian sods!
Let Valour high-niche them in shrine of the gods!
"But these! of Rome's valiant who fell;
Who flinched not, but met every blow With prowess no language may tell;
With face ever set to the foe. If these were my soldiers, with standard unfurled,
I should reign, the one king of a whole conquered world."