Doth muse Oh Marius! on that hour when blasts of martial horn
Across thy peasant heritage through haunts of toil were borne?
When thy young heart throbbed high to join that glittering array,
Which owned thee chief in valor's van through many an after day.
Dost storm Numantia's battlements, whence arrows showered as rain?
Dost stand in thickest of the fight on crimsoned fields of Spain?
Or sittest thou an honored guest, where flows the festive tide?
Thy plebeian birth no barrier, by Africanus' side?
Dost list that certain prophecy that should his race be run,
The mantle of his might should fall on thee, great Valor's son?
Raise up thy head, Oh Marius! look forth ayond the wave!
Yield not to dire despondency; ills conquer not the brave;
Think of thy former exile, then of that glorious hour
When suffrage of the multitude invested thee with power:
When Rome's patricians bent the knee around thy self-built throne,
And all the wills of every land succumbed unto thine own:
Though Envy forged the coward chains which dragged thy scepter down,
It may not wrest from memory thy record of renown;
Arise! reward of courage waits, the dismal night is o'er;
That sun is dawning which will flush thy Civic crown once more.
[BRUTUS.]
THE LAST CAMPAIGN.
B.C. 42.
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!