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.