Still, in these balmier days of Rome,
The mother tells her child That once, within the Forum, oped
A chasm deep and wild.
That every heart, with horror chilled,
Unto the altar hied; Soothsayers, augurs sought the cause,
Yet answer was denied.
At length an agèd seer proclaimed,
"The gods will vengeance wreak, Till choicest gift, cast in the gulf,
Doth penitence bespeak."
The mother shuddering, clasps her babe
More closely to her breast; The warrior who ne'er feared a foe
Bends low his mailèd crest.
The heartless miser hugs his gold;
Affection claims its own; Yet, mystery beyond all ken,
Such gifts might ill atone.
'Neath blackened sky the wind moans on,
Wide yawns the dark abyss;— Oh Heavens! was ever sore suspense
Or terror like to this!
What star descendeth through the gloom
To rift dark sorrow's night? Is't hero from the battle field,
Or monarch girt with might?
Up rides young Marcus Curtius
Upon his milk white steed; No word, but waving of the hand,
As he dashes on with speed.
Unto the dreary chasm's mouth;—
The frighted charger springs, He rears, he snorts, and foamy flakes
O'er Curtius' armor flings.