Fair picture for all spheres and times!
Upon death's borderland, One gleam of sunshine for his crown,
See Rome's self martyr stand!
He gently soothed his noble horse;
Then, as from silver bell, Upon the wondering multitude,
His calm, clear accents fell.
"Romans!" he said, "not arms, not wealth
Heaven claims of you this day; Nor gifts of wisdom, love or lore,
Howe'er so precious they.
"Hear me, Oh citizens of Rome!
This lesson richly prize; Best gift and parent of good deeds
Is true self-sacrifice.
"I offer to the immortal gods,
Who hark my solemn vow, That life which for my country lived;
Which dieth for it now."
He backed his steed; threw down his casque
Gazed on the Sacred Height; Then—forward to the vast abyss
As soldier to the fight.
With right hand raised above his head,
His sword within its sheath, He urges on the maddened steed
Which bears him to his death.
One moment, and with mighty bound,
He plunges to repose; One dull, sad sound; but one, and then—
The yawning gulf doth close.
