The Leap of Curtius.
A sign inimical to Rome, they deemed it,—a prognostic dire, A visitation from the gods, in token of their ire. Yet how to have their minds resolved, how ascertain in this their need, Beyond the shadow of a doubt, if thus it were indeed?
In silence brooded they awhile, unbroken by a single word, While from the capital without the lightest sounds were heard. Then rose the eldest magistrate, a tall old man, with locks like snow, Straight as a dart, and with an eye that oft had quelled the foe.
And thus, with ripe, sonorous voice, no note or tone of which did shake, Or indicate the wear of time, the aged Nestor spake: “Fathers, the Oracle is nigh: to it then let us promptly send, And at the shrine inquire what this dread marvel doth portend.
“And if to Rome it augurs ill, then ask we, ere it be too late, How we may best avert the doom, and save the sacred state.— That state to every Roman dear, as dear as brother, friend, or wife, For which each true-born son would give, if needful, even life.
“For what, O fathers! what were life apart from altar, hearth, and home? Yea, is not all our highest good bound up with that of Rome? And now adjourn we for a space, till three full days have circled round, And on the morning of the fourth, let each one here be found.”