Then gat they up, and gloomily for such short interval did part, For they were Romans stanch and tried, and sad was every heart. The fourth day dawned, and when they met, the Oracle’s response was known: Something most precious in the chasm to close it must be thrown.
But if unclosed it shall remain, thereon shall follow Rome’s decay, And all the splendor of her state shall pale and pass away. Something most precious! What the gift that may prevent the pending fate, What costly offering will the gods indeed propitiate?
While this they pondered, lo! a sound of footsteps fell on every ear, And in their midst a Roman youth did presently appear. Apollo’s brow, a mien like Mars, in Beauty’s mould he seemed new-made, As on his golden hair the sun with dazzling dalliance played.
’Tis Marcus Curtius! Purer blood none there could boast, and none more brave: There stands the youthful patriot, come, a Roman, Rome to save. His own young life, he offers that, yea, volunteers himself to throw Within the cleft to make it close, and stay the heavy woe.
And now on horseback, fully armed, behold him, for the hour hath come. The Roman guards keep watch and ward, and beats the muffled drum. The consuls, proctors, soothsayers, within the forum group around, Young Curtius in the saddle sits,—there yawns the severed ground.
Each pulse is stayed. He lifts his helm, and bares his forehead to the sky, And to the broad, blue heaven above upturns his flashing eye. “O Rome, O country best beloved, thou land in which I first drew breath, I render back the life thou gav’st, to rescue theefrom death!”
Then spurring on his gallant steed, a last and brief farewell he said, And leapt within the gaping gulf, which closed above his head.