CORIOLANUS.
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
How many legends have been told or sung
Since Rome—the nursling of the wolf—arose,
Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling blood
Of fallen and dying foes.
How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard
At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array
Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun
Stretch, like the skies, away.
But none so golden, chivalric and holy
As that of thine, Coriolanus—none
In the imperial purple of old days
But pale before its sun.
True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base,
Prone to idolatry of those who sought
Their April smiles—who fawned to win their votes,
Nor dreamed them dearly bought.
Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king,
First in Corioli—thy wounds in front—
Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms,
The battle's deadly brunt,