Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Poems of Tragedy: II. RomeThe Roman Father
Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)S
A little space aside,
To where the reeking shambles stood,
Piled up with horn and hide;
Close to yon low dark archway,
Where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer
The gurgling stream of blood.
Had laid his whittle down:
Virginius caught the whittle up,
And hid it in his gown.
And then his eyes grew very dim,
And his throat began to swell,
And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake,
“Farewell, sweet child! Farewell!
Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know’st, I was not so,—
Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me!
How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold
When I came back last year!
To see my civic crown,
And took my sword, and hung it up,
And brought me forth my gown!
Now, all those things are over,—
Yes, all thy pretty ways,
Thy needlework, thy prattle,
Thy snatches of old lays;
Or smile when I return,
Or watch beside the old man’s bed,
Or weep upon his urn.
The house that was the happiest
Within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth
Of Capua’s marble halls,
Must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice,
The silence of the tomb.
The time is come! See how he points
His eager hand this way!
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief,
Like a kite’s upon the prey!
That, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath, in his despair,
One fearful refuge left.
He little deems that in this hand
I clutch what still can save
Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows,
The portion of the slave;
That passes taunt and blow,—
Foul outrage which thou knowest not,
Which thou shalt never know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more,
And give me one more kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl,
There is no way but this!”
And smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth,
And with one sob she died.
Then, for a little moment,
All people held their breath;
And through the crowded forum
Was stillness as of death;
Brake forth, from one and all,
A cry as if the Volscians
Were coming o’er the wall.
Some with averted faces
Shrieking fled home amain;
Some ran to call a leech; and some
Ran to lift up the slain.
If life might there be found;
And some tore up their garments fast,
And strove to stanch the wound.
In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched;
For never truer blow
That good right arm had dealt in fight
Against a Volscian foe.
He shuddered and sank down,
And hid his face some little space
With the corner of his gown;
Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes,
Virginius tottered nigh,
And stood before the judgment-seat,
And held the knife on high.
Avengers of the slain,
By this dear blood I cry to you
Do right between us twain;
And even as Appius Claudius
Hath dealt by me and mine,
Deal you by Appius Claudius,
And all the Claudian line!”
And turned and went his way;
But first he cast one haggard glance
To where the body lay,
And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan,
And then, with steadfast feet,
Strode right across the market-place
Unto the Sacred Street.
“Stop him; alive or dead!
Ten thousand pounds of copper
To the man who brings his head.”
He looked upon his clients;
But none would work his will.
He looked upon his lictors;
But they trembled, and stood still.
His way in silence cleft,
Ever the mighty multitude
Fell back to right and left.
And he hath passed in safety
Unto his woful home,
And there ta’en horse to tell the camp
What deeds are done in Rome.