66 And Pales loves the straw-built shed Beneath the chesnut shade. But thy father loves the clashing Of broadsword and of shield: He loves to drink the steam that reeks From the fresh battle-field: He smiles a smile more dreadful Than his own dreadful frown, When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke Go up from the conquered town. "And such as is the War-god, And such as she who suckled thee, His baths and his perfumes; Leave to the sordid race of Tyre Their dyeing-vats and looms: "Thine, Roman, is the pilum: And thine the wheels of triumph, Move slowly up the shouting streets "Beneath thy yoke the Volscian Shall quake thy rods to see; "The Gaul shall come against thee "The Greek shall come against thee, The huge earth-shaking beast, Wedged close with shield and spear; C6 The ranks of false Tarentum Shall round their standards die: And Apennine's grey vultures Shall have a noble feast Of the huge earth-shaking beast. "Hurrah! for the good weapons That keep the War-god's land. Hurrah! for Rome's stout pilum Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword, "Then where, o'er two bright havens, Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest Of Byrsa's thousand masts; Where fur-clad hunters wander Amidst the northern ice; Where through the sand of morning-land The camel bears the spice; Where Atlas flings his shadow Far o'er the western foam, Shall be great fear on all who hear The mighty name of Rome." MACAULAY. GUDRUN. By her Sigurd's blood-stained bier Her hand she smote not on her breast: Sages came, the wisest they, But vain the aids from art they borrow; Can rhetoric soothe, or reason sway, That stern mood of deepest sorrow, When the heart to bursting swells, Yet no tear its anguish tells? Round her pressed a widowed train, Each her own sad tale recited: Vainly thus to wake they try Vainly; for her anguished mind, Nor opens to another's woe. Hard and cold was Gudrun's soul, Last did youthful Gulrand speak When youth's strong loves are rent apart." With hurrying hand, from Sigurd's bier Gudrun turned· one hurried glance She saw, and sank, and low reclined Hid in the couch her throbbing head: Her burning cheek was crimsoned red: Copious fell the shower of grief.1 1 1 Translated, in "Conybeare's Anglo-Saxon Poetry," from an Icelandic Poem. |