Ovid's metamorphoses in fifteen books :: :: University of Virginia Library

Or as when Cippus in the Current view'd
The shooting Horns that on his Forehead stood,
His Temples first he feels, and with Surprize
His Touch confirms th'Assurance of his Eyes.
Strait to the Skies his horned Front he rears,
And to the Gods directs these pious Pray'rs.

If this Portent be prosp'rous, O decree
To Rome th'Event; if otherwise, to me.
An Altar then of Turf he hastes to raise,
Rich Gums in fragrant Exhalations blaze;

536

The panting Entrails crackle as they fry,
And boding Fumes pronounce a Mystery.
Soon as the Augur saw the Holy Fire,
And Victims with presaging Signs expire,
To Cippus then he turns his Eyes with speed,
And views the horny Honours of his Head;
Then cry'd, Hail Conqueror! thy Call obey,
Those Omens I behold presage thy Sway.
Rome waits thy Nod, unwilling to be Free,
And owns thy Sov'reign Pow'r as Fate's Decree.

He said—and Cippus, starting at th'Event,
Spoke in these Words his pious Discontent.

Far hence, ye Gods, this Execration send;
And the great Race of Romulus defend.
Better that I in Exile live abhorr'd,
Then e'er the Capitol shou'd style me Lord.

This spoke, he hides with Leaves his Omen'd Head,
Then prays, the Senate next convenes, and said,

If Augurs can foresee, a Wretch is come,
Design'd by Destiny the Bane of Rome.
Two Horns (most strange to tell) his Temples crown;
If e'er he pass the Walls, and gain the Town,
Your Laws are forfeit, that ill-fated Hour;
And Liberty must yield to lawless Pow'r.
Your Gates he might have enter'd; but this Arm
Seiz'd the Usurper, and with-held the Harm.
Haste, find the Monster out, and let him be
Condemn'd to all the Senate can decree;
Or ty'd in Chains, or into Exile thrown;
Or by the Tyrant's Death prevent your own.

The Crowd such Murmurs utter as they stand,
As swelling Surges breaking on the Strand:

537

Or as when gath'ring Gales sweep o'er the Grove,
And their tall Heads the bending Cedars move.
Each with Confusion gaz'd, and then began
To feel his Fellow's Brows, and find the Man:
Cippus then shakes his Garland off, and cries
The Wretch you want I offer to your Eyes.

The Anxious Throng look'd down, and sad in Thought,
All wish'd they had not found the Sign they sought:
In haste with Laurel Wreaths his Head they bind;
Such Honour to such Virtue was assign'd.
Then thus the Senate.—Hear, O Cippus, hear;
So Godlike is thy Tutelary Care,
That since in Rome thy self forbids thy Stay,
For thy Abode those Acres we convey
The Plough-share can surround, the Labour of a Day.
In Deathless Records thou shalt stand inroll'd,
And Rome's rich Posts shall shine with Horns of Gold.