 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
Behind the glittering crowd, the hecatomb
Of victims, led by golden cords, moved on.
To every god the sacrifice was meet;
The dove to Venus, and the bull to Mars;
To Dian, the proud stag—the lawless goat,
That tears the vine leaves, to the deity
Of the gay banquet: and their horns, o'erlaid
With gold, tossed haughtily amid the crowd,
As, rolling their undreading eyeballs round,
They glared defiance and amazement, mute
Yet merciless when fit occasion came.
“An evil omen! lo! the victims strive,
And we must drag them to the altar!” said
The trembling augur—“what most dismal grief
And destiny o'erhangs to whelm us now!”
Yet onward surged the multitudes, with boughs
Of olive in their hands and laurel crowns,
And Zeian barley spears folded in wreaths
By locks from richest fleeces, as they passed
The temple images, with practised skill,
Bending their foreheads on expanded palms.
And onward, o'er the Appian Way, the host
Of mitred, robed and bannered priests drew nigh
The Fane of all the Gods, and, at a word,
The music softened to a solemn strain,
The measured voices of the holy chiefs
Ascended in a song, and as they ceased,
The people, like the ocean's myriad waves,
Raised their responses to the harvest prayer.
Of victims, led by golden cords, moved on.
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The dove to Venus, and the bull to Mars;
To Dian, the proud stag—the lawless goat,
That tears the vine leaves, to the deity
Of the gay banquet: and their horns, o'erlaid
With gold, tossed haughtily amid the crowd,
As, rolling their undreading eyeballs round,
They glared defiance and amazement, mute
Yet merciless when fit occasion came.
“An evil omen! lo! the victims strive,
And we must drag them to the altar!” said
The trembling augur—“what most dismal grief
And destiny o'erhangs to whelm us now!”
Yet onward surged the multitudes, with boughs
Of olive in their hands and laurel crowns,
And Zeian barley spears folded in wreaths
By locks from richest fleeces, as they passed
The temple images, with practised skill,
Bending their foreheads on expanded palms.
And onward, o'er the Appian Way, the host
Of mitred, robed and bannered priests drew nigh
The Fane of all the Gods, and, at a word,
The music softened to a solemn strain,
The measured voices of the holy chiefs
Ascended in a song, and as they ceased,
The people, like the ocean's myriad waves,
Raised their responses to the harvest prayer.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |