University of Virginia Library

What wild ambition Capua's bosom stirs?
Freedom and fame and empire shall be hers:
To violated faith a long farewell;
Let Carthage lord it in her citadel.
Ill-fated Capua, dearly she will rue,
That e'er for such allies the sword she drew:
Forlorn, forsaken, girt with dreadful siege,
Too late will she confess the sacrilege:
Now all is hopeful; eagerly she greets
The welcomed victor in her halls and streets,
And bids her senators and nobles clip
Late dreaded foes in loving fellowship:
Together met for worship, hand in hand
Before the temple's marble porch they stand;
The steps with palm-leaf and with flowers are strewn,
The altars wreathed with many a gay festoon
Of oak and ivy-spray, expect the rite
That Capuan gods and Punic shall unite;
The soothsayer attends in snow-white vest,
And priests with linen hoods and vervain drest
Bearing the fount and consecrated flame,
While ivory flutes the festival proclaim;
Young lords in shining tunics, fringed and laced
With gold and silver, dangle from the waist
In idle pomp their jasper-hilted glaives,
And officers in ring with rods and staves
Keep clearance, scarce withholding the unreined
Impetuous multitude, whose eyes are strained
To look on Cannæ's victor, there at length
Standing among them, like a tower of strength
To their bright city; there he stood, this Mars
Of Africa, the echoes of whose wars
Had rung from peaks of Atlas to the crest
Of Alp and Apennine, at whose behest
Winter threw down her barriers and made room
To pass thro' her domain of night and gloom.
Sickness and palsied age creep forth to see
The champion who shall make Italia free;
Women and children to the roofs have clomb;
The sacrifice begins; a hecatomb
Of faultless victims to the priestly knife
In meek obedience yield their reeking life;
The priest his morsels on the altar lays,
And wine and incense mingle with the blaze,
Whose savour, like the breath of secret prayer,
Is wafted upward thro' the fields of air;
Great Hannibal himself his tribute pours,
And calls upon the gods whom he adores
To witness mutual oaths, and sanctify
Their solemn league with golden victory;
Each lord repeats the lesson he hath conned,
The people with a mighty shout respond,
As prayers were mandates to the powers they sue,
And fate itself their clamour could subdue.
Meanwhile rough war enjoys a brief repose,
The hospitable chalice freely flows;
The Gaul, the Spaniard, from their camp released,
Stroll to the bath, or prank them for the feast;
From ruby goblets the Numidian drains
The choicest product of Falernian plains,
And swarthy Moors on perfumed couches lie
And revel with Campanian harlotry.
What dome is that so gorgeously deckt,
Graceful as built by music? Architect
And sculptor have with stone and marble vied
In rare achievements, pampering the pride
Of fortune's minion, happier might such toys
Keep him in dotage, or the coarser joys
Of game and wassail satiate his desires:
But to more daring follies he aspires,
Air-castles he must build, which overthrown
Shall draw his country's ruin with his own:
'Tis Virrius, lord of many a fair demesne
Watered by deep Vulturnus, meadows green
And waving olive groves, broad farms, to which
The willing heavens yield tribute, to enrich
His vats and cells and garners; wheaten ears
Like those that Ceres interwoven bears
In her ambrosial locks; fruits that in smell
Rival Pomona's breath, in hue excel
The fabled orchards of Alcinous;
And vintage of the grape so nectarous,
Of temper so ethereal, they that sip
Dream of Elysium, of companionship
With gods and heroes, and th' enchanting kiss
Of youthful Hebe, and immortal bliss.
That tower-flanked terraced roof, how softly plays
The purple even with its odorous bays
And myrtles; for the sun delays to set,
Tho' prone in western skies; he lingers yet
To look on Cumæ's rock and that proud height
Where mortals bow before his throne of light,
On vine-clad Gaurus, and the fruitful plains
Whose bosom his celestial fire impregns,
On Ischia's crag, where in his prison lone
The Titan rests not, and thy towering cone,
Vesevus, and the promontories bold,
The glittering shores and cities that enfold
Thy glorious gulf. And now the day-god sinks
Behind Sardinian mountains, and unlinks
His chariot in the main; the landscape fades
From Capua's view, and darker fall the shades
From oak-crowned Tifata; but on the halls
Of Virrius neither shade nor darkness falls;
Within his stately portals hath begun
Another day unushered by the sun:
Lights emulously blaze, and guests pass in,
The magnates of Campania, friends and kin,
And chieftains of their many-tongued allies,
Apparelled like themselves in festal guise,
Mantled in scarlet. And to guests like these
Light ye the way, ye laurelled effigies,
There at the vestibule with homage mute
Standing like well-bred lackeys to salute
The lords of Carthage? Had ye but a tongue,
Astonishment perchance or fear had wrung
Another greeting from you. Not so deems
Virrius, upon the sea of his proud dreams
And wild imaginations now afloat:
His eyes rove round the banquet, not to gloat
Upon the dazzling splendour, the parade
Of golden services, and meats purveyed
With exquisitest choice, and gauds that tell
Of countless wealth, the pearl, the tortoiseshell,
The cedar, and the ivory; but his thought
Is on those guests, and marvels to be wrought
By their strange advent; Hamilcar's great son,
Partner with him in schemes that he hath spun
Of policy and war, beside him there
Seated in regal state, with gracious air,
All courtesies and smiles, smoothed and unbent
Each harsher look and sterner lineament;
For thus was Hannibal humoured; well he knew
The genial arts that captive and subdue
The ears and souls of men, and when 'twas fit
To hide his greatness, or apparel it
In the light garb of affability;
E'en mirth from underneath his crafty eye
Could twinkle, raillery and sprightly jest,
The salt that seasons and gives life and zest
To dull discourse, fell smartly from his tongue,
And on his lip to serve the moment hung:
And Asdrubal is there, the noble-browed,
And Hanno, of his ancient lineage proud,
Mago, his brother's joy, with him in hate
One-minded, as in love, from Carthage late
Returned with aid and promise; and the fierce
Maharbal, with the flashing eyes that pierce
The clouds of battle; and the flower and choice
Of Nomad cavaliers, and them whose voice
Inflames the courage of Iberian swords
And Gallia's, worthy deemed with Punic lords
To share the feast or council; not unknown
Their names on Latin soil, to vill and town
And bristling fortress, whither oft they clove
A gory passage, or before them drove
The rear of combat or of reeling rout,
Tho' Rome's imperial story blots them out
From memory's page; brave countenances, scarred
With javelin or sword-thrust, that hath not marred
Their savage beauty. Nor of mean repute
Are Capua's worthies: rumour hath made bruit
Of thee, Pacuvius, and thy well-earned claim
To win the prize in revolution's game,
Maugre the nuptial ties which thee and thine
Link with old Cures and the Claudian line,
Whose blood in thy son's veins paternal rule
Could tame not, nor his patriot passions cool;
Treason by treason he was fain to quell,
And lift against the honoured guest the fell
Assassin's arm; the poniard in his clutch
Was glistening; wherefore shrinks he from the touch?
“Strike thro' a father's bosom!” that appeal
Casts from Perolla's hand the threatening steel;
For crime from crime dread intervals divide,
And murder is appalled at parricide.
So fortune hath preserved her favourite,
Preserved for toils and sorrows infinite
In the dark bosom of the future stored.
Nor lacks thy presence at the festal board,
Brave Taurea; better knight or skilfuller
In menage of the rein did never spur
His courser, whether on the Appian way
To join the Roman chivalrous array,
Or following the fleet Lucanian boar
Thro' forest-path and jungle. Nevermore
Shall sylvan sport be thine, nor breezy morn
Arouse thee from thy sleep with hound and horn:
Early and late must thou be up to scour
A desolated country and devour
Her wasted fruits, or struggle to keep pace
With Afric's fiery sons in flight or chase,
Lie on the tentless field, or wait and watch
In long and perilous ambuscade, to snatch
Some doubtful vantage from the wary foe,
Whose might unconquerable thou shalt know
Ere summers twain be past, and oh, what sight
For Capuan dames, to see from luckless fight
Their champion driven, flying in a whirl
Of panic at the gate of Jove to hurl
His gasping steed! and when before their eyes
Beleaguering walls in darkening circuit rise,
And her that was so fair and beautiful
Destruction fangs, as when some lordly bull
A serpent coils around, and none to wrench
Its folds from off him—thou into the trench,
Gnashing thy teeth, leap'st madly, but to spill
The blood of thine own bravest—there, there still
Grows, mounts in thy despite the huge blockade,
Nor valour can assail, nor craft evade,
Hemming thee in with famine and despair!
What recketh Taurea now? away with care
Or aught that clouds the future! sumptuous fare
And social mirth have warmed into his soul;
The feast is at its highest, crowned the bowl
Massy with gems and gold; and Virrius waves
His hand, bespeaking silence, while he craves
A health in flowing brimmers to go round:
“Health to great Hannibal; and may the sound
Of his victorious horsemen soon be heard
Upon the shores of Tyber!” At the word
A clink of cups and tumult of applause;
And on goes Virrius: “In this glorious cause
May the celestial powers”—Rash man, forbear!
Call not the gods thy vanities to share!
Hold, ye Campanian senators! the cup
Ye raise so glibly pledges you to sup
Together on the gloomy bank of Styx:
'Tis poison in the jewelled bowl ye mix,
More baneful than Calabrian serpent's bite
Or juice of the relentless aconite:
Dash to the ground the sparkling amethyst!
See ye not grinning death? a blinding mist
Is o'er you: fiends of black Avernus laugh
In chorus, while your jocund health ye quaff;
Nought but the table's roar is in your ears,
The boasts of Virrius, and the noisy cheers
Of your companions. Thus then have ye waged
Your hopes, your all; Rome's eagles to be caged,
And Capua over Italy to reign,
She on the land, as Carthage on the main;
Whereat a pleasant smile of half disdain
Curls Mago's nether lip and Asdrubal's,
Unmarked not by the chief. But Virrius calls
The long-haired minstrel, whose harmonious quill
Takes inspiration from his patron's will,
Whose ready tongue can rhapsodize with ease
Lyrics and lays to flatter and to please.
Campania's old renown and happy clime,
These form the sweet preamble of his rhyme,
And much upon her noble strife he dwells,
And of a great futurity foretells:
His quill is laid aside, and he hath bent
With trembling fingers o'er the instrument,
As tho' its animated strings reveal
The thoughts whose echoes thro' the chamber peal;
And sings he, as the notes are fiercely played,
Of Brennus and the Gaul's resistless raid,
The moaning streets of Rome, the fire, the sack,
How Tyber his affrighted stream rolled back,
And the young eagle cowered like a daw
Under the puny Capitol of straw,
Who ventured now so haughtily to soar:
“That flight is ended! Rome shall be no more!
Another Brennus, heaven's avenging scourge,
Smites the devoted city! Sing her dirge,
Yea, but with other than a mourning strain,
Ye nations; all your harmonies unchain;
Cannæ and Allia be the glad refrain
Of million voices, till Olympus nods
From his high summit, and approving gods
Answer in thunder!” and the lyre's response
In mimic thunder sounded, and at once
Upleap the youthful chiefs, and rend the dome
With cries of “Allia, Cannæ, death to Rome!”
And Hannibal himself, as if the scene
Were now enacting, sits with altered mien,
Clenching his hand, the master passion, foul
As a black tempest, settling in a scowl
Over his features: Rome shall be his prey!
She, the abhorred one, at his mercy lay!
'Twas but a moment; tones of noisy glee
Recall him from his fitful reverie;
And he must hence betimes, a rigid law,
From deep carouse his presence to withdraw:
The most may tarry, and the night prolong
In bacchant mirth and revelry and song.
A crimson veil is lifted, and displays
A choir of damsels to the raptured gaze:
A nymph-like figure, radiant as the moon,
In vest pellucid and in silvery shoon,
Steps gaily to the front; on either side
A youth approaches with a stealthy glide,
So soft, the liquid air he seems to tread,
And both for her disputed favor plead
With gesture and with look their amorous suit,
Timed to the gentle warbling of the flute;
She, archly playful, casts on each by turns
A smile that flatters and an eye that burns;
Till chidden by the tabour's sudden beat
And chiming cymbal, on elastic feet
She springs in air away; the twain pursue,
And still in dance their rivalry renew;
She stops, and at a sign they bend the knee
As to the presence of a deity;
The maiden choir enclose them in a ring,
And on their heads delicious odours fling,
Then plunge into the dance's endless chain
Held in a mazy whirl by music's rein;
And now like swallows float in summer play,
Or shadows on a stream of feathery spray,
Now toss like ruffled pines upon the hills,
Dizzy as Mænads when the wine-god thrills
Their palpitating bosoms. Hush; a spell
Is o'er them, and like Nereids to the shell
Of Triton listening gracefully they group,
Their raven tresses on the shoulders droop;
The wilder notes have ceased, the flute alone
Breathes the soft magic of its silver-tone:
A stripling of Milesian parents bred,
Effeminately fair, and garlanded
With wreath of myrtle, chants a Lesbian lay
In melting verse that steals the sense away;
Of Spartan Helen and the prince of Troy,
And how she hearkened to the beauteous boy,
Demure at first and timorously coy,
At length to pity moved by his distress,
And yielding in a sweet unconsciousness
Under the witchery of his caress:
“The crime was Love's, Love's only. O ye wise,
Blame not their whispers and their tender sighs:
For you, for you the god in ambush lies,
And ye shall know the power that ye contemn,
And ye shall be to folly brought like them,
Shall feel the subtle sting, the pleasing wound,
That all your lore and wisdom shall confound,
Struck by the shafts that men nor gods can shun;
Thro' every pulse the vivid lightnings run,
Making with life and joy to throb, to pant
Bosoms of ice and souls of adamant:
For doth not Ares in Idalian bowers
Quench the wild passion that his soul devours?
And Cynthia quit her sphere to gaze upon
The sleeping beauties of Endymion?
And the omnipotent, the ever blest,
In ravishing delight on Leda's breast
Forgets eternal splendours!” Thus the tale;
And drops before their eyes the crimson veil:
Wine, wine; and fill your goblets to the brim!
The feasters loudly call; around them swim
The brightnesses of heaven. Again the lyre
Clashes in thunder waking martial fire;
A youthful Gaul upstarts with flushing face,
To sing an ancient war-song of his race;
A minute's pause, to gather as he tries
The fragments of remembered melodies,
Pushing from off the brow his yellow hair,
His grey eye wandering, till in vacant stare
'Tis fixt, and he begins: the buzz, the clang
Of beakers, all was hushed, while thus he sang:

SONG OF THE GAUL.