The Prophecy of Capys
A Lay Sung at the Banquet in the Capitol, on the Day Whereon Manius Curius Dentatus, a Second Time Consul, Triumphed Over King Pyrrhus and the Tarentines, in the Year of the City CCCCLXXIX.
I
Now slain is King Amulius,Of the great Sylvian line,Who reigned in Alba Longa,On the throne of Aventine.Slain is the Ponfiff Camers,Who spake the words of doom:“The children to the Tiber,The mother to the tomb.”
II
In Alba’s lake no fisherHis net to-day is flinging;On the dark rind of Alba’s oaksTo-day no axe is ringing;The yoke hangs o’er the manger;The scythe lies in the hay:Through all the Alban villagesNo work is done to-day.
III
And every Alban burgherHath donned his whitest gown;And every head in AlbaWeareth a poplar crown;And every Alban door-postWith boughs and flowers is gay,For to-day the dead are living,The lost are found to-day.
IV
They were doomed by a bloody king,They were doomed by a lying priest,They were cast on the raging flood,They were tracked by the raging beast;Raging beast and raging floodAlike have spared the prey;And to-day the dead are living,The lost are found to-day.
V
The troubled river knew them,And smoothed his yellow foam,And gently rocked the cradleThat bore the fate of Rome.The ravening she-wolf knew them,And licked them o’er and o’er,And gave them of her own fierce milk,Rich with raw flesh and gore.Twenty winters, twenty springs,Since then have rolled away;And to-day the dead are living:The lost are found to-day.
VI
Blithe it was to see the twins,Right goodly youths and tall,Marching from Alba LongaTo their old grandsire’s hall.Along their path fresh garlandsAre hung from tree to tree:Before them stride the pipers,Piping a note of glee.
VII
On the right goes Romulus,With arms to the elbows red,And in his hand a broadsword,And on the blade a head—A head in an iron helmet,With horse-hair hanging down,A shaggy head, a swarthy head,Fixed in a ghastly frown—The head of King AmuliusOf the great Sylvian line,Who reigned in Alba Longa,On the throne of Aventine.
VIII
On the left side goes Remus,With wrists and fingers red,And in his hand a boar-spear,And on the point a head—A wrinkled head and aged,With silver beard and hair,And holy fillets round it,Such as the pontiffs wear—The head of ancient Camers,Who spake the words of doom:“The children to the Tiber;The mother to the tomb.”
IX
Two and two behind the twinsTheir trusty comrades go,Four and forty valiant men,With club, and axe, and bow.On each side every hamletPours forth its joyous crowd,Shouting lads and baying dogs,And children laughing loud,And old men weeping fondlyAs Rhea’s boys go by,And maids who shriek to see the heads,Yet, shrieking, press more nigh.
X
So marched they along the lake;They marched by fold and stall,By cornfield and by vineyard,Unto the old man’s hall.
XI
In the hall-gate sat Capys,Capys, the sightless seer;From head to foot he trembledAs Romulus drew near.And up stood stiff his thin white hair,And his blind eyes flashed fire:“Hail! foster child of the wondrous nurse!Hail! son of the wondrous sire!”
XII
“But thou—what dost thou hereIn the old man’s peaceful hall?What doth the eagle in the coop,The bison in the stall?Our corn fills many a garner;Our vines clasp many a tree;Our flocks are white on many a hill:But these are not for thee.
XIII
“For thee no treasure ripensIn the Tartessian mine;For thee no ship brings precious balesAcross the Libyan brine;Thou shalt not drink from amber;Thou shalt not rest on down;Arabia shall not steep thy locks,Nor Sidon tinge thy gown.
XIV
“Leave gold and myrrh and jewels,Rich table and soft bed,To them who of man’s seed are born,Whom woman’s milk have fed.Thou wast not made for lucre,For pleasure, nor for rest;Thou, that art sprung from the War-god’s loins,And hast tugged at the she-wolf’s breast.
XV
“From sunrise unto sunsetAll earth shall hear thy fame:A glorious city thou shalt build,And name it by thy name:And there, unquenched through ages,Like Vesta’s sacred fire,Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,The spirit of thy sire.
XVI
“The ox toils through the furrow,Obedient to the goad;The patient ass, up flinty paths,Plods with his weary load:With whine and bound the spanielHis master’s whistle hears;And the sheep yields her patientlyTo the loud-clashing shears.
XVII
“But thy nurse will hear no master,Thy nurse will bear no load;And woe to them that shear her,And woe to them that goad!When all the pack, loud baying,Her bloody lair surrounds,She dies in silence, biting hard,Amidst the dying hounds.
XVIII
“Pomona loves the orchard;And Liber loves the vine;And Pales loves the straw-built shedWarm with the breath of kine;And Venus loves the whispersOf plighted youth and maid,In April’s ivory moonlightBeneath the chestnut shade.
XIX
“But thy father loves the clashingOf broadsword and of shield:He loves to drink the steam that reeksFrom the fresh battlefield:He smiles a smile more dreadfulThan his own dreadful frown,When he sees the thick black cloud of smokeGo up from the conquered town.
XX
“And such as is the War-god,The author of thy line,And such as she who suckled thee,Even such be thou and thine.Leave to the soft CampanianHis baths and his perfumes;Leave to the sordid race of TyreTheir dyeing-vats and looms;Leave to the sons of CarthageThe rudder and the oar;Leave to the Greek his marble NymphsAnd scrolls of wordy lore.
XXI
“Thine, Roman, is the pilum:Roman, the sword is thine,The even trench, the bristling mound,The legion’s ordered line;And thine the wheels of triumph,Which with their laurelled trainMove slowly up the shouting streetsTo Jove’s eternal flame.
XXII
“Beneath thy yoke the VolscianShall vail his lofty brow;Soft Capua’s curled revellersBefore thy chairs shall bow:The Lucumoes of ArnusShall quake thy rods to see;And the proud Samnite’s heart of steelShall yield to only thee.
XXIII
“The Gaul shall come against theeFrom the land of snow and night;Thou shalt give his fair-haired armiesTo the raven and the kite.
XXIV
“The Greek shall come against thee,The conqueror of the East.Beside him stalks to battleThe huge earth-shaking beast,The beast on whom the castleWith all its guards doth stand,The beast who hath between his eyesThe serpent for a hand.First march the bold Epirotes,Wedged close with shield and spearAnd the ranks of false TarentumAre glittering in the rear.
XXV
“The ranks of false TarentumLike hunted sheep shall fly:In vain the bold EpirotesShall round their standards die:And Apennine’s gray vulturesShall have a noble feastOn the fat and the eyesOf the the huge earth-shaking beast.
XXVI
“Hurrah! for the good weaponsThat keep the War-god’s land.Hurrah! for Rome’s stout pilumIn a stout Roman hand.Hurrah! for Rome’s short broadswordThat through the thick arrayOf levelled spears and serried shieldsHews deep its gory way.
XXVII
“Hurrah! for the great triumphThat stretches many a mile.Hurrah! for the wan captivesThat pass in endless file.Ho! bold Epirotes, whitherHath the Red King taken flight?Ho! dogs of false Tarentum,Is not the gown washed white?
XXVIII
“Hurrah! for the great triumphThat stretches many a mile.Hurrah! for the rich dye of Tyre,And the fine web of Nile,The helmets gay with plumageTorn from the pheasant’s wings,The belts set thick with starry gemThat shone on Indian kings,The urns of massy silver,The goblets rough with gold,The many-colored tablets brightWith loves and wars of old,The stone that breathes and struggles,The brass that seems to speak;—Such cunning they who dwell on highHave given unto the Greek.
XXIX
“Hurrah! for Manius Curius,The bravest son of Rome,Thrice in utmost need sent forth,Thrice drawn in triumph home.Weave, weave, for Manius CuriusThe third embroidered gown:Make ready the third lofty car,And twine the third green crown;And yoke the steeds of RoseaWith necks like a bended bow,And deck the bull, Mevania’s bull,The bull as white as snow.
XXX
“Blest and thrice blest the RomanWho sees Rome’s brightest day,Who sees that long victorious pompWind down the Sacred Way,And through the bellowing Forum,And round the Suppliant’s Grove,Up to the everlasting gatesOf Capitolian Jove.
XXXI
“Then where, o’er two bright havens,The towers of Corinth frown;Where the gigantic King of DayOn his own Rhodes looks down;Where oft Orontes murmursBeneath the laurel shades;Where Nile reflects the endless lengthOf dark red colonnades;Where in the still deep water,Sheltered from waves and blasts,Bristles the dusky forestOf Byrsa’s thousand masts;Where fur-clad hunters wanderAmidst the northern ice;Where through the sand of morning-landThe camel bears the spice;Where Atlas flings his shadowFar o’er the western foam,Shall be great fear on all who hearThe might name of Rome.”