Still, like a spreading ulcer, which leech-craft may not cure,

Let

usance eat away

the substance of the poor.

foul your Still let your haggard debtors bear all their fathers bore;

Still let your dens of torment be noisome as of yore;

No fire when Tiber freezes; no air in dog-star heat;

And store of rods for free-born backs, and holes for free-born feet.

Heap heavier still the fetters; bar closer still the grate;
Patient as sheep we yield us up unto your cruel hate.
But, by the Shades beneath us, and by the Gods above,
Add not unto your cruel hate your yet more cruel love!
Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
From Consuls, and High Pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?
Ladies who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet,

Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street,

Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold,

And breathe of Capuan odours, and shine with Spanish gold?

Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life—

The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,

The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,
The kiss, in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours.
Still let the maiden's beauty swell the father's breast with pride;
Still let the bridegroom's arms infold an unpolluted bride.

Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,

That turns the coward's heart to steel, the sluggard's blood to flame,

Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,

And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare."

Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside,

To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide,
Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimson flood,
Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood.
Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down:

Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown.

And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell,

And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, "Farewell, sweet child!

Farewell!

Oh! how I loved my darling! Though stern I sometimes be,
To thee, thou know'st, I was not so. Who could be so to thee?
And how my darling loved me! How glad she was to hear
My footstep on the threshold when I came back last year!
And how she danced with pleasure to see my civic crown,

And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown!
Now, all those things are over-yes, all thy pretty ways,

Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old lays;

And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return,

Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn.

The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls,
The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls,
Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom,
And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb.
The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way!
See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey!
With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left.

He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save

Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;

Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow

Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know.
Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss;
And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this."
With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side,
And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.

Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath;
And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death;
And in another moment brake forth from one and all
A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall.

Some with averted faces shrieking fled home amain;

Some ran to call a leech; and some ran to lift the slain:

Some felt her lips and little wrist, if life might there be found;

And some tore up their garments fast, and strove to stanch the wound.

In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; for never truer blow
That good right arm had dealt in fight against a Volscian foe.

When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high. "Oh! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain;