the Doric shield To stop the Persian's reign? Or shall barbarians drink their nil Upon the slopes of Tmolus? Or trowsered robbers spoil at will The bounties of Pactolus? Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between; The distant king moves slow; He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green, Comes, when their juices flow. Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course, Swift row the Samian galleys; Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse Up the broad eastern valleys. Is not Apollo's call enough, The god of every Greek? Then take our gold, and household stuff; Claim what thou wilt, but speak."       He falters; for the waves he fears, The roads he cannot measure; But rates full high the gleam of spears And dreams of yellow treasure. He listens; he is yielding now; Outspoke the fearless child:       "Oh, father, come away, lest thou Be by this man beguiled."      Her lowly judgement barred the plea, So low, it could not reach her. The man knows more of land and sea, But she's the truer teacher. I mind the day, when thou didst cheat Those rival dames with answer meet; When, toiling at the loom, Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain, Thou alone didst dare disdain To toil in tiring-room. Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun      My humble taskwork will be done; And through the twilight street Come back to view my jewels, when Pattering through the throng of men Go merry schoolboys' feet." 

  

       CAIUS GRACCHUS     

      They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand! The web well finished up, one hand Laid on my yielding shoulder:      The sternest stripling in the land Grasped the other, boldly scanned Their faces, and grew bolder:       And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave I would exhort you spin and weave Some frugal homely cloth. I warn you, when I lead the tribes Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes Shall blunt the just man's wrath."       How strongly, gravely did he speak! I shivered, hid my tingling cheek Behind thy marble face; And prayed the gods to be like him, Firm in temper, lithe of limb, Right worthy of our race. Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave? Or was I weak, till, from the grave So early hollowed out, Tiberius sought me yesternight, Blood upon his mantle white, A vision clear of doubt? What can I fear, oh mother, now? His dead cold hand is on my brow; Rest thou thereon thy lips:      His voice is 

 Prev. P 24/68 next