Curtius

How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how?Methought, while on the shadow'd terracesI walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came,Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry."O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said;And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord,Gen'ral to ev'ry soul." And then my heart(I being here alone) beat strangely loud;Responsive to the cry--and my still soul,Inform'd me thus: "Not such a harmonyCould spring from aught within the souls of men,But that which is most common to all souls.Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile,To tell thee as I listen'd to the cry,How on the silver flax which blew aboutThe ivory distaff in my languid hand,I found large tears; such big and rounded dropsAs gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs,And I was sudden anger'd, for I thought:"Why should a gen'ral wail come home to meWith such vibration in my trembling heart,That such great tears should rise and overflow?"Then shook them on the marble where I pac'd;Where instantly they vanished in the sun,As di'monds fade in flames, 'twas foolish, Curtius!And then methought how strange and lone it seem'd,For till thou cam'st I seem'd to be alone,On the vin'd terrace, prison'd in the goldOf that still noontide hour. No widows stoleUp the snow-glimmering marble of the stepsTo take my alms and bless the Gods and me;No orphans touched the fringes of my robeWith innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the goldI laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and strokeThe jewels on my neck, or touch the roseThou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek.Perchance all lingered in the Roman streetsTo catch first tidings from the Oracles.The very peacocks drows'd in distant shades,Nor sought my hand for honey'd cake; and highA hawk sailed blackly in the clear blue sky,And kept my doves from cooing at my feet.My lute lay there, bound with the small white buds,Which, laughing this bright morn, thou brought and wreath'dAround it as I sang--but with that wailDying across the vines and purple slopes,And breaking on its strings, I did not careTo waken music, nor in truth could forceMy voice or fingers to it, so I stray'dWhere hangs thy best loved armour on the wall,And pleased myself by filling it with thee!'Tis yet the goodliest armour in proud Rome,Say all the armourers; all Rome and IKnow thee, the lordliest bearer of a sword.Yet, Curtius, stay, there is a rivet lostFrom out the helmet, and a ruby goneFrom the short sword hilt--trifles both which canBe righted by to-morrow's noon--"to-morrow's noon!"Was there a change, my Curtius, in my voiceWhen spake I those three words: "to-morrow's noon?"O, I am full of dreams--methought there was."Why, love, how darkly gaze thine eyes in mine!If lov'd I dismal thoughts I well could deemThou saw'st not the blue of my fond eyes,But looked between the lips of that dread pit--O, Jove! to name it seems to curse the airWith chills of death--we'll not speak of it, Curtius.When I had dimm'd thy shield with kissing it,I went between the olives to the stalls;White Audax neigh'd out to me as I came,As I had been Hippona to his eyes;New dazzling from the one, small, mystic cloudThat like a silver chariot floated lowIn the ripe blue of noon, and seem'd to pause,Stay'd by the hilly round of yon aged tree.He stretch'd the ivory arch of his vast neck,Smiting sharp thunders from the marble floorWith hoofs impatient of a peaceful earth;Shook the long silver of his burnish'd mane,Until the sunbeams smote it into light,Such as a comet trails across the sky.I love him, Curtius! Such magnanimous firesLeap from his eyes. I do truly thinkThat with thee seated on him, thy strong kneesAgainst his sides--the bridle in his jawsIn thy lov'd hand, to pleasure thee he'd springSheer from the verge of Earth into the breastOf Death and Chaos--of Death and Chaos!--What omens seem to strike my soul to-day?What is there in this blossom hour should knitAn omen in with ev'ry simple word?Should make yon willows with their hanging locksDusk sybils, mutt'ring sorrows to the air?The roses clamb'ring round yon marble Pan,Wave like red banners floating o'er the dead?The dead--there 'tis again. My Curtius, comeAnd thou shalt tell me of the OraclesAnd what sent hither that long cry of woe.Yet wait, yet wait, I care not much to hear.While on thy charger's throbbing neck I lean'd,Romeward there pass'd across the violet slopes,Five sacrificial bulls, with silver hides,And horns as cusp'd and white as Dian's bow,And lordly breasts which laid the honey'd thymeInto long swarths, whence smoke of yellow beesRose up in puffs, dispersing as it rose,For the great temple they; and as they pass'dWith quiet gait, I heard their drivers say:The bulls were for the Altars, when should comeWord from the Oracles, as to the Pit,O, Curtius, Curtius, in my soul I seeHow black and fearful is its glutton throat;I will not look!Wav'd their long goads, still juicy from the vine,And plum'd with bronzy leaves, and each to each,Showed the sleek beauty of the rounded sides,The mighty curving of the lordly breasts,The level lines of backs, the small, fine heads,And laugh'd and said, "The Gods will have it thus,The choicest of the earth for sacrifice;Let it be man, or maid, or lowing bull!"Where lay the witchcraft in their clownish words,To shake my heart? I know not; but it thrill'd,As Daphne's leaves, thrill to a wind so soft,One might not feel it on the open palm;I cannot choose but laugh--for what have ITo do with altars and with sacrifice?