CORIOLANUS.

How many legends have been told or sung Since Rome—the nursling of the wolf—arose, Lean, gaunt and grim, and lapped the bubbling blood Of fallen and dying foes. How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun Stretch, like the skies, away. But none so golden, chivalric and holy As that of thine, Coriolanus—none In the imperial purple of old days But pale before its sun. True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base, Prone to idolatry of those who sought Their April smiles—who fawned to win their votes, Nor dreamed them dearly bought. Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king, First in Corioli—thy wounds in front— Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms, The battle's deadly brunt, To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance, And festal follies in Etruscan halls— Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down, Beyond the city walls, Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye, Demanding as a right their voice, and blush To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn Made cheek and forehead flush. The base cabals—the hate which drove thee forth A wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fame Looked lightning on the curs that dared abuse, But lacked the power to shame. Prouder thy spirit in that trying hour Than theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forth Undaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome, But, rather, of the earth. Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe— Virgilia and thy little one—hard to break The bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear— Most dear for their sweet sake. But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heart Looked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils told The inward struggle, and thy heaving chest A human ocean rolled. Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister arm Adjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tones Of thunder; but thy agony in that hour Pale Rome repaid with groans. Coldly, with stately step and placid brow— A lull—the herald of the approaching storm— Thou went'st thy way toward Antium—trod its streets Without the thought of harm. Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forth A Mars of the time—thy snorting steed arrayed And glistering with gold, while at thy heels A thousand clarions brayed. Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear, Appalled and breathless, while her people stood Like men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast— With agues in their blood. Like an avenging angel with the sword Of wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy home Through flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shook The hundred gates of Rome. She, who abused, beseeched thee, but in vain— Humbled herself before thee; yet thy hate Was unappeased; and, like one stricken dumb, Rome gazed upon her fate. But when Volumnia came—thy mother—she Who bore thee 'neath her heart, and, at her side The one who, in thy softer hours, with love Thy trembling lip called bride, Leading thy child—thy boy—the old hours came Like south wind over thee; thy icy soul Dissolved in tears; thy hard—thy iron heart Acknowledged love's control, And Rome was saved—Rome, who had wronged, was free! —Thou lost!—O, never from the depths of Time Came sweeter record of the power of love Than this, in my poor rhyme. Never was story fuller of the strength Of love o'er hate: undimmed by age, it breathes A perfume, and a crown around thy brow, Coriolanus, wreathes!