Still, in these balmier days of Rome,
The mother tells her child That once, within the Forum, oped
A chasm deep and wild.

That every heart, with horror chilled,
Unto the altar hied; Soothsayers, augurs sought the cause,
Yet answer was denied.

At length an agÈd seer proclaimed,
"The gods will vengeance wreak, Till choicest gift, cast in the gulf,
Doth penitence bespeak."

The mother shuddering, clasps her babe
More closely to her breast; The warrior who ne'er feared a foe
Bends low his mailÈd crest.

The heartless miser hugs his gold;
Affection claims its own; Yet, mystery beyond all ken,
Such gifts might ill atone.

'Neath blackened sky the wind moans on,
Wide yawns the dark abyss;— Oh Heavens! was ever sore suspense
Or terror like to this!

---

Hark! sweet as angel symphony,
"'Tis found! the offering's found!" And forward press the eager throng
To find due vantage ground.

What star descendeth through the gloom
To rift dark sorrow's night? Is't hero from the battle field,
Or monarch girt with might?

Up rides young Marcus Curtius
Upon his milk white steed; No word, but waving of the hand,
As he dashes on with speed.

Fair picture for all spheres and times!
Upon death's borderland, One gleam of sunshine for his crown,
See Rome's self martyr stand!

He gently soothed his noble horse;
Then, as from silver bell, Upon the wondering multitude,
His calm, clear accents fell.

"Romans!" he said, "not arms, not wealth
Heaven claims of you this day; Nor gifts of wisdom, love or lore,
Howe'er so precious they.

"Hear me, Oh citizens of Rome!
This lesson richly prize; Best gift and parent of good deeds
Is true self-sacrifice.

"I offer to the immortal gods,
Who hark my solemn vow, That life which for my country lived;
Which dieth for it now."

He backed his steed; threw down his casque
Gazed on the Sacred Height; Then—forward to the vast abyss
As soldier to the fight.

One moment, and with mighty bound,
He plunges to repose; One dull, sad sound; but one, and then—
The yawning gulf doth close.