Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left.

And he hath passed in safety unto his woeful home,

And there ta'en horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome.

By this the flood of people was swollen from every side,

And streets and porches round were filled with that o'erflowing tide;

And close around the body gathered a little train Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain.

They brought a bier, and hung it with many a cypress crown,

And gently they uplifted her, and gently laid her down.

The face of Appius Claudius wore the Claudian scowl and sneer,

And in the Claudian note he cried, "What doth this rabble here?

Have they no crafts to mind at home, that hitherward they stray?

Ho! lictors, clear the market-place, and fetch the corpse away!"

The voice of grief and fury till then had not been loud;

But a deep sullen murmur wandered among the crowd,

Like the moaning noise that goes before the whirlwind on the deep,

Or the growl of a fierce watch-dog but halfaroused from sleep.

But when the lictors at that word, tall yeomen all and strong,

Each with his axe and sheaf of twigs, went down into the throng,

Those old men say, who saw that day of sorrow and of sin,

That in the Roman Forum was never such a din. The wailing, hooting, cursing, the howls of grief and hate,

Were heard beyond the Pincian Hill, beyond the Latin Gate.

But close around the body, where stood the little train

Of them that were the nearest and dearest to the slain.

No cries were there, but teeth set fast, low whispers and black frowns,

And breaking up of benches, and girding up of

gowns.

'Twas well the lictors might not pierce to where the maiden lay,

Eise surely had they been all twelve torn limb from limb that day.

Right glad they were to struggle back, blood streaming from their heads,

With axes all in splinters, and raiment all in shreds.

Then Appius Claudius gnawed his lip, and the blood left his cheek;

And thrice he beckoned with his hand, and thrice he strove to speak;

And thrice the tossing Forum set up a frightful yell;

"See, see, thou dog! what thou hast done; and hide thy shame in hell!

Thou that wouldst make our maidens slaves must first make slaves of men.

Tribunes! Hurrah for Tribunes! Down with the wicked Ten!"

And straightway, thick as hailstones, came whizzing through the air,

Pebbles, and bricks, and potsherds, all round the curule chair:

And upon Appius Claudius great fear and trembling came;

For never was a Claudius yet brave against aught but shame.

Though the great houses love us not, we own, to do them right,

That the great houses, all save one, have borne them well in fight.

Still Caius of Corioli, his triumphs and his

wrongs,

His vengeance and his mercy, live in our campfire songs.

Beneath the yoke of Furius oft have Gaul and Tuscan bowed;

And Rome may bear the pride of him of whom herself is proud.

But evermore a Claudius shrinks from a stricken field,

And changes color like a maid at sight of sword and shield.

The Claudian triumphs all were won within the city towers;

The Claudian yoke was never pressed on any necks but ours,

A Cossus, like a wild-cat, springs ever at the

face;

A Fabius rushes like a boar against the shouting

chase;

But the vile Claudian litter, raging with currish spite,

Still yelps and snaps at those who run, still runs from those who smite.

So now 'twas seen of Appius. When stones began to fly,

He shook, and crouched, and wrung his hands, and smote upon his thigh.

66

'Kind clients, honest lictors, stand by me in this fray!

Must I be torn in pieces, Home, home, the nearest way!

Each wit he spake, and looked around with a into thred stare,

Those old meictors put their necks beneath the and of sin," ;

And four-score clients on the left, and four-score on the right,

Arrayed themselves with swords and staves, and loins girt up for the fight.

But, though without or staff or sword, so furious was the throng,

That scarce the train with might and main could bring their lord along.

Twelve times the crowd made at him; five times they seized his gown;

Small chance was his to rise again, if once they got him down:

And sharper came the pelting; and evermore the yell

"Tribunes! we will have Tribunes!"-rose with a louder swell:

And the chair tossed as tosses a bark with tattered sail

When raves the Adriatic beneath an eastern gale,

When the Calabrian sea-marks are lost in clouds of spume,

And the great Thunder-Cape has donned his veil of inky gloom.

One stone hit Appius in the mouth, and one beneath the ear;

And ere he reached Mount Palatine, he swooned with pain and fear.

His cursed head, that he was wont to hold so high with pride,

Now, like a drunken man's, hung down, and swayed from side to side;

And when his stout retainers had brought him to his door,

His face and neck were all one cake of filth and clotted gore.

As Appius Claudius was that day, so may his grandson be!

God send Rome one such other sight, and send me there to see!

IVRY:

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.

Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,

Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Na

varre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;