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A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rollid o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order: gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it

glows.

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new colour, as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone, and all is gray.

BYRON.

THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS.

Now slain is King Amulius,

Of the great Sylvian line,
Who reigned in Alba Longa,

On the throne of Aventinė.
Slain is the Pontiff Camers,

Who spake the words of doom:

« The Children to the Tiber,

The mother to the tomb."

In Alba's lake no fisher

His net to-day is flinging :
On the dark rind of Alba's oaks

To-day no axe is ringing :
The yoke hangs o'er the manger :

The scythe lies in the hay :
Through all the Alban villages

No work is done to-day.

And every Alban burgher

Hath donned his whitest gown ; And every head in Alba

Weareth a poplar crown; And every Alban door-post

With boughs and flowers is gay; For to-day the dead are living;

The lost are found to-day.

They were doomed by a bloody king :

They were doomed by a lying priest: They were cast on the raging flood :

They were tracked by the raging beast. Raging beast and raging flood

Ålike have spared the prey; And to-day the dead are living :

The lost are found to-day.

The troubled river knew them,

And smoothed his yellow foam,
And gently rocked the cradle

That bore the fate of Rome.
The ravening she-wolf knew them,

And licked them o'er and o'er,

And gave them of her own fierce milk,
Rich with raw flesh and

gore. Twenty winters, twenty springs,

Since then have rolled away; And to-day the dead are living :

The lost are found to-day.

Blithe it was to see the twins,

Right goodly youths and tall, Marching from Alba Longa

To their old grandsire's hall. Along their path fresh garlands

Are hung from tree to tree : Before them stride the pipers,

Piping a note of glee.

So they marched along the lake;
They marched by fold and stall

, By corn-field and by vineyard,

Unto the old man's hali.

In the hall-gate sate Capys,

Capys the sightless seer;
From head to foot he trembled,

As Romulus drew near.
And up stood stiff nis thin white hair,

And his blind eyes flashed fire: “Hail! foster child of the wondrous nurse !

Hail ! son of the wondrous sire!

“But thou-what dost thou here

In the old man's peaceful hall? What doth the eagle in the coop,

The bison in the stall ?

Our corn fills many a garner;

Our vines clasp many a tree; Our flocks are white on many a hill;

But these are not for thee.

“ From sunrise until sunset

All earth shall hear thy fame : A glorious city thou shalt build,

Ănd name it by thy name:
And there unquenched through ages,

Like Vesta's sacred fire,
Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,

The spirit of thy sire.

“ The ox toils through the furrow,

Obedient to the goad;
The patient ass, up flinty paths,

Plods with his weary load: With whine and bound the spaniel

His master's whistle hears;
And the sheep yields her patiently

To the loud clashing shears.

“But thy nurse will hear no master,

Thy nurse will bear no load; And woe to them that shear her,

And woe to them that goad ! When all the pack, loud baying,

Her bloody lair surrounds, She dies in silence, biting hard,

Amidst the dying hounds.

“Pomona loves the orchard ;

And Liber loves the wine;

And Pales loves the straw-built shed

Warm with the breath of kine; And Venus loves the whispers

Of plighted youth and maid, In April's ivory moonlight,

Beneath the chesnut shade.
“But thy father loves the clashing

Of broadsword and of shield :
He loves to drink the stream that reeks

From the fresh battle-field :
He smiles a smile more dreadful

Than his own dreadful frown, When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke Go up

from the conquered town. « And such as is the War-god,

The author of thy line,
And such as she who suckled thee,

Even such be thou and thine.
Leave to the soft Campanian

His bath and his perfumes; Leave to the sordid race of Tyre

Their dyeing-vats and looms;
Leave to the sons of Carthage

The rudder and the oar;
Leave to the Greek his marble nymphs,

And scrolls of wordy lore. “ Thine, Roman, is the pilum :

Roman, the sword is thine,
The even trench, the bristling mound,

The legion's ordered line;
And thine the wheels of triumph,

Which, with their laurelled train,
Move slowly up the shouting streets

To Jove's eternal fane.

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