the act of lending an umbrella, but from his | far more poetical than any thing else in Roinsane endeavor to get it back again. 1 man literature. And, indeed, it may be genIt poured in torrents. Hopkins had an erally affirmed, that the early age of every urgent call. Hopkins knocked at Simpson's nation is its most poetical age. Among door. "I want my umbrella." Now Simp- those heroic tales which, whether authentic son also had a call in a directly opposite or not, imagination longs to adopt with enway to Hopkins; and with the borrowed tire faith, are the gallant adventures of Houmbrella in his hand, was advancing to the ratius Cocles, the defender of the Bridge; threshold. "I tell you," roared Hopkins, the Battle of the Lake Regillus, when, to "Can't have it,' "I want my umbrella.". succor the Romans, Castor and Pollux, said Simpson, at the same time extending mixed personally in the mêlée, and turned the machine dedicated to Jupiter pluvius. the fate of the day. These two brave le"Why, I want to go to the East-end, it gends Mr. Macaulay has adopted, rains in torrents; what"-screamed Hop- ficient verity for his purpose of imitating kins-"what am I to do for an umbrella ?" or personating the earliest poets of Rome. "Do!" answered Simpson, darting from The story of Virginia may have been recomthe door-" do as I did; BORROW ONE!" mended to him by its exquisite pathos, as well as the political importance of its consequences; and in the fourth Lay, The Prophecy of Capys, which is supposed to be sung at the banquet in the capitol, on the 66 MACAULAY'S LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME. day when Marius Curius Dentatus, a second From Tait's Edinburgh Magazine. time Consul, triumphed over King Pyrrhus and the Tarentines, in the year of the City THE Northern is degenerate who does not, CCCCLXXIX," he has chosen no legend or to his heart's core, relish National Ballad tradition, but invented a medium suited to poetry. Indeed, we should augur unfavor- his design. The above, and many other ably of the poetical sensibilities of any one wild and exalting tales, which find a place who did not enjoy those inspiring if rude in the fabulous history of ancient Rome, strains which rouse the soul "like a battle-have, by modern critics, been ascribed to trumpet." In every language in which these an earlier Roman literature, of which every spontaneous bardic effusions are found-trace had perished long before the classic and they have a place in the earliest litera- writers were born. Upon this idea, counteture, the literature "before the letters," of nanced, if not absolutely confirmed, by the every warlike people that are at all advanc- learned and acute Niebuhr, Mr. Macaulay ed from the savage state-they breathe the has acted in the magnanimous attempt to fire of passion; while, by small incidental make the dry bones live-to render back natural touches, they often embody the most into animated ballad poetry those stirring thrilling tenderness, and the deepest pathos. and heroic incidents recorded in chronicles Neither the genius of its early population, presumed to be wholly derived from poetinor the credible annals of Ancient Rome, cal sources. In accomplishing this taskwere peculiarly adapted to ballad poetry, and personating not one ancient Roman whose cradle and elements were found in poet, but four, living at different periodsthe East and in the North; and which, after he throws himself back into the times when the Homeric period, so far as is authentical- the deeds sung by the bards were freshly ly known, first flourished in the chivalrous remembered by their countrymen; and with, and romantic times of the Middle Ages. as we think, if not absolute verisimilitudeYet, in the unpromising field of the Roman which would not, to modern readers, be deannals, Mr. Macaulay has found rich materi- sirable although it were possible-yet with als, apt for his purpose, which he has fash- very marked effect. For the secondary, the ioned and moulded with a skill and felicity merely learned or classical part of his underwhich almost borders upon creative genius. taking, Mr. Macaulay must be, if not emiThese materials are found in the early Books nently, yet sufficiently qualified, by ample of Livy, which narrate, if not as literal facts, knowledge of the history, usages, manners, yet without dull imagination-freezing skep- superstitions and religion of the Roman ticism, the wild tales and legends of the ori-people; of their national genius, and all gin of the Republic; the Rape of the Sabine women; the nightly meetings of Numa and the Nymph; and those other fanciful or heroic traditions familiar to every schoolboy, which, in the opinion of Mr. Macaulay, are that may be included under that sweeping word costume. He has, in brief, assumed the part of the Macpherson of the Romans; though, in those fragments of poetry, and floating traditions of bards, which were certainly to be found in the Highlands of among the besiegers, indignation rouses Scotland, the translator of Ossian possessed their spirit, and recalls their courage. more materials ready prepared. It must be left to some future Niebuhr to settle when Mr. Macaulay actually wrote these Lays. They are, however, closely allied in genius, mode, and metre, to those kindling early ballads of his, which gave so fair a promise of poetic power; but whether they have slumbered in his desk for twenty years, to be polished and produced during his temporary [?] retreat from public life, or are the production of that brief period of leisure, we receive no hint. Nor is the question of any great importance.If the Lays are not of the solid or utilitarian kind of literature expected from a modern Statesman and Jurist, they are in nothing incompatible with the higher part of the nature of such grave characters. At all events there they are, a free-will offering to refined literature, and as such, as well as from their intrinsic worth, deserving admiration. The Lays of Ancient Rome differ from the Spanish ballads of Mr. Lockhart in this, that Mr. Macaulay is himself the poet, the creator; and Lockhart merely the translator, though an admirable one. The first Lay, Horatius, is our favourite, probably from having been the first read. The ballad opens with great animation,with Lars Porsena, in the attempt to restore the House of Tarquin, summoning his array to march upon Rome, his messengers speeding through Tuscany in every direction. The final muster reminds one of the Scottish army, as seen by Marmion, in the Borough Moor of Edinburgh, before the battle of Flodden, though in the one case the wild levy is brought vividly before us, and in the other the representation is less dramatic. The preparations made in Rome to resist this formidable array, the panic of the citi zens, the alarm and hasty consultations of the senators, and the anxious watch of the burghers, have grace, truth and life. Yet the description of the preparations for the defence, though distinguished by the literal minuteness of the old historic ballad, is more artificial in structure and ornate in style; and perhaps it is too long-drawn out; though the final struggle and triumph are truly animating in their homely sublimity, and the close of the Lay is exceedingly beautiful. We must be content to choose merely a stanza here and there. The citizens are dispirited, aud filled with the utmost dismay at the approach of the formidable army; but when the chief wrong-doer, the hated Sextus, is seen But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, When the bridge, upon the demolition of which the safety of the city depended, had been fairly beaten down, and was sinking: and when of the devoted Three who had defended it against the assailing force, two had darted back to the side of Rome and of safety, we again take up the ballad. Back darted Spurius Lartius; And, as they passed, beneath their feet They would have crossed once more. But with a crash like thunder Rose from the walls of Rome, And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane; And burst the curb, and bounded, Rejoicing to be free; And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena, "Now yield thee to our grace." Round turned he, as not deigning The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray," A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And, with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, But his limbs were borne up bravely Bare bravely up his chin. "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus ; We should have sacked the town!" And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands: They gave him of the corn-land, And there it stands unto this day It stands in the Comitium, How valiantly he kept the bridge, And still his name sounds stirring As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno As his who kept the bridge so well There is nothing in the Lays finer than the conclusion of this ballad, though the poetry may be of a more refined character than is to be expected in the ballad strains of a rude age, however stirring or pathetic these may sometimes be. The end is this: And in the nights of winter, When the cold north-winds blow, When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest's din, When the chestnuts glow in the embers, How well Horatius kept the bridge The next Lay, of which we shall give a brief specimen, is in a different style. The interest of the tragic story of Virginia is essentially domestic. It affects the deep and universal affections of our common nature; and Roman patriotism here finds its animating principle in the purity of private life, the sacredness of female honor. The first appearance of the young Virginia, in the light-hearted buoyancy of girlish innocence, is in exquisite contrast with the boding apparition of Appius Claudius, attended by his guard of axes, his pimps, parasites and jesters, scowling along the Forum Like King Tarquin in his pride. Just then, as through one cloudless chink in a black stormy sky Shines out the dewy morning star, a fair young girl came by. With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arın, Home she went bounding from the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm; And past those dreaded Axes she innocently ran, With bright, frank, brow that had not learned to blush at gaze of man; And up the Sacred Street she turned, and, as she danced along, She warbled gaily to herself lines of the good old song, How for a sport the princes came spurring from the camp, And found Lucrece, combing the fleece, under the midnight lamp. The maiden sang, as sings the lark, when up he darts his flight, From his nest in the green April corn, to meet the morning light; And Appius heard her sweet young voice, and saw And loved her with the accursed love of his accursher sweet young face, ed race, And all along the Forum, and up the Sacred Street, His vulture eye pursued the trip of those small glancing feet. The city-gates were opened; the Fornm, all alive, | Close to yon low dark archway, where, in a crimWith buyers and with sellers was humming like a hive: Blithely on brass and timber the craftsman's stroke was ringing, And blithely o'er her panniers the market-girl was singing, And blithely young Virginia came smiling from her home: Ah! wo for young Virginia, the sweetest maid in Rome! With her small tablets in her hand, and her satchel on her arm, Forth she went bounding to the school, nor dreamed of shame or harm. She crossed the Forum shining with stalls in alleys gay, And just had reached the very spot whereon I stand this day. The seizure of Virginia by Marius, the minion of Appius Claudius; the hot rage of the people; the sturdy resistance of the flesher, and of the "strong smith, Muræna," are narrated with great spirit. But vain was their courage; this was in the evil and degenerate times of Rome There was no brave Licinius, no honest Sextius then ; But all the city, in great fear, obeyed the wicked Ten. Yet before "the varlet Marius" had completed his odious task, and seized Virginia as his alleged slave-girl-while she "sobbed and shrieked for aid," the young Icilius started forth, stamped his foot, rent his gown, smote upon his breast, and springing upon the oft-sung column in the Forum, he Beckoned to the people, and in bold voice and clear Poured thick and fast the burning words which tyrants quake to hear. "Now, by your children's cradles, now, by your father's graves, Be men to day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves! crece bleed? son flood, Leaps down to the great sewer the gurgling stream of blood. Hard by, a flesher on a block had laid his whittle down: Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. And then his eyes grew very dim, and his throat began to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake: "Farewell, sweet child! farewell! Oh! how I loved my darling! though stern I sometimes be, To thee, thou know'st, I was not so-who could be so to thee? And how my darling loved me! how glad she was to hear My footstep on the threshold, when I came back last year! crown, And how she danced with pleasure, to see my civic And took my sword, and hung it up, and brought me forth my gown! Now, all those things are over—yes, all thy pretty Thy needlework, thy prattle, thy snatches of old ways, lays; And none will grieve when I go forth, or smile when I return, Or watch beside the old man's bed, or weep upon his urn. The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls, The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's marble halls, Now, for the brighness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom, And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. The time is come. See how he points his eager hand this way! See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon the prey! With all his wit, he little deems, that, spurned, betrayed, bereft, Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left. He little deems that in this hand, I clutch what still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave; Lu-Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt For this was the great vengeance done on Tarquin's evil seed? For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire? For this did Scævola's right hand hiss in the Tus can fire? The poet passes over the immediate effect of this rousing democratic harangue upon the populace, which sinks into their hearts, and is only revealed in the subsequent insurrection. He hurries on to the catastrophe, to the most pathetic of Roman sacrifices, which is touched with singular delicacy and tenderness. The fate of his child is foreseen by the heroic father-and and blow Foul outrage, which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this." With that he lifted high the steel, and smote her in And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one the side, sob she died. Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space In vain they ran, and felt and stanched; for never aside, truer blow To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with | That good right arm had dealt in fight against a horn and hide, Volscian foe. When Appius Claudius saw that deed, he shuddered and sank down, And hid his face some little space with the corner of his gown, Till, with white lips and blood-shot eyes, Virginius tottered nigh, And stood before the judgment-seat, and held the knife on high. "O! dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain, By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; And even as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line !" So spake the slayer of his child, and turned and went his way; But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body lay, And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, and then, with steadfast feet, Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred Street. The popular émeute, and the resistance of the lictors and the followers, "the clients" of Claudius, are portrayed with equal spirit ; and the ballad closes in this good and homely Chevy-Chase fashion, 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 grand Many of Mr. Macaulay's readers, and most of his more learned critics, will probably single out the Battle of the Lake Regillus as the finest of these Lays. The main distinction which he makes between this poem and Horatius is, that the latter is meant to be purely Roman, while the Battle of Regillus, though national in its general spirit, has "a slight tincture of Greek learning, and of Greek superstition." As the Battle of Regillus is, in all respects, a Homeric battle, so does the poem in which it is chronicled, or dramatically described, aspire to be a Homeric ballad, and therefore "upon principle," incidents and images are freely borrowed from the battle-pieces of Homer. It certainly has fire and action enough. The lay is supposed to be chanted at the celebration of a solemn annual banquet given, about two centuries after the battle was gained, in honor of Castor and Pollux, the potent auxiliaries of Rome. As we have already given specimens of the descriptive style of the Lays, we may now plunge, for a stanza or two, into the tug of war, the combat hand to hand-the very heart and current of the heady fight. Now on each side the leaders And on each side the footmen The earth with blood was red; Rose from the darkened field The braying of the war-horns, The clang of sword and shieldThe rush of squadrons sweeping Like whirlwinds o'er the plain, The shouting of the slayers, And screeching of the slain. False Sextus rode out foremost : His look was high and bold; His corslet was a bison's hide, Plated with steel and gold. As glares the famished eagle From the Digentian rock, On a choice lamb that bounds alone Before Bandusia's flock, Herminius glared on Sextus, And came with eagle speed; Herminius on black Äuster Brave champion on brave steed; In his right hand the broadsword That kept the Bridge so well, And on his helm the crown he won When proud Fidenæ fell. Wo to the maid whose lover Shall cross his path to-day! False Sextus saw, and trembled, And turned, and fled away. Then far to North Ebutius, To feed the Porcian kites. And tossed his golden crest, And towards the Master of the Knights, Through the thick battle pressed. Ebutius smote Mamilius So fiercely on the shield, That the great lord of Tusculum With a good aim and true, Just where the neck and shoulder join, Fell swooning to the ground: Bare him some little space; His swimming eyes to light, And there Valerius fought. |