"Beneath thy yoke the Volscian Shall vail his lofty brow: Soft Capua's curled revellers Before thy chairs shall bow: The Lucumoes of Arnus Shall quake thy rods to see; And the proud Samnite's heart of steel Shall yield to only thee. "The Gaul shall come against thee From the land of snow and night; Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies To the raven and the kite. "The Greek shall come against thee, The conqueror of the East. Beside him stalks to battle The huge earth-shaking beast, Wedged close with shield and spear "The ranks of false Tarentum Like hunted sheep shall fly : In vain the bold Epirotes Shall round their standards die: And Apennine's grey vultures Shall have a noble feast On the fat and the eyes Of the huge earth-shaking beast. "Hurrah! for the good weapons That keep the War-god's land. Hurrah! for Rome's short broadsword, "Then where, o'er two bright havens, Where, in the still deep water, Sheltered from waves and blasts, Bristles the dusky forest Of Byrsa's thousand masts; Where fur-clad hunters wander Amidst the northern ice; Where through the sand of morning-land The camel bears the spice; Where Atlas flings his shadow Far o'er the western foam, Shall be great fear on all who hear The mighty name of Rome." MACAULAY. GUDRUN. By her Sigurd's blood-stained bier, Her hand she smote not on her breast: Word, nor sign, nor act might show The wonted course of woman's woe. Sages came, the wisest they, But vain the aids from art they borrow; Round her pressed a widowed train, Each her own sad tale recited: Vainly thus to wake they try Vainly; for her anguished mind, Nor opens to another's woe. Hard and cold was Gudrun's soul, Nor sigh would rise, nor tear would roll. Last did youthful Gulrand speak- When youth's strong loves are rent apart." With hurrying hand, from Sigurd's bier, Gudrun turned-one hurried glance On that much-loved form she threw- She saw, and sank, and low reclined Hid in the couch her throbbing head: Her burning cheek was crimsoned red: • Translated, in "Conybeare's Anglo-Saxon Poetry," from an Icelandic Poem. VENI CREATOR. CREATOR SPIRIT, by whose aid O, source of uncreated light, Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, Refine and purge our earthly parts: |