How spake the Oracle, my Curtius, how?
Methought, while on the shadow'd terraces
I walked and looked towards Rome, an echo came,
Of legion wails, blent into one deep cry.
"O, Jove!" I thought, "the Oracles have said;
And saying, touched some swiftly answering chord,
Gen'ral to ev'ry soul." And then my heart
(I being here alone) beat strangely loud;
Responsive to the cry--and my still soul,
Inform'd me thus: "Not such a harmony
Could spring from aught within the souls of men,
But that which is most common to all souls.
Lo! that is sorrow!" "Nay, Curtius, I could smile,
To tell thee as I listen'd to the cry,
How on the silver flax which blew about
The ivory distaff in my languid hand,
I found large tears; such big and rounded drops
As gather thro' dark nights on cypress boughs,
And I was sudden anger'd, for I thought:
"Why should a gen'ral wail come home to me
With such vibration in my trembling heart,
That such great tears should rise and overflow?"
Then shook them on the marble where I pac'd;
Where instantly they vanished in the sun,
As di'monds fade in flames, 'twas foolish, Curtius!
And then methought how strange and lone it seem'd,
For till thou cam'st I seem'd to be alone,
On the vin'd terrace, prison'd in the gold
Of that still noontide hour. No widows stole
Up the snow-glimmering marble of the steps
To take my alms and bless the Gods and me;
No orphans touched the fringes of my robe
With innocent babe-fingers, nor dropped the gold
I laid in their soft palms, to laugh, and stroke
The jewels on my neck, or touch the rose
Thou sayest, Curtius, lives upon my cheek.
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