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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 half aroused 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
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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； Else 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 shreads。 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
Trubunes！ 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 camp…fire 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。 ‘‘Kind clients； honest lictors； stand by
me in this fray！ Must I be torn in pieces？ Home； home the nearest way！''
While yet he spake； and looked around with a bewildered stare； Four
sturdy lictors put their necks beneath the curule chair； And fourscore
clients on the left； and fourscore on the right； Arrayed themselves with
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swords and staves； and loins girt up to 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 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！ 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。 。
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The Prophecy of Capys
It can hardly be necessary to remind any reader that according to the
popular tradition； Romulus； after he had slain his granduncle Amulius； and
restored his grandfather Numitor； determined to quit Alba； the hereditary
domain of the Sylvian princes； and to found a new city。 The gods； it was
added； vouchsafed the clearest signs of the favor with which they regarded
the enterprise； and of the high destinies reserved for the young colony。
This event was likely to be a favorite theme of the old Latin minstrels。
They would naturally attribute the project of Romulus to some divine
intimation of the power and prosperity which it was decreed that his city
should attain。 They would probably introduce seers foretelling the
victories of unborn Consuls and Dictators； and the last great victory would
generally occupy the most conspicuous place in the prediction。 There is
nothing strange in the supposition that the poet who was employed to
celebrate the first great triumph of the Romans over the Greeks might
throw his song of exultation into this form。
The occasion was one likely to excite the strongest feelings of national
pride。 A great outrage had been followed by a great retribution。 Seven
years before this time； Lucius Posthumius Megellus； who sprang from one
of the noblest houses of Rome； and had been thrice Consul； was sent
ambassador to Tarentum； with charge to demand reparation for grievous
injuries。 The Tarentines gave him audience in their theatre； where he
addressed them in such Greek as he could command； which； we may well
believe； was not exactly such as Cineas would have spoken。 An exquisite
sense of the ridiculous belonged to the Greek character； and closely
connected with this faculty was a strong propensity to flippancy and
impertinence。 When Posthumius placed an accent wrong； his hearers burst
into a laugh。 When he remonstrated； they hooted him； and called him
barbarian； and at length hissed him off the stage as if he had been a bad
actor。 As the grave Roman retired； a buffoon； who； from his constant
drunkenness； was nicknamed the Pint…pot； came up with gestures of the
grossest indecency； and bespattered the senatorial gown with filth。
Posthumius turned round to the multitude； and held up the gown； as if
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appealing to the universal law of nations。 The sight only in