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OF yore I sought the future to forecast,
And vaunted that my fame would long outlast
Memorial bronze or regal pyramid,
And gain fresh lustre as the ages passed.
Then, ever harping on the nation's need
Of discipline in rugged Cato's creed,
Mistrusting that her heart was sound and strong,
I spoke harsh words of Rome's degenerate breed.
So ran the double burden of my strain—
My waxing glory and the Empire's wane.
Yet Rome was re-awaking in her sons
And I was blind, but now I see them plain—
Sons who in boyhood put their games aside
And flew to stem the fierce barbarian tide:
Who never gave us pain until they fell,
And then our pain was swallowed up in pride.
Who laid their blameless lives unmurmuring down,
Without a thought of guerdon or renown,
To save their country or to shield a friend;
Who earned, but seldom wore, the civic crown.
Who, ere their generous hearts in death were stilled,
By some unconquerable impulse thrilled,
Within the compass of a crowded hour
Outlived a lifetime, and "all hours fulfilled."
"Immortal dead!" I hear our Virgil sigh,
"How can the dearest and the noblest die?"
And though his passionate appeal be vain,
Now less than ever can I chide his cry.
Shall I outlive them with my Latin lay,
I who my shield once basely cast away,
Preserved and sheltered by their sacrifice?
Love and Regret and Envy answer Nay.