Who now look wrathful from your deep abodes,
Behold your ready sacrifice!" He comes,
Arm'd as for battle, save no plumed helm
His black hair presses: he is on the steed
Which has so often borne him to the field.—
Young Curtius came, but with a brow as firm,
And cheek unchang'd, as he was wont to wear,
When he essay'd the glorious strife of men;
Pride glanced upon his eye—but pride that seem'd
As a remembrance of the higher state
In which aspiring spirits move; whose thoughts
Of avarice, indolence, and selfish care,
The chains of meaner ones, have given way
Before the mighty fire of the high soul—
Whose hope is immortality, whose steps
Are steps of flame, on which the many gaze,
But dare not follow. He on moment paus'd,
And cast a farewell look on all around.
How beautiful must be the sky above,
