Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/318

Rh The fires of the Atrium—sacred fires in a quiver,
 * Tremble under the gate,

And cause the Penates in the faint light to shiver
 * By the old antique grate.

The hardy bold sailor who on waters blue-breasted
 * Drives a furrow of foam,

Has the beacon far-streaming, like a warrior high-crested,
 * That aye points him his home.

Roman gods have their suns, their halls spacious to brighten,
 * Beyond hearing and ken;

But Cæsar the powerful, his dark night to enlighten,
 * Must have torches of men.

He orders, and sudden wrapt in black cerements sepulchral,
 * Steeped in pitch, on the scene

Come the victims, to light, torches ghastly and spectral,
 * The fair grove of Sabine.

'Mid songs erotic are heard, or is it a juggle,
 * A wild dream of the brain?

The howls of these torches that with flames fiercely struggle,
 * And that struggle in vain.

Sabine all the while drives a team foaming and rapid
 * Through the long avenue,

Or thrums on his lyre, thrums notes common and vapid,
 * While he smiles at the view.

Smile on, O great Cæsar, though those lights be infernal,
 * They may serve ends divine,

And when ashes thou art, as fire-banners eternal
 * They may shine and still shine.