Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/211

Rh Didst thou stand forth In the same dark and motionless beauty, while Casca's impatient sword, and the keen point Of Cassius, and the "unkindest cut of all," From the loved hand of Brutus, and the rage Of traitorous daggers search'd that noble breast, Which Gaul, and Egypt, and Pharsalia's plains Had seen bright-clad in victory's burnish'd mail, Trembling as at a war-god?— Tragic close Of mad ambition's drama!—the deep plaint Of "Et tu Brute!"—and the indignant pang With which that proud soul left the wounded clay, Scorning a world which mock'd it with the cheat Of friendship and of faith!— And yet that world Had owed him little, save the blood that made Her harvests plenteous, save the unheeded groan Of famish'd widow, and of sireless babe, A meteor glory kindled up at Rome, And all beside, a desert.—Deeds like these, How weigh they in Heaven's balance, when the pomp Of earth hath fled away?—Man may not judge, But wait in trembling for his trial-day.— —And yet 't would seem that the meek hind, whose hand Made hard with labour, deals the daily bread To the young nurslings of his humble nest, Whose head beneath his planted trees and flowers, Sinks calmly down in the long sleep of death, Hath better passport to the clime of peace Than the blood-nourish'd master of a world.