How many lyrics, which, like trumpets heard At dawn, when, clad in steel, the long array Of marshaled armies glittering in the sun Stretch, like the skies, away. But none so golden, chivalric and holy As that of thine, Coriolanus--none In the imperial purple of old days But pale before its sun. True, thou wast proud, and deemed the people base, Prone to idolatry of those who sought Their April smiles--who fawned to win their votes, Nor dreamed them dearly bought. Thou, who hadst stood where death reigned like a king, First in Corioli--thy wounds in front-- Preferring neigh of steed and clash of arms, The battle's deadly brunt, To silken ease, and mirth, and song, and dance, And festal follies in Etruscan halls-- Bacchantic revels, when the sun went down, Beyond the city walls, Couldst well gaze on the mass with eagle eye, Demanding as a right their voice, and blush To bare thy scars, while thy patrician scorn Made cheek and forehead flush. The base cabals--the hate which drove thee forth A wanderer, ennobled thee: thy fame Looked lightning on the curs that dared abuse, But lacked the power to shame. Prouder thy spirit in that trying hour Than theirs who stung thee: well might'st thou go forth Undaunted, for thy fame was not of Rome, But, rather, of the earth. Yet it was hard to leave thy wife and babe-- Virgilia and thy little one--hard to break The bonds that held thee to them: Rome grew dear-- Most dear for their sweet sake. But as their forms waxed dim, thy festering heart Looked from thine eyes; thy swelling nostrils told The inward struggle, and thy heaving chest A human ocean rolled. Kneeling upon the ground, thy sinister arm Adjuring heaven, thy soul broke forth in tones Of thunder; but thy agony in that hour Pale Rome repaid with groans. Coldly, with stately step and placid brow-- A lull--the herald of the approaching storm-- Thou went'st thy way toward Antium--trod its streets Without the thought of harm. Humble was thy approach, but thou went'st forth A Mars of the time--thy snorting steed arrayed And glistering with gold, while at thy heels A thousand clarions brayed. Rome from her seven hills looked down with fear, Appalled and breathless, while her people stood Like men awoke from sleep, amazed, aghast-- With agues in their blood. Like an avenging angel with the sword Of wrath unsheathed, careering toward thy home Through flame and blood, thou rod'st: thy coming shook The hundred gates of Rome.