A Roman matron thus addressed her son: “Why, at this time, wilt thou put armor on; No foreign foes menace thy native land, No hostile galleys seek her guarded strand— At peace with all but Gods, thou dost not hope In martial pride with Heavenly power to cope? Oh say thou goest not, as much I fear, To view yon gulph of terror and despair: It open'd at the word of angry Jove, And 'till our prayers win mercy from above, {546} A million, brave as thou, might spend in vain Their strength or lives to close its depths again. No answer, Marcus? Ah, my heart sinks down With sad presentiment of ills unknown. Why shade those ringlets, trimm'd with scrup'lous care, A brow whose gloom thy mother cannot cheer? And deck'd more gaily than a bridegroom—why Turn'st thou on me a grave and mournful eye? Remain with me, my son, but this one day— To-morrow take my blessing with thee;—say, Shall she who gave thee birth implore in vain? Unblest by me, what canst thou hope to gain?” To this alone he calmly made reply— | His gaze on her, his right hand raised on high— | “Safety for Rome——renown that ne'er shall die!” | No kind farewell, tho' shower'd her grief like rain— He knew himself, nor dar'd to look again; But shook his plume, suppress'd the gathering tear, Turn'd his proud horse, and urg'd his fleet career. His parent gazed in that convulsive grief Which burns the heart, nor finds in tears relief— No Spartan she to bid him wear his shield, Or be borne on it from the battle field. “Oh Death,” she cried, “a desolate mother see! In mercy strike, and set my spirit free! I'll seek my son on thy unfriendly shore, My heart assures me he returns no more.” * * * * *