Though Rome's ten thousands throng'd the Forum: there— All stood aloof in more than mortal fear, Save now and then, a veteran or a priest Approach'd the gulph, more hardy than the rest, And gaz'd on what the boldest might confound— So vast its depth, so black, and so profound. Sulphurous, stifling exhalations rose, With hollow sounds, perchance the laboring throes Of a new Ætna, whose volcanic ire Might burst ere long, and deluge Rome with fire: But when the priestly train, in pomp and state, Proclaimed aloud the stern decree of Fate, That never more should close that dread abyss, Or Rome know safety, 'till the appointed price Of peace with Heav'n were paid, by burying there All that she held most precious—then despair Gave way to patriotic hope, and soon Money and costliest goods were tossing down With eager haste, 'till Curtius rode along The precipice, and thus bespoke the throng. “Romans, withhold your gifts—the Gods behold Unmoved this reckless waste of gems and gold! Think ye the wealth of conquer'd realms can save Th' imperill'd city from this yawning grave— That Rome, whose banner to the skies unfurl'd, Proclaims the future mistress of the world, Can bring, when to her last resources driven, No purer, costlier boon to proffer Heaven Than sordid ore, which every miser craves, The bane of freedom, and the life of slaves? Be sure it needs in this abyss to throw What gold ne'er bought, and Gods alone bestow. Our guardian deities do most approve Of military courage, and the love Of native land; and if within my heart These virtues may be found, I now depart Alone to fathom the impervious gloom, And be this gulph my altar and my tomb! Oh may propitious Jove with favor see This sacrifice, and Rome remember me!” Rider and horse have reached the brink—one bound, And, like a dream, he disappeared!——no sound, No shout of triumph, or of dread, to tell His fate, who dar'd so nobly and so well. Strange horror, admiration, and regret, Spell-bound that multitude—thereon was set Silence unearthly—even as with a seal Unbroken—'till a muttering thunder-peal, Low, sad and solemn, through the empyrean rung, As tho' the Gods his funeral requiem sung— While slowly to its music closed the tomb That held the saviour and the pride of Rome. The act—its motives—its results, imprest A sacred awe on every Roman breast. In silence to their rescued homes they turn'd, And inly blest the hero while they mourn'd; They rais'd no arch, in vain triumphal pride, Recording how or wherefore Curtius died— No column trophy-crown'd: no sculptured stone; These but emblazon what were else unknown: A death whose influence might ne'er depart, Had shrin'd his heroism in every heart.