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THE SIBYL.

SHE stept before the careless, haughty king,
A messenger out of the mystic skies,

Crying, "O sire, a boon from Jove I bring,

Sparely he spends who dear such treasure buys ; Bring forth your hoarded heaps of jewels and gold To buy heaven's wares and blessings for the state." With that before his eyes she doth unfold

Nine giant volumes, big with fear and fate.

What meant the woman with her earnest look ?
How dared she on his loneliness intrude

With jest defiant? Yet his spirit shook

Seeing her, like a boy's who breaks with rude Unseemly laugh into a garth of graves

At evening, and falls still with transient awe, But like a king his better heart he braves

And warns the rash invader to the door.

His urgent threat lightly she disregards

Standing self-trustful though in presence so stern With forehead knit and sad. "The king discards Jove's bounty, then the king shall see it burn." And taller doth she wax with gathering ire

And in her great eyes do the lightnings play
As three huge tomes she casts into the fire
And the quick flame licks lightly up its prey.

Like as on sunny morning hours men chase

The memory of some harrowing sound or sight.
Which, still recurring, haunts them; such the case
Of this proud king who, half in fear to light
On some large portent all significant,

Dreads more and loathes to fail from majesty,
Quenching before a shameless mendicant
The unbrooked fire of his all-ruling eye.

The Sibyl once again draws close and tends
The unburnt volumes with a joyless smile
Before the king, who curious forward bends

And watches, witchcraft does she mean or guile? Yet something in her look holds him aghast, Recalling all he recollects of wild

Terrible and divine,-the shivering blast

And toppling waves o'er sinking ships up-piled.

No suppliant now, the mighty books she proffers,
Demanding the same price with awful brow
And hand outstretched (so the strong conqueror offers
Slavery or death to captives quivering low) :
The little fire crackled in the furnace-pan
But in the chamber stirred no other thing,
Still as the sculpture of some cunning man
Stood the wrought Sibyl and the wavering king.

But what too poorly could a chisel show
Was what the high gods did intently mark;
The battle waged with many a wounding blow
In the king's soul, who stood there chill and stark ;
God-given reverence, kindred with things divine,

At war with human pride and human state,
The field a soul, the issue his own line,

And high Rome's destiny and the world's fate.

Shall heavenly will in dark enigma speak,

And hold it sin if such is misconstrued?

Is a high monarch through the veil to break

By heaven thrown round him for his people's good At warning vague, thus scornfully conveyed, So strange in form, of such wild parentage? He questioned mute, and she his face surveyed Stationary, quelling down pity and rage.

Have I not duly at hours and seasons meet,

With proper pride of pomp and torch and chant And costly robe and retinue, to the feet

Of each white statue largely without scant

First-fruits and offerings of flesh and flower brought? To what end then was this waste, this solemn rout, If heaven, my pious service counting naught,

A throne divine with mocking farce should flout?

Have not my litanies and sacrifices

Laid up against some half-unwitting error A store of pardon above? Her look entices

My heart to yield, with its strange gaze of terror,

But is a king whose whisper is the law

To brook defiance and an air so bold?—

And then, whence dreamed I that her mien breathed awe?

She is a beggar, and her hope is gold.

So, self-convinced against his higher self,

Spurred by o'er-confidence and smarting pride, Against all doubts he hates the wight whom pelf

Has taught to claim a mission from heaven, and

hide

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Under the antic garb of prophet-gaze

Irreverence for himself, his office grand ;A wretch who, be her daring crime or craze, Shall find there rules a monarch in the land.

Enough for her that visage changed, where doubt Has fled before decision's flag unfurled ;—

The die is cast, and with a ringing shout

Into the fire three volumes more are hurled; Out of her frozen reserve at once she springs, And, pointing at the once more quailing man, Opens her lips to speak prophetic things

With deep breaths passionate; and thus began.

"Have I not read, writ in your pensive eyes, Throughout these solemn moments of suspense, The shiftings and unworthy sophistries

Which overcame at last the instinctive sense

By which you knew, by Jove's own finger traced,
The emblem of my mission on my brow,

Yet with false dignity your spirit braced,
Angry because I spake less bold than now?

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Yet now at last you know me, and now I

Must speak, and all your evil pride break down;

Sent with a blessing from the fateful sky,

At least in this will I befriend Rome's town,