Classic Poem

Ha! whither rush ye? to what deeds of guilt?
Why lift the sword again?
Has not enough of Latian blood been spilt
To purple land and main?

Not with proud Carthage war ye now, to set
Her turrets in a blaze;
Nor fight to lead the Briton, tameless yet,
Chained on the public ways.

But that our country, at the Parthian's prayer,
May perish self-o'erthrown.
The wolf and lion war not thus; they spare
Their kindred each his own.

What moves ye thus? blind fury, heaven's decree,
Or restless guilt? Reply! —
They answer not; upon their faces, see,
Paleness and horror lie!

Fate and the wrong against a brother wrought
Have caused that deadly rage.
The blood of unoffending Remus brought
This curse upon our age.