Classic Poem

“W ILL you buy my leaves, O monarch?
 They teem with wondrous lore
Of things ordained to happen,
 Casting their shades before;
The precious truths are written
 In volumes three times three;
Come, monarch, pay the sesterces
 And take the books from me.”

“Away! I scorn thee, Sibyl,”
 The haughty Tarquin cried,
“Thou hast no power to open
 What God hath sworn to hide;”
The Sibyl took her volumes
 And proudly stalked away;
“Three shall be burned,” she muttered,
 “Six shall bring equal pay”

The curling flames blazed brightly,
 Three volumes ceased to be;
“Now, six, O haughty Tarquin,
 Await thy high decree:
Three precious tomes have perished,
 That told Rome's coming fate;
Say, wilt thou take the six I hold,
 And save the glorious state?”

Again refused the monarch,—
 Three volumes burned again,
Like dry leaves in the forest,
 Where comes no dew nor rain.
And stood again the Sibyl
 Before proud Tarquin's door;
“Three volumes now I offer thee,
 Their worth,—nor less, nor more.”

And Rome's great king relented,—
 “'Tis much, O hag, to pay,
But sesterces, whate'er you wish,
 Sibyl, are yours to-day;
These honored leaves shall rule the state
 Saved by your words prophetic,
From Thule ultima remote,
 To empires trans-Gangetic.”

The bark we launched in years long past
 On the world's stormy sea,
Sailed with no Sibyl leaves to tell
 How strange its fates should be.
But deeds are better far than words,—
 Acts, than prophetic pen;
Prouder than hopes of things to be,
 Are high deeds that have been.

No Sibyl in mysterious lore
 Things secret e'er reveals,
And only life, with solemn pomp,
 The book of Fate unseals;
Thou saidst, O Sibyl, volumes three
 Filled with thy lore divine,
Were worth as many sesterces
 As were the volumes nine.

But one grand life, whose noble deeds
 File by, as men in battle,—
Borne strongly to its glorious end,
 Amid the world's vain rattle,—
Is worth a thousand promises
 Dreamed by a brain ascetic;
Our glory is in acts, not words,—
 Deeds done, not deeds prophetic.