Classic Poem

When in Lavinium erst the Latin crew
No more against their foes' fierce shock could stand,
They to their country's last defence withdrew,
The Spear of Mars, uplifting eye and hand.

Then spake the aged priest the lance who bore:
“I tell you, prompted by your angered King,
A favouring flight of birds he sends no more,
Except to him ye consecrate the Spring!”

“To him the Spring be sacred”—cried the crowd,
“To him be brought whate'er the Spring shall boast;”
A rush of wings was heard; the spear clanged loud,
O'erwhelmed with panic, fled th' Etruscan host.

With shouts of victory they homeward went,
E'en while they triumphed, grew the landscape green;
With flowers, beneath each hoof, the fields are sprent,
Where lances graze the trees, fresh buds are seen.

Beside the altar, and before the gates,
To welcome them with song and mirth unchecked,
A troop of matrons and fair maidens waits,
With flowers, that blossomed but that morning, decked.

And whilst around the joyous welcome spread,
The priest the hill ascended; in the ground
The sacred Spear implanted, bowed his head
In reverent wise, and spake to all around:

“Hail, Mars! who savedst us 'mid death's alarms,
What we have promised will we freely bring;
Across this land I stretch abroad mine arms,
And consecrate to thee this teeming spring.

Whate'er yon pasture, rich in herds, doth hold—
The lambs, the kids upon thy hearth shall flame;
The bullock for the plough shall ne'er grow old,
Nor conquering bit the mettled courser tame.

Whate'er yon garden yields of ripened fruit,
The corn, now waving green on yonder lea,
No touch of human hand shall e'er pollute,
All, all we consecrate, great god, to thee!”

Still knelt the multitude in silent prayer,
Deep silence spread the sacred landscape round;
None e'er beheld a vernal scene so fair;
A strange portentous awe all senses bound.

Again the priest outspoke—“Yet deem ye not
Yourselves from debt released, your vow complete;
Have ye the statutes of old time forgot,
Nor on your promise made reflection meet?

The scent of flowers—the corn but newly sprung—
The pastures that the new-born flocks receive—
Do these to spring belong, and not the young,
Your sons and maids, who through them dances weave?

More than the yearling lambs, your guardian loves
The maiden sweet, who youth's first garland wears;
More than young foals untamed, the God approves
The youth, when first his shining blade he bares.

Oh not for naught, ye sons, 'mid battles tide,
Were ye with energy divine endued;
And not for naught, ye maids, when home we hied,
We found your bloom so wondrously renewed!

A people, Mars! hast thou preserved from shame,
From badge of servitude hast kept us free;
All that this year attains its prime thou'lt claim;
Receive it, Mars! we offer it to thee!”

Again the people bowed themselves in prayer,
The dedicated ones stood close around;
Tho' white their lips, they shone with beauty rare,
And deep mysterious awe all senses bound.

Still silent as the grave the people lay,
Trembling before the god to whom they prayed,
When lo! from heav'n there flashed a lustrous ray
That struck the spear, and round it flickering played.

Thereat the priest looked up with mien inspired,
Down waved his shining beard and silver hair;
With heavenly light his kindling eyes were fired,
And thus their guardian's will he 'gan declare.

“His sacred spoil the god will ne'er forego;
Their death he asks not, but their strength and life;
He loves not blossoms that have ceased to blow,
But those with sap still green, with vigour rife.

A colony must quit old Latium's towers
To serve in distant lands the god of war;
And from this Spring, so rich in germs and flowers,
Rich store of future fruit shall rise afar

Let each devoted youth then choose his bride,
Bright wreaths amid their locks already twine;
Let each fair maiden, by her loved one's side,
Depart, where'er your guiding star shall shine.

The corn, which waving green ye yonder view,
That take for seed-corn when the land ye share;
And from yon trees, that now their shoots renew,
Preserve the kernels and the seeds with care.

There shall the bullock plough th' unbroken land,
The playful lamb o'er new-found pastures stray;
There the young colt shall feel your conquering hand,
Ere long to bear you through some desperate fray.

For frays and future strife your fates portend,
From these the homage claimed by Mars is wrung;
Himself amongst you shall ere long descend
From him your future race of kings be sprung.

Within your temple shall his spear abide,
Which there your captains tremblingly must smite
Whene'er they wander forth o'er land and tide
To spread o'er all the world their conquering might.

Ye hear the destiny for you decreed;
Depart, prepare you for your glorious task;
Ye are a future world's most precious seed;
Such is the “sacred spring” your god doth ask!”