THANKS to your pith Saguntum is destroyed! 'Tis time to pipe the songs of Carthage now; To muse upon the world within her streets, The tinkling in some soft and sandy place Of camel cavalcades whose spicy loads Make fragrant leagues for those who march behind. The Gods are gracious. I enrich you all With pastoral dawns and twilights of repose. Go, make the girdled hearts revolt with joy, And hear your valour published to the stars; Hide in the sheath the gapped and greedy blade That drank the plenty of Saguntum veins! What of the siege, my heroes? Was it long? What of the sack, my heroes? Was it good? Each sword has won a virgin; every man White witching arms to tie him round with love. Has not the wine run freely in the camp? Or have I niggardly denied the can Its island-cluster of canary beads That hissed and sparkled gaily while you roared Great soldier-songs that rumbled in the hills? Your beards were hung with purple dewdrops then, Drops of the wine that splashed the naked knees Of girls who sped it round your garrulous fires. Take back this history of roaring fight, Take home your scars to Carthage; show the trench Saguntum bullies dug upon your cheeks, Till youths, midway between the boy and man, Shall itch to glut beside their country's sons A thirsty blade throughout our next campaign, And maidens sing you in their fountain-songs. For how the dame's recovered cheek will flush At news of hostile handiwork! to learn Her husband's mightier arm confused the foe! Your sons will reap incentives, and each wound Will be a lamp to guide the coming brood To follow glory upward to a scar. The striplings of the land will charge at play With girlish swords and baby javelins, And prick a fancied Roman from the bush. 'Tis thus the glamour grows; for stirring tales Of onset, and the death-grip day by day, Of peril, rescue, booty and applause Are trumpets to the blood and signal fires To warn the sprouting heroes of our kin. I am a man of battle, and I yearn To see young tigers lap their early blood, So here I make a harvest of my plans And loot the hours of possible design. Gods! if the soul of Carthage should not feel That glory waiting past the Pyrenees!— Should dwindle to a passive, womanish thing, And, barren, shirk the dominating task! But when your stiffened fingers scarce stretch out, For gripping iron handles, it is ill To let the shadow of another war Fall thus across your pleasure. Let me trust. Home to the mellow homeland songs and dance, For standards, scars upon your daring cheeks! O for a sight of Carthage! Homing braves, I charge you bear me when the Spring's at bud Sweet gossip of my mistress and my wife! She sits eternal by the lusting sea And stares upon the wilderness of blue, Kept by the beating of a million hearts! Within her gates unrivalled maidens blush Whose necks are clasped by chiming ornaments; They look to Spain, and supplicate the Gods To bring you home to kisses from the war. Go, dream beside their beauty! Go, and take The throbbing sweethearts in your potent arms— Arms that can help an empire to be set, Babe of an empire, in this Spanish West. Each with his lips against some sleeping cheek Forget the clank of armour and the shrill Quick scream of arrows, and the wind The stone makes coming from the monstrous sling; But when the branch begins to feel the leaf At push and pout in her, forsake those lips Are rivals of your greatness, and look up At Glory's signpost! Once again Intrust you to the mouthings of the deep, Placating first, by prayers and gifts of worth, The sea-god looking through his opal roof. Come back to me with even sharper swords, And not one pinch of all the excellence You showed of old lost in the realm of ease; Forgetting not the soul of all my need, Sweet gossip of my mistress and my wife— Carthage I took in trust from Hasdrubal, Carthage I widen, love, and glorify. So, with good news of her, and you in trim To swing her steel as staunchly as of old, I doubt not we shall fright the Eagle yet, And pour our language through the streets of Rome! |