While this they pondered, lo! a sound of footsteps fell on every ear, And in their midst a Roman youth did presently appear. Apollo’s brow, a mien like Mars, in Beauty’s mould he seemed new-made, As on his golden hair the sun with dazzling dalliance played.
’Tis Marcus Curtius! Purer blood none there could boast, and none more brave: There stands the youthful patriot, come, a Roman, Rome to save. His own young life, he offers that, yea, volunteers _himself_ to throw Within the cleft to make it close, and stay the heavy woe.
And now on horseback, fully armed, behold him, for the hour hath come. The Roman guards keep watch and ward, and beats the muffled drum. The consuls, proctors, soothsayers, within the forum group around, Young Curtius in the saddle sits,--there yawns the severed ground.
Each pulse is stayed. He lifts his helm, and bares his forehead to the sky, And to the broad, blue heaven above upturns his flashing eye. “O Rome, O country best beloved, thou land in which I first drew breath, I render back the life thou gav’st, to rescue _thee_ from death!”
Then spurring on his gallant steed, a last and brief farewell he said, And leapt within the gaping gulf, _which closed above his head_.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three. “Good speed!” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; “Speed!” echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place. I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffield, ’twas morning, as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke the silence with, “Yet there is time!”
At Aorschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one. To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.