Classic Poem

From shorn fields the victor comes,
Rolls his triumph thro' the streets;
On his chariot's glowing sides
Sound of shout and laughter beats.

Groan the burnished wheels that bear
All the riches of the spoil:
Bearded sheaves and ruddy grapes,
Treasure of the conquered soil.

Low the mighty kine, and rush
Fleece to fleece the hurtling flocks;
Thunder the deep-breasted bulls
To the shouting equinox.

High is borne the teeming hive,
Wreathed with brown leaves of the vine;
Burn clear vases to sealed lips,
Seething with the fierce new wine.

Ivory-sleek and shod with gold,
Pulsing nostrils veiled in smoke,
Haught his chariot horses tread—
Such before a god might yoke.

From the broad rock of his breast
Hangs no sun of burnished shield;
Flows the gold-wrought toga—gold
Red as glare of harvest-field.

In his chariot's quivering wake
Close the months of summer ride—
Flowery shields and sun-tipped spears,
Crocus-locked and sapphire-eyed.

Keenly white as moons of May
Wheeling through deep-tinted stars,
Bright, majestical and tall,
Roll the Vestals' shining cars,

Art and Science; trumpets call,
Answer shrill the sharp-tongued flutes,
Swing great censers subtly filled
With the scent of mellowed fruits.

Lo! the glare of wolf-red eyes—
Hark! the groans of fetters vast—
“Io Triumphe!” scales the skies—
Captive Famine cringes past.

Fierce with joy the wild trumps blare,
Clash smooth cymbals loud and red,
Shakes the earth, as shield by shield
The triumphant legions tread.

Rolls the pomp of victory on,
Quake the stones and pulse the sods,
Roar tall trees in hymnic shouts
To the strong son of the gods.

Sweeps his triumph by broad ways:
Red September seeks the gates,
Bursting by the clam'rous tide
Where his House of Victory waits.