Tribunes. Coriolanus

Ere time's slow current in his gradual course Had purg'd the foulness of Rome's natal source, Who could expect in her young state to see High birth assum'd, and pride of family? To see the outlaw's, ruffian's, robber's brood, Puff'd with pre-eminence of noble blood? Yet, with the names of different orders known, Were the first seeds of fierce dissension sown. Soon was the mean original forgot, The clay-built city, and the straw-roof'd cot: The new patrician now survey'd with scorn The poor plebeian, as his vassal born; With ostentatious pageantry display'd The saucy ensigns of his proud parade. Thus, in the world's great garden, still we see, The weed of quickest growth is vanity. But yet more hateful, by a baser vice, To this he join'd insatiate avarice; And made the power which wealth bestows to bless, To poverty the source of wretchedness. Not long the spark of discord smother'd lay, Firy and fierce it flam'd to open day; The outrag'd sullen peasant soon began To poize his strength, and feel himself a man; His well-brac'd arm and massy club deny'd The vain distinctions of usurping pride; Till in the pompous magistrate he saw The insult only, and forgot the awe. Power which to full maturity would grow, To save the substance, should conceal the show. They met, as hostile elements, to jar, With all the rancour of intestine war; Petition and respect no more were heard, The tribune's veto made the people fear'd; Sacred his person too, with every fence Stern law could frame, to shield his insolence: So, with that sturdy magistrate to lead, Bold innovation rais'd its towering head, Till liberty's high spirit, in excess, Foam'd with the dregs of foul licentiousness: Like Scylla, by her barking offspring torn, Rome felt their rage, and felt it but to mourn. Chas'd by the rabble from the factious town, Nor shelter'd by his name's deserv'd renown, See Coriolanus to his foes repair, Excite their fury, and conduct the war. Dire as a comet in th'eventful hour, O'er his black brow the frowns of Até lour; The suppliant deputations sent from home, Return unheeded, or rebuk'd, to Rome: For abject now, as insolent before, The people's boasted triumph soon was o'er; But breathing vengeance in his ireful mood, Deaf to their prayers the surly exile stood. At length, the matron train his mother leads; Nature's soft murmur in his bosom pleads: His weeping wife, in all her modest charms, An infant child, with helpless outstretch'd arms, Touch'd every spring where social pity lay, And bade the husband, sire, and son, obey: O'ercome by these, the Volscian host retires, While he, a victim to their rage, expires. Thus ever, when opposing duties meet, And adverse interests make one breast their seat, By both distracted, and to neither true, Passion precedes, and ruin must ensue. Never had Rome a braver soldier bred; Her martial files to victory he led; And thrice his brows the oaken garland wore, While many an honest scar his bosom bore: But much unskilful in the arts of peace, His merits with the shouts of battle cease; He scorn'd the forum, (fraud and strife's abode,) War his delight, and Mars his favourite God. Sincere and dauntless, his aspiring soul Form'd to command, but ill endur'd control; Rash, angry thoughts, which prudence should conceal, His pride would dictate, and his tongue reveal; This knew his crafty foes, who watch'd to raise The kindling spark, and fann'd it to a blaze; Then all their lurking malice could desire, Burst out impetuous from his boundless ire. So falls the unsuspecting lion, led Where first with art the treacherous toils lie spread. All virtues but discretion he possess'd; Yet wanting that, in vain he own'd the rest: That cautious humble guide experience finds Scorn'd or neglected by heroick minds; And yet no safer pilot can be near, Through life's rough tide man's dangerous course to steer.