Classic Poem

Whither, O whither rush ye in fell wrath?
Why fit the sheathed sword to red right hands?
Too little hath there yet of Thracian death
Crimsoned the seas and lands?

Not that the envious Punic citadel
Should fall in fire on Rome's victorious day,
Or the chained Briton, once invincible,
Move down the sacred way.

But that thou mayest the Parthian prayer fulfil,
A self-destroying city. Not such mind
Have wolves or lions, such a thirst to kill;
They war not with their kind.

Doth some blind fury, or a spur more keen,
Urge you, or crime? I pray you, let me know.
None answers—their pale stupor may be seen;
Their stricken blood beats low.

This is it: evil bitter fates impel
Rome's children, the fraternal murder's crime,
Our deep inheritance, since Remus fell,
Of curse unto all time.