"
A slave took the little creature in his arms and bore him away as if he
had been a pet dog.
"Tell me, young men," said the emperor, "have you no lines to read
us--you that have youth and beauty and sweethearts? How is it with
you, good Vergilius?"
The young man shook his head. "No," said he; "I have youth and a
sweetheart, but not the gift of poesy."
"No lines! What are we coming to in this Rome of ours? Are there no
more poets? My dear friends, tell me, in the baths or the forum or the
theatre, or wherever the people congregate, do you hear of no youth
that has the divine gift of song?"
He paused for a little, but there was no reply.
"Then Rome is in evil days," said the great father, sadly.
"Why?" It was the question of Gracus.
"Why, young man? Because in every land there should be those who can
cherish the fear of the gods and make honor beautiful and love sacred
and valor a thing of imperishable fame. I assure you, good people, one
poet is better," he paused, thoughtfully--"than ten thousand soldiers,"
he added.
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