His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,And prattling boys, as one disgraced,They tell us, and with manly prideStern on the ground his visage placed.With counsel thus ne'er else areadHe nerved the fathers' weak intent,And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, spedInto illustrious banishment.Well witting what the torturer's artDesign'd him, with like unconcernThe press of kin he push'd apartAnd crowds encumbering his return,As though, some tedious business o'erOf clients' court, his journey layTowards Venafrum's grassy floor,Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.Your fathers' guilt you still must pay,Till, Roman, you restore each shrine,Each temple, 'mouldering in decay,And smoke-grimed statue, scarce divine.