es.

When Terpnos gave him a golden lute, he raised his eyes to the sky,
filled with the conflagration, as if he were waiting for inspiration.
The people pointed at him from afar as he stood in the bloody gleam. In
the distance fiery serpents were hissing. The ancient and most sacred
edifices were in flames; the temple of Hercules, reared by Evander, was
burning; the temple of Jupiter Stator was burning, the temple of Luna,
built by Servius Tullius, the house of Numa Pompilius, the sanctuary of
Vesta with the _penates_ of the Roman people; through waving flames the
Capitol appeared at intervals; the past and the spirit of Rome were
burning. But Caesar was there with a lute in his hand and a theatrical
expression on his face, not thinking of his perishing country, but of
his posture and the prophetic words with which he might describe best
the greatness of the catastrophe, rouse most admiration, and receive the
warmest plaudits.

He detested that city, he detested its inhabitants, he loved only his
own songs and verses; hence he rejoiced in heart that at last he saw a
tragedy like that which he was writing. The poet was happy, the
declaimer felt inspired, the seeker for emotions was delighted at the
awful sight, and thought with rapture that even the destruction of Troy
was as nothing if compared with the destruction of that giant city. What
more could he desire? There was world-ruling Rome in flames, and he,
standing on the arches of the aqueduct with a golden lute, conspicuous,
purple, admired, magnificent, and poetic. Down below, somewhere in the
darkness, the people are muttering and storming; let them mutter! Ages
will elapse, thousands of years will pass, but mankind will remember and
glorify the poet who that night sang the fall and the burning of Troy.
What was Homer compared with him? What Apollo himself with his
hollowed-out lute?

Here he raised his hands, and, striking the strings, with an exaggerated
theatrical gesture pronounced the words of Priam:

"O nest of my fathers, O dear cradle!" His voice in the open air, with
the roar of the conflagration, and the distant murmur of crowding
thousands, seemed marvellously weak, uncertain, and low, and the sound
of the accompaniment like the buzzing of insects. But senators,
dignitaries, and Augustians, assembled on the aqueduct, bowed their
heads and listened in silent rapture. He sang long, and his motive was
ever sadder. At moments, when he stopped to catch b