  And now The arena swims around him; he is gone Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away: He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother—be their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday. All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire! Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, iv. 140. He was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues—still we Trajan's name adore. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, iv. 111. |
|
