The Dying Gladiator

     I see before me the Gladiator lie:
     He leans upon his hand -- his manly brow
     Consents to death, but conquers agony,
     And his droop'd head sinks gradually low --
     And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
     From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
     Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
     The arena swims around him -- he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.

     He heard it, but he heeded not -- his eyes
     Were with his heart, and that was far away;
     He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
     But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
     There where his young barbarians all at play,
     There was their Dacian mother -- he, their sire,
     Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday --
     All this rush'd with his blood -- Shall he expire
And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!