Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/238

And gliding lizards. Would she tell to man
In the hoarse plaint of that discordant shriek,
The end of earthly glory?
                                           See, how meek
And unpretending, 'mid the ruined pride
Of Caracalla's circus, yon white flock
Do find their sweet repast. The playful lamb,
Fast by its mother's side, doth roam at peace.
How little dream they of the hideous roar
Of the Numidian lion, or the rage
Of the fierce tiger, that in ancient times
Fought in this same arena, for the sport
Of a barbarian throng. With furious haste
No more the chariot round the stadium flies;
Nor toil the rivals in the painful race
To the far goal; nor from yon broken arch
Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to claim
The hard-earned garland. All have past away,
Save the dead ruins, and the living robe
That Nature wraps around them. Anxious fear,
High-swollen expectancy, intense despair,
And wild, exulting triumph, here have reigned,
And perished all.
                              'T were well could we forget
How oft the gladiator's blood hath stained
Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome,
With all her fairest, brightest brows looked down
On the stern courage of the wounded wretch
Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh
Or tone of tender pity, were to him
A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye
The distant vision of his cabin rude,
With all its echoing voices, all the rush
Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang
To which the torture of keen death was light.
A haughtier phantom stalks! What dost thou here,
Dark Caracalla, fratricide? whose step