Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Two Triumphs

by John Collings Squire

TWO TRIUMPHS

Fills the scorchèd way with clamour: shouts of people,
Clash of cymbals, rolling of the chariots,
Tramp of feet. The long line winds to sight.
The shouts grow louder and louder,
Exulting cries of a crowd triumphant,
Seeing the train of the captive chiefs,
Dark-skinned and bearded, beads of sweat shining
On fevered brows. Hopelessly, wearily,
With great black melancholy eyes cast down,
Walk fettered Asian maids. But, ah! the splendour of gold
On the car, and the purple robe of the victor aloft,
And his haughty mien, and his eyes. . . .

•••••• Dead, rotten, dead, two thousand years ago.