Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/238

Rh 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