Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/239

238 Through the proud mazes of thy regal dome Pursued the flying Geta; and whose hand 'Mid that heaven-sanctioned shrine, a mother's breast, Did pierce his bosom. Was it worth the price Thus of a brother's blood, to reign alone, Those few, short, poisoned years? Around thy couch Gleamed there no nightly terror? no strange dream Of bright locks, dripping blood upon thy soul In fiery martyrdom? Rose not thy sire, The stern Severus, from his British tomb To ask thee of thy brother, and to curse The mad ambition of the second Cain? Was there no pause, no conflict, ere thy heart Plunged into guilt like this? no fluttering pulse, No warning of offended Deity, to make Thy spirit quail? or didst thou shake thy spear At virtue's guards, and coldly sell thy soul? Fade, fade, grim phantom! 'tis too horrible To question thus with thee. Again the scene Spreads unempurpled, unimpassioned forth; The white lambs resting 'neath the evening shade, While dimly curtained 'mid her glory, Rome Slumbereth, as one o'erwearied.