Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/37

Rh Thy comrades to the farthest Ind, Who dared invade the Eastern plains, And plant thy banners at the gates of dawn— Behold, destruction feeds on them. They saw the blessed Arabes, 'Mid spicy groves; and the fleeing steeds Of the Parthian, deadliest when he flees; They trod the marge of the ruddy sea, Where Phoebus his rising beams displays, And the day reveals; where his nearer fires Darken the naked Indians. Yea we, that race invincible, Beneath the hand of greedy fate Are falling fast. The gloomy retinue of death In march unceasing hurries on; The grieving line unending hastes To the place of death. Space fails the throng. For, though seven gates stand open wide, Still for the crowding funerals 'Tis not enough; for everywhere Is carnage seen, and death treads hard Upon the heels of death. The sluggish ewes first felt the blight, For the woolly flock the rich grass cropped To its own doom. At the victim's neck The priest stood still, in act to strike; But while his hand still poised the blow, Behold, the bull, with gilded horns, Fell heavily; whereat his neck, Beneath the shock of his huge weight, Was broken and asunder yawned. No blood the sacred weapon stained, But from the wound dark gore oozed forth. The steed a sudden languor feels, And stumbles in his circling course, While from his downward-sinking side His rider falls. The abandoned flocks lie in the fields;