No more he dreamt to enter Rome
In laurel-wreathed triumphal car; With captive monarchs in his train,
With spoils and trophies from afar.
Nor e'er to quaff the festive bowl
'Neath purple canopy of state; Whilst bard and sage his feats rehearse,
And martial throngs his bidding wait.
Ah, Cæsar! thou wert well avenged,
When on its lowly, greenwood bed, Defeated valour stooped to swell
The army of ignoble dead.
Though on those ancient battle-fields,
Sapped with the blood of myriad slain, The suns of centuries have smiled,
And reapers gathered golden grain.
Though pomp and power of ancient Rome
With Roman idols passed away, The thirst of power, and greed of gain
Live on to mar this later day.
Still boastful arrogance excels,
And moneyed ignorance soareth high; Still fashion rules the world of sham;
Still man for man in strife must die.
Yet, sure as rills from mountain source
Through varied channels seaward run; So surely ill will track the course
Of him that hath the evil done.
And conscience seared, lethargic-souled,
Who deal in evil to the last Must realize, beyond the bourne,
Deservèd doom, and mercy past.