Each man afield bleeds with him. See, your wound!
By Thaumas' claw-foot maids, 'tis past a scratch!
Dion. I feel not this—but O, fair Syracuse!
Rock in thy fiery cradle till the sea
Gets up to weep, and bending gods pour down
Remorseful tears to drown the reddening shame
That blushes o'er the moon and writes the name
Of hell upon the stars!
[A sudden burst of noise and flame from the heights of Achridina]
Art gone, my city?...