(The soldiers shout, "All! All!")
Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms
That he would love to die in,—for, this hour,
We storm the Consul's camp. A last farewell!
(He takes their hands.)
When next we meet,—we'll have no time to look,
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance.
Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome!
Now to your cohorts' heads;—the word's—Revenge!
GEORGE CROLY.
* * * * *
CARACTACUS.
Before proud Rome's imperial throne
In mind's unconquered mood,
As if the triumph were his own,
The dauntless captive stood.
None, to have seen his free-born air,
Had fancied him a captive there.
Though, through the crowded streets of Rome,
With slow and stately tread,
Far from his own loved island home,
That day in triumph led,—
Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.
A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession passed
Of Rome's victorious power;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurled his haughty lip the while.