"The inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won,"
he adds, in lines which will be read till Homer and Virgil are forgotten:
"He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother—he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday—
All this gush'd with his blood—shall he expire