“What flower-crowned captives bled, the abyss to close?
“What Syrian perfumes from the brink arose?
“What sculptured vases of barbaric gold,
“What trophied treasures, through its void were rolled?
“What sunbright gems—onyx and agate rare,
“And deathless adamant—were scattered there?
“But not in gold, nor gems, nor Tyrian die,
“Trophies, nor slaves, did Rome’s best treasure lie!
“His limbs superb in war’s triumphant guise,
“His soul’s high valor flashing from his eyes,