Chapter 12

HISTORICAL.

And now The arena swims around him; he is gone Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not; his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away: He recked 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--be their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday. All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, iv. 140.

He was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstained With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, iv. 111.