Once more, I say,--are ye resolved?
(_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.
And now he stood, with brow serene,
Where slaves might prostrate fall,
Bearing a Briton's manly mien
In Caesar's palace hall;
Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek,
The liberty e'en there to speak.
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