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—he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday—[1]N29
All this rushed with his blood—Shall he expire
And unavenged?—Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
CXLII.
But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam;—
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
And roared or murmured like a mountain stream
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise
Was Death or Life—the playthings of a crowd—[2]N30
My voice sounds much—and fall the stars' faint rays[3]
On the arena void—seats crushed—walls bowed—
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.
CXLIII.
A Ruin—yet what Ruin! from its mass
Walls—palaces—half-cities, have been reared;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,[4]
