Spartacus

He stands storm-browed, imperial, chief

Of all Rome's gladiators; brave

Beyond all others; fearless in belief,

A captive — but no slave.

His brow is like a god's — a brow of power,

Lips soft with human sweetness — ere the day

He entered the arena, and the hour

He first beheld man's life-blood mixed with clay.

Felt rise within him bestial strange desires

And savage instincts in a brutal heart

That battened on men's blood; burned with unhallowed fires

Of slaughter — till — a thing apart,

A hired butcher of his fellow men, he stands

Daring the fasting lion in his den,

Or some fierce gladiator on the blood-stained sands,—

A savage chief of yet more savage men!

He stands, with massive throat and thews of steel,

While loud acclaims the listening heavens fill,

And Roman women smile. He does not know; or feel

A moment's joy or one triumphant thrill.

He heeds them not. He sees as in a dream

His home and Cyrasella's citron groves;

A youth again, beside some purling stream,

With gladsome heart and joyous pipe he roves.

He sees anon that gentle shepherd boy,

Who knew no harsher sound than plaining flute,

In the arena stand — Rome's sport and toy —

A bestial, blood-stained hireling brute....

Then swift thro’ every throbbing, pulsing vein

The fierce unconquered spirit of old Sparta ran.

Rome's fiercest gladiator is to-day again

A Thracian — and a man!