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!