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The slaves led Pansa from the portico
Fettered yet fearless, for the time of dread
Had passed from him, and in his hopeless cell
The Paraclete illumed his darkened soul,
And panoplied his heart to dare his doom.
Thus, as he entered, loud the Prætor spake:
“Hail, Gladiator! did thy felon god,
Thy scourged and crucified divinity,
Instruct thee in the sabre's use against
The shaggy monarch of Numidian hills?
Art thou argute and apt to lunge and fence
Adroit and firm of nerve to meet or shun
The salutations of the Desert King?
Lucania and Calabria have poured out
Their thousands to behold thy feats to day;
And, gay as bridal banqueters, they throng
The arcades and the vomitories now
To weep the Mauretanian's martyrdom—
For thou, no doubt, wilt triumph and receive
The twice ten thousand acclamations sent
To honour thy proud valour, as is meet.
Oh, thou shalt be anointed like thy Christ,
And not with vulgar nard by courtesans,
But ceroma and myron! owest thou not
Thanks to the Roman Mercy for this care?”