 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
“A Roman's Mercy! every spot of earth,
Your banners have shed plagues on, can attest
With shrieks what mercy Rome has given earth,”
Said Pansa, dauntless in the cause of Truth.
“Yet ye shall never feel the love ye boast
Until the slaves ye trample, torture, slay,
After the unanswered vengeance of your will,
Shall learn that they are human and awake
To imitate the mercy of their lords!
Perchance—'twas in my native land—I know
Thee and thy fathers, Prætor! though thou sitst
In pride of judgment now—thine ancestors
Were suttlers of the Carthagenian camp,
When mine called freedom to the Sacred Mount;—
Thou mayst have heard the tale of Sicily,
Or read that Spartacus withstood the hosts—”
Your banners have shed plagues on, can attest
With shrieks what mercy Rome has given earth,”
Said Pansa, dauntless in the cause of Truth.
“Yet ye shall never feel the love ye boast
Until the slaves ye trample, torture, slay,
After the unanswered vengeance of your will,
Shall learn that they are human and awake
To imitate the mercy of their lords!
Perchance—'twas in my native land—I know
Thee and thy fathers, Prætor! though thou sitst
In pride of judgment now—thine ancestors
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When mine called freedom to the Sacred Mount;—
Thou mayst have heard the tale of Sicily,
Or read that Spartacus withstood the hosts—”
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |