 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
“Away! away! slaves! drag the traitor hence!
And, with the gladiators in the cells,
Let him await the combat of the beast!
My spirit wearies of his raven croak.
—So, now for better mirth! and yet the shouts
Of hurrying multitudes unto the games
Invoke my presence and the dial marks
The hour of carnage—do ye cry for blood?
By Jove! ye shall not lack, for never gazed
Imperial Nero on the sea of flame,
That surged along the shrieking capital,
With such a rapture as my soul shall feel
To watch the lingering agonies and breathe
The last deep death-sighs and slow muttered groans
Of that accursed despiser of my power!
Come, friends! the people shall be pampered now.
One cordial cup to vengeance—then away!
The chariot races wait my word—and shouts
Rise like the roar of ocean o'er the hills,
While in the ghastly hell light of the mount,
Beneath whose deeps the Titans groan, the steeds
Caparisoned upon the towers uprear
Their heads, struggling to spring upon their course;
And yon vast cloud of faces through the gloom
Looks with a ruthlessness that fits my mood.
—Break up the banquet! let the games begin!”
And, with the gladiators in the cells,
Let him await the combat of the beast!
My spirit wearies of his raven croak.
—So, now for better mirth! and yet the shouts
Of hurrying multitudes unto the games
Invoke my presence and the dial marks
The hour of carnage—do ye cry for blood?
By Jove! ye shall not lack, for never gazed
Imperial Nero on the sea of flame,
That surged along the shrieking capital,
With such a rapture as my soul shall feel
To watch the lingering agonies and breathe
128
Of that accursed despiser of my power!
Come, friends! the people shall be pampered now.
One cordial cup to vengeance—then away!
The chariot races wait my word—and shouts
Rise like the roar of ocean o'er the hills,
While in the ghastly hell light of the mount,
Beneath whose deeps the Titans groan, the steeds
Caparisoned upon the towers uprear
Their heads, struggling to spring upon their course;
And yon vast cloud of faces through the gloom
Looks with a ruthlessness that fits my mood.
—Break up the banquet! let the games begin!”
It was the office of the Ædile to superintend the erection of the public buildings and to supervise all public entertainments; but it was the prerogative of the Prætor to preside, if he pleased, on all memorable and solemn occasions. Although it was customary for an inferior officer to direct the gladiatorial combats, yet, in this instance, the tumultuary passions of the Prætor led him to assume a station which would enable him, at least, to insure the death of Pansa whom he had so much reason to envy and hate.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |