 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
They open, and the gladiators move
Round the thronged circle to display their forms,
Athlete and strong, and with the voice of death
Salute the ruthless Genius of the Games.
From many a kingdom thralled they come—from realms
Spoiled by the locust hordes of Rome; the Gaul,
The Briton and the Thracian and the Frank,
The Wehrmanne and the Hebrew and the Celt,
Every clime's vanquished—every age's wreck,
All codes and creeds, strangers or friends, contend
Here in assassin strife to please their lords.
One deep wild shout like breaking billows swells,
Hailing the victims of the carnage fiend,
And on the sands two stalwart forms alone
Remain; and now Sigalion, voiceless god
Of Memphian mysteries, of all the host
Seems sovereign, such a quivering stillness hangs
Over the thousands, who await the fray
With eyes electric as the ether fires,
Lips sealed by passion, hearts, like lava, still
In their intensest rapture! Bickering swords
Clash quickly, yet, with matchless skill, each blow
Or thrust falls on the flashing steel; and long,
With fixed eyes dropping not their folded lids,
And marble lips, and brows whereon the veins
Burn like the stormbolt o'er ice pinnacles,
And heaving bosoms, naked in their strength,
And limbs in every attitude of grace
And power—they struggle, not in hope of fame,
To win dominion, or achieve revenge;
But by their toil and agony and blood
To amuse the languid masters of the world.
From the free forest where he walked a king,
From his hearth's altar where he stood a priest,
Hither, in manacles, was guiltless man
Dragged for a mockery and gory show!
An erring glance—and o'er a prostrate form
Of beauty stands the unrejoicing foe,
Sternly receiving from the merciless
The still command to slay! and now he lifts
His serried sabre purpled to the hilt
With that heart's blood he might have deeply loved;
One groan—a gasp—a shudder—and a soul
Hath gone to join the myriad witnesses
Who in the winds of northern wilds invoke
The Desolators to avenge their doom.
The Avengers hear, and cry aloud ‘Revenge!’
Round the thronged circle to display their forms,
Athlete and strong, and with the voice of death
Salute the ruthless Genius of the Games.
From many a kingdom thralled they come—from realms
Spoiled by the locust hordes of Rome; the Gaul,
The Briton and the Thracian and the Frank,
The Wehrmanne and the Hebrew and the Celt,
Every clime's vanquished—every age's wreck,
All codes and creeds, strangers or friends, contend
Here in assassin strife to please their lords.
One deep wild shout like breaking billows swells,
Hailing the victims of the carnage fiend,
And on the sands two stalwart forms alone
Remain; and now Sigalion, voiceless god
Of Memphian mysteries, of all the host
Seems sovereign, such a quivering stillness hangs
Over the thousands, who await the fray
With eyes electric as the ether fires,
Lips sealed by passion, hearts, like lava, still
In their intensest rapture! Bickering swords
Clash quickly, yet, with matchless skill, each blow
Or thrust falls on the flashing steel; and long,
With fixed eyes dropping not their folded lids,
And marble lips, and brows whereon the veins
Burn like the stormbolt o'er ice pinnacles,
And heaving bosoms, naked in their strength,
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And power—they struggle, not in hope of fame,
To win dominion, or achieve revenge;
But by their toil and agony and blood
To amuse the languid masters of the world.
From the free forest where he walked a king,
From his hearth's altar where he stood a priest,
Hither, in manacles, was guiltless man
Dragged for a mockery and gory show!
An erring glance—and o'er a prostrate form
Of beauty stands the unrejoicing foe,
Sternly receiving from the merciless
The still command to slay! and now he lifts
His serried sabre purpled to the hilt
With that heart's blood he might have deeply loved;
One groan—a gasp—a shudder—and a soul
Hath gone to join the myriad witnesses
Who in the winds of northern wilds invoke
The Desolators to avenge their doom.
The Avengers hear, and cry aloud ‘Revenge!’
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |