 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
While o'er the sands they drag the dead, and strew
The place of carnage with uncrimsoned dust,
Mirth reigns and voices mingle everywhere,
Lauding the skill of the barbarian's strife,
The picturesque agony—the lingering gasp—
And awful struggle of the dying slave.
Some talk of Titus, deeming him too just,
Gentle and generous, while conspiracy
Mutters Domitian and Locasta's cup.
And some relate, looking upon the mount,
Traditions of volcanoes direr far
Than ought that menace men in latter days;
The depths of mountains boiling—valleys filled
With o'erthrown hills—and islands through the floods
Of ocean, apparitions, to the stars
Casting the torrid terrors of their birth.
Some say, the Prætor, when the lustrum ends,
Will govern Syria, and the sage surmise
That confiscation in Campania bought
The Senate's will that he should rule the East.
Wine, love, the dance, war, wealth, ambition, hate,
Earthquake, plague, priesthood, revel, rival sects
In faith or knowledge, yesterday's delights,
Tomorrow's deeds—each, all, in various speech,
Absorb the mind until the trumpet sounds.
The place of carnage with uncrimsoned dust,
Mirth reigns and voices mingle everywhere,
Lauding the skill of the barbarian's strife,
The picturesque agony—the lingering gasp—
And awful struggle of the dying slave.
Some talk of Titus, deeming him too just,
Gentle and generous, while conspiracy
Mutters Domitian and Locasta's cup.
And some relate, looking upon the mount,
Traditions of volcanoes direr far
Than ought that menace men in latter days;
The depths of mountains boiling—valleys filled
With o'erthrown hills—and islands through the floods
Of ocean, apparitions, to the stars
Casting the torrid terrors of their birth.
Some say, the Prætor, when the lustrum ends,
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That confiscation in Campania bought
The Senate's will that he should rule the East.
Wine, love, the dance, war, wealth, ambition, hate,
Earthquake, plague, priesthood, revel, rival sects
In faith or knowledge, yesterday's delights,
Tomorrow's deeds—each, all, in various speech,
Absorb the mind until the trumpet sounds.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |