Metrical essays :: :: University of Virginia Library

“We are not fighting for Italy, with Hannibal, or Pyrrhus, or the Cambrians; our dispute is with the Romans;—and whatever party prevails, whether we conquer or are conquered, our country must suffer. Under the victor's joy she bleeds.” Last words of Otho.

I

The armed hosts have met,
There is cry of victory won;
The battle brand to the hilt is red
With the blood of sire and son.

II

With the fam'd and noble dead
Reeks that accursed plain;
Brother by brother's hand borne down!
Kinsmen by kinsmen slain!

III

Thine altars, Rome, are dark
With the stain which never dies;
Though twice ten thousand hecatombs
Were offered to thy skies:

VI

I weep—but years of woe
May not veil this infamy;—
I stand by thy polluted shrine,
And I am here to die.

V

For me—this field was fought,
For me—the sword flash'd high,
And Rome was bath'd in her own blood:
This yet is left—to die!—

VI

Welcome, destroying death!—
Welcome, thou grave—my home!—
I die, as erst the patriot died—
I die for thee, O! Rome.

VII

Thus Otho spoke;—then rush'd
On the bright sword he bore:—
The soul from its proud shrine hath fled—
Death's agony is o'er!