Then, each man to his tent, and take the arms
That he would love to die in,—­for, this hour,
We storm the Consul’s camp.  A last farewell!

(He takes their hands.)

When next we meet,—­we’ll have no time to look,
How parting clouds a soldier’s countenance. 
Few as we are, we’ll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome! 
Now to your cohorts’ heads;—­the word’s—­Revenge!

GEORGE CROLY.

* * * * *

CARACTACUS.

  Before proud Rome’s imperial throne
    In mind’s unconquered mood,
  As if the triumph were his own,
    The dauntless captive stood. 
  None, to have seen his free-born air,
  Had fancied him a captive there.

  Though, through the crowded streets of Rome,
    With slow and stately tread,
  Far from his own loved island home,
    That day in triumph led,—­
  Unbound his head, unbent his knee,
  Undimmed his eye, his aspect free.

  A free and fearless glance he cast
    On temple, arch, and tower,
  By which the long procession passed
    Of Rome’s victorious power;
  And somewhat of a scornful smile
    Upcurled his haughty lip the while.

  And now he stood, with brow serene,
    Where slaves might prostrate fall,
  Bearing a Briton’s manly mien
    In Caesar’s palace hall;
  Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek,
  The liberty e’en there to speak.

  Nor could Rome’s haughty lord withstand
    The claim that look preferred,
  But motioned with uplifted hand
    The suppliant should be heard,—­
  If he indeed a suppliant were
  Whose glance demanded audience there.

  Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,
    From Claudius on his throne
  Down to the meanest slave that bowed
    At his imperial throne;
  Silent his fellow-captive’s grief
  As fearless spoke the Island Chief: 

  “Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,
    And master of the world,
  Though victory’s banner o’er thy dome
    In triumph now is furled,
  I would address thee as thy slave,
  But as the bold should greet the brave!

  “I might, perchance, could I have deigned
    To hold a vassal’s throne,
  E’en now in Britain’s isle have reigned
    A king in name alone,
  Yet holding, as thy meek ally,
  A monarch’s mimic pageantry.

  “Then through Rome’s crowded streets to-day
    I might have rode with thee,
  Not in a captive’s base array,
    But fetterless and free,—­
  If freedom he could hope to find,
  Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

  “But canst thou marvel that, freeborn,
    With heart and soul unquelled,
  Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,
    By thy permission held? 
  Or that I should retain my right
  Till wrested by a conqueror’s might?