6.  And so, fellow gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs!  O Rome!  Rome! thou hast been a tender nurse to me.  Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;—­to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl!  And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled!

7.  Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are!  The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but to-morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood.  Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den?  ’Tis three days since he has tasted flesh; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours,—­and a dainty meal for him ye will be!

8.  If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher’s knife!  If ye are men, follow me!  Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and then do bloody word, as did your sires at old Thermopylae!  Is Sparta dead?  Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master’s lash?  O comrades! warriors!  Thracians! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves!  If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors!  If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle.

Rev.  Elijah Kellogg.

Tell to his native mountains.

I.

Ye crags and peaks, I’m with you once again! 
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free.  Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome home again!

II.

O sacred forms, how proud you look! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky! 
How huge you are! how mighty and how free! 
How do you look, for all your bared brows,
More gorgeously majestical than kings
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine.

III.

Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile
Makes glad—­whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine; whose subject never kneels
In mockery, because it is your boast
To keep him free!

IV.

Ye guards of liberty,
I’m with you once again!  I call to you
With all my voice!  I hold my hands to you
To show they still are free.  I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!