CXXXVIII.

   The seal is set.—­Now welcome, thou dread Power
   Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here
   Walk’st in the shadow of the midnight hour
   With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: 
   Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
   Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
   Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear
   That we become a part of what has been,
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.

CXXXIX.

   And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
   In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
   As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. 
   And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because
   Such were the bloody circus’ genial laws,
   And the imperial pleasure.—­Wherefore not? 
   What matters where we fall to fill the maws
   Of worms—­on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

CXL.

   I see before me the Gladiator lie: 
   He leans upon his hand—­his manly brow
   Consents to death, but conquers agony,
   And his drooped head sinks gradually low —
   And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
   From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
   Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now
   The arena swims around him:  he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

CXLI.

   He heard it, but he heeded not—­his eyes
   Were with his heart, and that was far away;
   He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
   But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
   there were his young barbarians all at play,
   there was their Dacian mother—­he, their sire,
   Butchered to make a Roman holiday —
   All this rushed with his blood—­Shall he expire,
And unavenged?—­Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

CXLII.

   But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam;
   And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways,
   And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream
   Dashing or winding as its torrent strays;
   Here, where the Roman million’s blame or praise
   Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd,
   My voice sounds much—­and fall the stars’ faint rays
   On the arena void—­seats crushed, walls bowed,
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.

CXLIII.

   A ruin—­yet what ruin! from its mass
   Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared;
   Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,
   And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. 
   Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared? 
   Alas! developed, opens the decay,
   When the colossal fabric’s form is neared: 
   It will not bear the brightness of the day,
Which streams too much on all, years, man, have reft away.