Lord Byron (1788–1824)

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.

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!