Cold as the marble where his length was laid,

Pale as the beam that o'er his features played,

Was Lara stretched; his half-drawn sabre near,

Dropped it should seem in more than Nature's fear;

Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now,

And still Defiance knit his gathered brow;

Though mixed with terror, senseless as he lay,

There lived upon his lip the wish to slay;

Some half formed threat in utterance there had died,

Some imprecation of despairing Pride; 220

His eye was almost sealed, but not forsook,

Even in its trance, the gladiator's look,

That oft awake his aspect could disclose,

And now was fixed in horrible repose.

They raise him—bear him;—hush! he breathes, he speaks,

The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks,

His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim,

Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb

Recalls its function, but his words are strung

In terms that seem not of his native tongue; 230

Distinct but strange, enough they understand

To deem them accents of another land;

And such they were, and meant to meet an ear

That hears him not—alas! that cannot hear!