Poetry of Lord Byron

George Gordon Lord Byron
born 1788, died 1824

The Dying Gladiator

(from "childe harold's pilgrimage")

I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand - his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop'd 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 hail'd the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not - his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd 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,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday -
All this rush'd with his blood - Shall he expire
And unavenged? - Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

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