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--[ow][29.H.] All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!