XXXIV.

But the world heeds them not. Or if, perchance, Upon their strife it bend a careless eye, It is but as the Roman’s stoic glance Fell on that stage, where man’s last agony Was made _his_ sport, who, knowing _one_ must die, Reck’d not _which_ champion; but prepared the strain, And bound the bloody wreath of victory, To greet the conqueror; while, with calm disdain, The vanquish’d proudly met the doom he met in vain.