The sunlit awning heaving overhead,
Swollen and strained against its corded veins
And flapping out its hem with loud report--
The wild beasts roaring from the pit below--
The wilder crowd responding from above
With one long yell that sends the startled blood
With thrill and sudden flush into the cheeks--
A hundred trumpets screaming--the dull thump
Of horses galloping across the sand--
The clang of sabbards, the sharp clash of steel--
Live swords, that whirl a circle of grey fire--
Brass helmets flashing 'neath their streaming hair--
A universal tumult--then a hush
Worse than the tumult--all eyes staining down
To the arena's pit--all lips set close--
All muscles strained--and then that sudden yell,
_Habet!_--That's Rome, says Lucius! so it is!
That is, 'tis _his_ Rome--'tis not yours and mine.

And yet, great Jupiter here at my side,
He stands with face aside as if he saw
The games he thus describes, and says, "That's life!
Life! life! my friend, and this is simply death!
Ah! for my Rome!" I jot his very words
Just as he utters them. I hate these games,
And Darius knows it, yet he will go on,
And all against my will he stirs my blood--
I suspend my letter for a while.

A walk has calmed me--I begin again--