Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/239

Through the proud mazes of thy regal dome
Pursued the flying Geta; and whose hand
'Mid that heaven-sanctioned shrine, a mother's breast,
Did pierce his bosom. Was it worth the price
Thus of a brother's blood, to reign alone,
Those few, short, poisoned years?
                                                         Around thy couch
Gleamed there no nightly terror? no strange dream
Of bright locks, dripping blood upon thy soul
In fiery martyrdom? Rose not thy sire,
The stern Severus, from his British tomb
To ask thee of thy brother, and to curse
The mad ambition of the second Cain?
Was there no pause, no conflict, ere thy heart
Plunged into guilt like this? no fluttering pulse,
No warning of offended Deity, to make
Thy spirit quail? or didst thou shake thy spear
At virtue's guards, and coldly sell thy soul?
Fade, fade, grim phantom! 'tis too horrible
To question thus with thee.
                                             Again the scene
Spreads unempurpled, unimpassioned forth;
The white lambs resting 'neath the evening shade,
While dimly curtained 'mid her glory, Rome
Slumbereth, as one o'erwearied.