SPARTACUS

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA
Ye call me chief;and ye do well to call him chief who,for twelve long years,has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish,and who never yet lowerd his arm.If there be one among you who can say that ever,in public fight or private brawl,my cations did belie my tongue,let him stand forth and say it.If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands,let them come on.And yet I was not always thus-a hired butcher,a savage chief of still more savage men!
My ancestors came from old Sparta,and settled among the vine clad rocks and citron groves of Cyrasella.My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported;and when at noon,I gatherd the sheep beneath the shade,and played upon the sheperd's flute,there was a friend,the son of a neighbor,to join me in the pastime.We led our flocks in the same pasture,and partook together our rustic meal.
One evening,after the sheep were folded,and we were all seated beneathe myrtle which shaded our cottage,my grandsire,an old man,was telling of Marathon and Leuctra;and how,in ancient times,a little band of Spartans,in a defile of the mountains,had withstood a whole army.I did not know what war it was;but my cheeks burned,I knew not why,and I clasped the knees of that vulnerable man until my mother,parting the hair off my forhead,kissed my throbing temples,and bade me go to rest,and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.That very night the Romans landed on our coast.I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse;the bleeding body of my father flung amid the blazing rafters of our dwelling!
Today I killed a man in the arena;and when I broke his helmet clasps behold!he was my friend.He knew me,smiled faintly,gasped and died-the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked when,in adventurous boyhood,we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first grapes and bear them home in childish triumph!I told the pretor that the dead man had been my friend,generous and brave;and I begged him that I might bear away the body,to burn it on the funeral pile,and mourn over its ashes.Ay!upon my kness ,amid the dust and blood of the arena,I begged that poor boon,while all the assemebled maids and matrons,and the holy virgins they call Vestrals,and the rabble shouted in derision,deeming it rare sport,forsooth,to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay!And the pretor drew back as if I were pollution,and sternly said-"Let the carion rot;there are no noble men but the Romans!"And so fellow- gladiators,must you,and so must I.die like dogs.
O Rome!Rome!thou hast been a tender nurse to me.Ay!thou hast given to that poor,gentle,timid sheperd-lad,who never knew a harsher tone then a flute-note,muscles of iron and a heart of flint;taught him to drive the sword through a plaited nail and links of rugged brass,and warm it in the marrow of his foe:-to gaze into the glareing eye-balls of the fierce Numidian lion even as a boy upon a laughing girl!And he shall pay ye back,untilthe yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine,and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled.
Ye stand her now like giants,as ye are!The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews;but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, brething sweet perfume form his curly locks,shall his lily fingers past your red brawn,and bet his sesterces upon your blood.Hark!hear yon lion roaring in his den?`Tis three days since he tasted flesh;but tomorrow he shall break his fast upon yours-
and a dainty meal for him ye shall be!
If ye are beasts,then stand here like fat oxen,waiting for the butcher's knife!If ye are men-follow me!Strike down yon guard,gain the mountain passes,and there do bloody work,as did your sires at old Thermopylae!Is Sparta dead?Is the ole Grecian spirit frozen in your veins,that you do couch and cower like a belabord hound beneath his master's lash?O comrades!warriors!Thracians!-if we must fight,let us fight for ourselves!If we must slaughter,let us slaughter our oppressors!If we must die,let it be under the clear sky,by the bright waters,in noble,honrable battle!
ELIZAH KELLOGG (1813-1901)