See how he lies, still mighty in his ease, <br />The fields' huge fear, the terrifying saint; <br />And nothing needed but his straightened knees, <br />A polished helm,-perhaps a little paint. <br />His breast is broad, as when behind the shield <br />He thrust its front across the clanging line, <br />And stood with Gore, as trembling armies kneeled <br />To lay their carven trophies at his shrine. <br />And now the very gates would yield at sight, <br />The earth cry 'Welcome' and the maidens sing <br />'The day has come, at last, lat last, the light! <br />Sick Peace is slain, and slaying War is king!' <br />Oh, even yet will Beauty yield to Might, <br />And deck his couch while Numa's temples ring.'<br /><br />Leon Gellert<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-speech-of-flattery/
