HE died not as the martyr dies, <br />Wrapped in his living shroud of flame; <br />He fell not as the warrior falls, <br />Gasping upon the field of fame; <br />A gentler passage to the grave, <br />The murderer's softened fury gave. <br /> <br />Rome's slaughtered sons and blazing piles <br />Had tracked the purpled demon's path, <br />And yet another victim lived <br />To fill the fiery scroll of wrath; <br />Could not imperial vengeance spare <br />His furrowed brow and silver hair? <br /> <br />The field was sown with noble blood, <br />The harvest reaped in burning tears, <br />When, rolling up its crimson flood, <br />Broke the long-gathering tide of years; <br />His diadem was rent away, <br />And beggars trampled on his clay. <br /> <br />None wept, -none pitied;- they who knelt <br />At morning by the despot's throne, <br />At evening dashed the laurelled bust, <br />And spurned the wreaths themselves had strown; <br />The shout of triumph echoed wide, <br />The self-stung reptile writhed and died!<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dying-seneca/
