I, Maximus, was chosen for the guard With all my trusty fellows. Pilate knew I was a man who had no foolish heart Of softness all unworthy of a man!

My eyes had looked upon a tortured slave As on a beetle crushed beneath my tread; I gloried in the splendid strife of war, Lusting for conquest; I had won the praise Of our stern general on a scarlet field; Red in my veins the warrior passion ran, For I had sprung from heroes, Roman born!

That second night we watched before the tomb; My men were merry; on the velvet turf, Bestarred with early blossoms of the Spring, They diced with jest and laughter; all around The moonlight washed us like a silver lake,

Save where that silent, sealéd sepulchre

Was hung with shadow as a purple pall.

A faint wind stirred among the olive boughs— Methinks I hear the sighing of that wind

In all sounds since, it was so dumbly sad;

But as the night wore on it died away

And all was deadly stillness; Claudia,

That stillness was most awful, as if some Great heart had broken and so ceased to beat!

I thought of many things, but found no joy

In any thought, even the thought of thee;

The moon waned in the west and sickly grew

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