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 
     
    
   
   
    
     5