Fix’d is her eye on Asdrubal, who stands Ignobly safe amidst the conquering bands; On him who left her to that burning tomb, Alone to share her children’s martyrdom; Who, when his country perish’d, fled the strife, And knelt to win the worthless boon of life. “Live, traitor! live!” she cries, “since dear to thee, E’en in thy fetters, can existence be! Scorn’d and dishonour’d live!--with blasted name, The Roman’s triumph not to grace, but shame. O slave in spirit! bitter be thy chain With tenfold anguish to avenge my pain! Still may the manès of thy children rise To chase calm slumber from thy wearied eyes; Still may their voices on the haunted air In fearful whispers tell thee to despair, Till vain remorse thy wither’d heart consume, Scourged by relentless shadows of the tomb! E’en now my sons shall die--and thou, their sire, In bondage safe, shalt yet in them expire. Think’st thou I love them not?--’Twas thine to fly-- ’Tis mine with these to suffer and to die. Behold their fate!--the arms that cannot save Have been their cradle, and shall be their grave.” Bright in her hand the lifted dagger gleams, Swift from her children’s hearts the life-blood streams; With frantic laugh she clasps them to the breast Whose woes and passions soon shall be at rest; Lifts one appealing, frenzied glance on high, Then deep midst rolling flames is lost to mortal eye. [124] It was a Roman custom to adorn the tents of victors with ivy. HELIODORUS IN THE TEMPLE.