His king, forsooth, a Mede, his sireA Marsian? can he name forget,Gown, sacred shield, undying fire,And Jove and Rome are standing yet?'Twas this that Regulus foresaw,What time he spurn'd the foul disgraceOf peace, whose precedent would drawDestruction on an unborn race,Should aught but death the prisoner's chainUnrivet. “I have seen,” he said,“Rome's eagle in a Punic fane,And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed,Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seenFree sons of Rome with arms fast tied;The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,And Carthage opes her portals wide.The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heapOn baseness loss. The hues of oldRevisit not the wool we steep;