It Is As If Imperial Trumpets Broke Again The Silence On War'S Iron Height; And C'Sar'S Armored Legions Marched To Fight, While Rome, Blood-Red Upon Her Mountain-Yoke, Blazed Like An Awful Sunset. At A Stroke, Again I See The Living Torches Light The Horrible Revels, And The Bloated, White, Bayed Brow Of Nero Smiling Through The Smoke: And Here And There A Little Band Of Slaves Among Dark Ruins; And The Form Of Paul, Bearded And Gaunt, Expounding Still The Word: And Towards The North The Tottering Architraves Of Empire; And, Wild-Waving Over All, The Flaming Figure Of A Gothic Sword.