Who once to faithless foes has knelt;Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,Who with bound arms the cord has felt,The coward, and has fear'd to die.He knows not, he, how life is won;Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,While Italy in dust is laid!”His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,And prattling boys, as one disgraced,They tell us, and with manly prideStern on the ground his visage placed.With counsel thus ne'er else areadHe nerved the fathers' weak intent,And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, spedInto illustrious banishment.Well witting what the torturer's artDesign'd him, with like unconcernThe press of kin he push'd apartAnd crowds encumbering his return,