Classic Poem

We know what mischief dire he wrought—
Rome fired, the Fathers slain—
Whose hand with brother's slaughter wet
A mother's blood did stain.

No pitying tear his cheek bedewed,
As on the corse he gazed;
That mother's beauty, once so fair,
A critic's voice appraised.

Yet far and wide, from East to West,
His sway the nations own;
And scorching South and icy North
Obey his will alone.

Did, then, high power a curb impose
On Nero's phrenzied will?
Ah, woe when to the evil heart
Is joined the sword to kill!