Classic Poem

What in our circus we count sport
Was glory once of noblest sort.
See in the blaze he thrusts his hand
And does the faltering fire command,
Spectator of the sacrifice,
Where his right arm may scarce suffice;
For if the torture were not stayed
His left too in the fire were laid.
His crime I do not want to know,
To see that hand's for me enow.