Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains,
Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword?
Is it believ'd that Roman veins
Their crimson tides have sparely pour'd?
Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease,
Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?
Those scowling brows, those lifted spears,
Bend they against the threat'ning towers
Proud Carthage emulously rears?
Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores?
That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway,
May pass in chains along our SACRED WAY?
No!—but that warring Parthia's curse
May quickly blast these far-famed Walls;
Accomplish'd when, with direful force,
By her own strength the City falls;
When Foes no more her might resistless feel,
But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel.
O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce,
Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind!
By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce
Each other's breast in fury blind?—
Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs,
Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes!
The blood our rising walls that stain'd,
Shed by the ruthless Fratricide,
High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd
Should spread the rage of discord wide,
Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow
Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.