18
PRIZE POEMS.
Heard'st thou, O Rome, that shout, whose deepen'd shock
Shook to its base the isle's eternal rock?
Thy steel-clad watchman from his turret high,
Has heard it burst the lurid eastern sky,
As when the tempest which th' horizon shrouds
Rolls in the centre of his gather'd clouds,
And up the concave from the south afar
The distant Thunder drives his rapid car;
And as his fiery steeds impetuous come,
And glance with ruddy track across the gloom,
So, red with blood and Desolation's stains,
The path of Ruin sweeps across thy plains.
Haste, Roman, haste! lo, bending to its fall,
Destruction trembles o'er Augusta's wall,
Thy rising cities wildly shriek dismay'd,
And ask thy guardian hand, thy parent aid;
Go—bid the surge of insurrection bide
In midway course, and backwards roll its tide;
No—bid thy angry Adria's waves obey
Thy chiding voice, and call their storms away;
Push backwards up thy red Vesuvius' steep
The lava torrent pouring to the deep;
Alike thy might is vain; 'tis thine to fear,
Imperious despot! thine to tremble here.
Woe to thy towns! amid their shrieking walls
Quick in the work of death the falchion falls;
Exulting there Destruction's demons rise,
And on the steaming carnage mount the skies;
And nodding ruins in a lake of blood
Mark the sad place where peopled cities stood.
Speak not of mercy;—of the kindly glow
That warms the heart to spare a fallen foe.
Would'st thou to pity soothe with suasive tongue
The raging lioness who seeks her young,
And bid her, if her course the spoiler meet,
Fawn at his knees, and harmless kiss his feet?
Shook to its base the isle's eternal rock?
Thy steel-clad watchman from his turret high,
Has heard it burst the lurid eastern sky,
As when the tempest which th' horizon shrouds
Rolls in the centre of his gather'd clouds,
And up the concave from the south afar
The distant Thunder drives his rapid car;
And as his fiery steeds impetuous come,
And glance with ruddy track across the gloom,
So, red with blood and Desolation's stains,
The path of Ruin sweeps across thy plains.
Haste, Roman, haste! lo, bending to its fall,
Destruction trembles o'er Augusta's wall,
Thy rising cities wildly shriek dismay'd,
And ask thy guardian hand, thy parent aid;
Go—bid the surge of insurrection bide
In midway course, and backwards roll its tide;
No—bid thy angry Adria's waves obey
Thy chiding voice, and call their storms away;
Push backwards up thy red Vesuvius' steep
The lava torrent pouring to the deep;
Alike thy might is vain; 'tis thine to fear,
Imperious despot! thine to tremble here.
Woe to thy towns! amid their shrieking walls
Quick in the work of death the falchion falls;
Exulting there Destruction's demons rise,
And on the steaming carnage mount the skies;
And nodding ruins in a lake of blood
Mark the sad place where peopled cities stood.
Speak not of mercy;—of the kindly glow
That warms the heart to spare a fallen foe.
Would'st thou to pity soothe with suasive tongue
The raging lioness who seeks her young,
And bid her, if her course the spoiler meet,
Fawn at his knees, and harmless kiss his feet?
