LXXXVII.

And thou, dread Statue![466] yet existent in[24.H.] The austerest form of naked majesty-- Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie, Folding his robe in dying dignity-- An offering to thine altar from the Queen Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?

LXXXVIII.

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome![467][25.H.] She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest:--Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great Founder sucked from thy wild teat, Scorched by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, And thy limbs black with lightning--dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?