IV.

Near--and near--and nearer still, As the Earthquake saps the hill, First with trembling, hollow motion, Like a scarce awakened ocean, Then with stronger shock and louder, Till the rocks are crushed to powder,-- Onward sweeps the rolling host! Heroes of the immortal boast! Mighty Chiefs! eternal shadows! First flowers of the bloody meadows 50 Which encompass Rome, the mother Of a people without brother! Will you sleep when nations' quarrels Plough the root up of your laurels? Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning, Weep not--_strike_! for Rome is mourning![239]