II.

Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be, That this great city, planted by the sea, With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires Reared by a race of unexampled sires-- That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1] Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears, Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears; Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow To greatness, with a progress firm but slow-- That being the grand condition of duration-- Until it spreads into the mighty nation! And shall the usurper, insolent of power, O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour! And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will, Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still! My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate! Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'"