Chapter 4 No.4

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 meadows50

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]