4  C


2-1

Press'd  yet  more  closely  by  iheir  northern  foes,
Rome  hears  again  the  tidings  of  their  woes ;
But  only  hears ;  what  succor  can  she  send.
Her  widest  wildest  province  to  defend  ?
When  savage  hordes  insult  her  grandeur  gone.
The  Goth,  the  Vandal,  and  Tartarian  Hun  ?
Her  empire  (^4)  struggles  in  it's  dying  gasp.
Her  conquests  vanish  from  her  loosen'd  grasp.
All  else  resign'd — her  languid  powei-s  are  nerv'd
For  this, — th'  eternal  City's  walls  preserv'd.
So  when  thro'  pining  sickness,  day  by  day
Man  sinks  apace, — man,  boastful  child  of  clay  ;
And  now  beside  the  chilling  flood  he  stands.
The  frith  that  parts  two  widely  different  lands ;
How  vain  and  trifling  in  an  hour  like  this
Each  fondly  cherish'd  hope  of  earthly  bliss  !
The  joys  of  sense,  ambition's  airy  dreams.
The  miser's  thrift,  the  politician's  schemes  ;
They  boot  not  now  :  no  better  succor  near.
The  part  immortal  well  may  waken  fear.
Rome  could  not  aid  thee,  Britain,  in  thy  grief;
No  more  her  legions  haste  to  thy  relief.
Thy  foes  increase  ; — the  northern  barrier  fails.
And  must  thy  sons  forsake  their  goodly  vales  ?
Yet  whither  turn  ?     My  country  hadst  thou  then
Thy  sins  forsook;  not  safety  sought  from  men ;


25
IJis  help  implor'd,  who,  tho'  his  love  delay.
Ne'er  empty  turns  his  supplicants  away  ;
That  God  had  sent,  who  hears  and  answers  prayer
To  battle  strength,  or  fortitude  to  bear.
Nor  this,  dread  Vortiger,  (^o)  thou  slave  of  lust.
In  all  thy  woes,  thy  refuge  and  thy  trust.
Of  God  disovvn'd,  thy  wisdom  is  thy  all,
And  heathen  Saxons  hasten  to  thy  call.
O  frail  defence !  thy  impious  hands  prepare
Woe  for  thy  country,  for  thyself  despair.
