C ARTHAGE now driven to extremity,
Relentless Rome a third time at her gates,
At last decrees to set her prisoners free,
That weapons may be moulded of their weights.

O mighty Power! our foe stands just without,
And we are weaponless that stand within;
But one chance more of putting them to rout—
The loosing of the powers so bound by sin.

Melt, melt their chains in pain's fierce, fiery glow,
Recast these passions into battle-swords,
And give the might to deal the deadly blow;
Or else, like Carthage, fall with swollen cords.