Classic Poem

When shall I view thee, Rome! My bosom glows
To pace the fields, where erst the chearful sage,
Sweet Horace, sung; or, smit with manly rage,
Great Tully thunder'd at his country's foes;
Or Caesar sunk beneath th' indignant blows
Of falling Freedom. O degen'rate age!
Where Earth's proud rulers plann'd the mighty page,
The sons of holy Indolence repose.
Alas! how chang'd from her, who stretch'd her sway
From frozen Thule to where Ganges rolls
His sacred tide, the realms of rising day;
Now Superstition's iron chain controuls
The daring mind, and gives to Vice a prey
And narrow Priestcraft those unconquer'd souls.