Goddess, who dost o'er thy loved Antium reign,
Thou that hast power to lift poor mortal wight
From depth of woe, and change the pageant bright
Of haughty triumph to a funeral train,

The needy tiller of the soil to thee
Cries piteously for aid, and whosoe'er
Will in Bithynian bark the Aegean dare
Kneels down to thee, the mistress of the sea.

Fierce Decians, the nomad Scythian race,
Cities and tribes, and Latium stern in war,
Each mother that barbaric monarch bore,
Each purple-mantled despot fears thy face,

Lest with insulting kick to earth thou spurn
The stately column, and a rebel crowd
Rise up, and to the laggards calling loud
‘To arms! To arms!’ their dynasty o'erturn.

Aye stalks before thee Doom of aspect dread,
Whose brazen fingers massy wedges clasp,
And timber nails, and clamps withal of grasp
Inexorable, and pan of molten lead.

Hope and, rare vision veiled in snowy lawn,
Faith thee attend, nor quit thy side when thou
With changed raiment and wrath-clouded brow
From houses of the mighty hast withdrawn.

But the disloyal populace turns and flees,
And the false harlot; friends are scattered far,
No trusty yoke-mates they, when the last jar
Of wine is dry and empty to the lees.

From harm in Britain, earth's far corner, save
Caesar, and our recruits in martial bands
Now swarming to strike awe in Eastern lands
And where the Ocean rolls his ruddy wave.

Ah me! the shameful scars, the guilt incurred
By brothers' feud! From what hath e'er recoiled
This obdurate age? Or with what crime not soiled
Its hands? Hath fear of heaven our youths deterred

From aught of sin? What shrine can eye reveal
Undesecrated by the ribald crew?
O that thou wouldst reforge on anvil new
'Gainst Arabs and Massagetae our steel!