But to speed onward in the work of terror, So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready, Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise, Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins, Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey, And bound to my performance as the lion, Long crouching in his jungle, who at last Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye; A crimson sea receives me, and I tread In billows thus incarnadined from nations That bleed through ages thus at every vein. Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still Lark homeless in these ruins that ye once Made sacred as abodes, and deemed secure, I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer, And swear myself your soldier. I will go, And with each footstep on some mighty neck, Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine! Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud, Before my coming, Rome?[A] Is not my spirit, That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose, Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant, Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper, That loads him with despair? Alone I come; But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd About me with their service—willing creatures That shall assist me first to work on thee, And last upon themselves! The daylight fades, And night belongs to vengeance. I depart, Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror’s heart.” Silent once more the ruins—dark the night, Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrassed flight; No fears delay, no toils retard the speed Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed; And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure, Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell That summons human fiends to works of hell! Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate, Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate; Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain, Thy virtues sapped to break thy despot’s chain; Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong, The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong; Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway That kept meet progress with the march of day; That from all nations plucked the achieving arts, That make sway sov’reign in a people’s hearts; Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear, There swelled the temple’s crest, the column there, Each with its chronicle to spell the soul, And each most precious to the crowning whole; A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made The admiring nations silent in thy shade; Genius and art commingling in thy cause, And gods presiding o’er thy matchless laws. But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh, And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky; Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last, And all thy glories centre in thy past— Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath Thy altars swells the midnight cry of death; The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe, But to make bare thy bosom to the blow; From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom, And thy own children hollow out thy tomb.