Rome shall perish,--write that word In the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions CÊsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they.' Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She with all a monarch's pride Felt them in her bosom glow, Rushed to battle, fought, and died, Dying, hurled them at the foe: 'Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you.' _Cowper._ XXXVI TO HIS LADY If doughty deeds my lady please Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap Thy picture at my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thine ear These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. _Graham of Gartmore._ XXXVII CONSTANCY Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board; My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore to be once more Safe moored with thee! Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be to think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low--