BOOK THE FIFTH, ODE THE SEVENTH. Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains, Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword? Is it believ'd that Roman veins Their crimson tides have _sparely_ pour'd? Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas? Those scowling brows, those lifted spears, Bend they against the threat'ning towers Proud Carthage emulously rears? Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores? That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway, May pass in chains along our SACRED WAY? No!--but that warring Parthia's curse May quickly blast these far-famed Walls; _Accomplish'd_ when, with direful force, By her _own_ strength the City falls; When Foes no more her might resistless feel, But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel. O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce, Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind! By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce Each other's breast in fury blind?-- Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs, Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes! The blood our rising walls that stain'd, Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide, High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd Should spread the rage of discord wide, Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe. 1: Romulus, who killed his Brother Remus, for ridiculing his Wall by leaping over it. _FINIS._ End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Original sonnets on various subjects; and odes paraphrased from Horace, by Anna Seward