“Hold, fools! (Eleazer cries) and cease your rage, Shall we like lions here with friends engage, While pagan dogs lay this our city low, And trample on our laws without a blow? No, never be it said; but follow me, And with me die, or share my victory.” The bands inspir’d, forget their civil thrall, And join’d like brothers, rush towards the wall; The mounted Romans view their coming foes, Whilst ev’ry breast with double ardour glows: The Jews approach—a bloody scene ensues, Whole hosts of Romans fall on hosts of Jews. The Jews retreat—the inner wall they gain, And there with fury still the fight maintain; Till lively Day had spun her golden thread, And dusky Night her sable pinions spread. Each warrior then, with toil and fury worn, Unclasps the armour he so long has borne; The sombre god their weary eyelids close, And void of fear they taste a sweet repose; Save the drear centinel, whose measur’d pace Suits well the gloomy horrors of the place: He gazes round upon the slaughter’d hosts, Now thinks of blood, and now of fleeting ghosts, And sighing cries—“I wish the war was o’er, I safe at home within my cottage door.” The conq’ring Titus now securely rests, Freed from the cares of war and hostile guests; But flitting fancies now around him play, In wanton song they bid him to be gay; Imagination points the city’s doom, And he triumphant welcom’d into Rome: The crown of laurels on his brow he feels, And Jewish slaves attend his weighty wheels, While Mars, o’ercome by Cupid’s well-known pow’r, Destroys his tent, and rears a shady bow’r; Here Love and Pleasure hail his wish’d return, Here pomp and adulation round him burn, Here joyous nymphs their graceful forms display In mazy dance, and glad the happy day With merry songs, and Titus is the theme, But Titus wakes, and finds ’tis but a dream; Still unresolv’d he looks around with pain, Then sinks upon his couch to dream again, Yet sleep flies from him, while his roving sense Recalls past scenes—a paltry recompense. Now, peerless Cynthia, goddess of the night, In bright array sheds forth her silver light: Her splendid beams shine on the waking chief, Dispel the cloud, and smile away his grief. “Shame! shame! (he cries) shall fancy thus controul, And shall a dream unman a Roman soul? Shall fleeting visions thwart my well try’d aim? Forbid it manliness, forbid it fame.” Whilst speaking thus, the Roman king arose, And wanders forth ’midst heaps of slaughter’d foes; Now join’d with dying friends, whose deepen’d sighs In mournful echoes play along the skies. Here thrifty Jews regret their ill-got coin, Here Romans bold with bleeding cowards join; The haughty chiefs in life overspread with pride, Now grovel with the peasant side by side; These Titus view’d with pain and downcast eye,