Pour thine anger on the foe, Give our armies all to know, It is by thee That we are free; And if we here must end our mortal race, Permit us then To die like men, Oh! save our rising offspring from disgrace. ’Tis finish’d, (and the sun from out the west Sheds his bright rays on ev’ry plated breast.) Still prostrate on the ground, in doubting awe, ’Till waken’d by the thrilling trump of war: Then starting up, each draws his eager blade, And pass before the king {12} in grand parade, Who, like a god, in burnish’d glory stands, And calmly issues forth his just commands. Yet still the sun, as joyful at the sight, Gleams on their mail, and shames the coming night; E’en Titus sees his long protracted stay, And tells his fortunes by the ling’ring day. The troops, their martial exercises o’er, Expend their tales, or sing of days of yore, Lay by their arms, and, careless of their ends, Speak of their wives, their babes, or distant friends; Short-sighted fools!—but wherefore should ye learn That thousands here shall never more return? Why should a fatal foresight damp our peace, And all our short-liv’d miseries increase? No—Providence has clos’d the book of fate, And sight of future only comes too late: We see not half the woes with which we cope— They come, they overwhelm us—still we hope— Yet woes come on, we drain the bitter cup; But still we hope, and hoping bears us up. So the poor trav’ller, o’er the dreary way, Dark night o’erspreads—yet still he looks for day; The forked lightnings flash before his eyes, And torrents pour upon him from the skies; The thunder rolls, the clouds are bursting fast, Yet on he plods, and thinks it will not last; He slips—he falls—amidst the tang’ling brake, But not e’en this his hoping soul can shake; Torn, wet, bespatter’d, out again he creeps, And, weary’d on the bank, succumbent sleeps. But to return—a council Titus calls, To talk of peace, or fell the hardy walls. First, Titus rises from his gilded throne, And with a careless greatness all his own, Bespeaks him thus: “Brave princes, Romans, men, Who dare e’en brave the tyger in his den, Your persevering courage meets my praise; And could my words your well-known value raise, The wond’ring world should echo with your names, Old mew respect you, and the Jewish dames, Whose spouses fall by you, your wrath approve, Forget their wrongs, and only think to love; All future ages will your deeds enroll, And tell our victories from pole to pole. But to our subject—Certain headstrong Jews Have leap’d to power, and that pow’r abuse; From conquer’d cities hither have they fled, And threat to pour destruction on our head. But let them threat, our armies, void of fear, Grown great by conquest, challenge them e’en here: