[After describing the conquest of Greece and Italy by the German and Scythian hordes united under the command of Alaric, the historian of _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ thus proceeds:--“Whether fame, or conquest, or riches, were the object of Alaric, he pursued that object with an indefatigable ardour, which could neither be quelled by adversity nor satiated by success. No sooner had he reached the extreme land of Italy, than he was attracted by the neighbouring prospect of a fair and peaceful island. Yet even the possession of Sicily he considered only as an intermediate step to the important expedition which he already meditated against the continent of Africa. The straits of Rhegium and Messina are twelve miles in length, and, in the narrowest passage, about one mile and a half broad; and the fabulous monsters of the deep--the rocks of Scylla and the whirlpool of Charybdis--could terrify none but the most timid and unskilful mariners: yet, as soon as the first division of the Goths had embarked, a sudden tempest arose, which sunk or scattered many of the transports. Their courage was daunted by the terrors of a new element; and the whole design was defeated by the premature death of Alaric, which fixed, after a short illness, the fatal term of his conquests. The ferocious character of the barbarians was displayed in the funeral of a hero, whose valour and fortune they celebrated with mournful applause. By the labour of a captive multitude, they forcibly diverted the course of the Busentinus, a small river that washes the walls of Consentia. The royal sepulchre, adorned with the splendid spoils and trophies of Rome, was constructed in the vacant bed; the waters were then restored to their natural channel, and the secret spot where the remains of Alaric had been deposited was for ever concealed by the inhuman massacre of the prisoners who had been employed to execute the work.”--_Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_, vol. v. p. 329.] Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? His steps have track’d that glorious clime, The birth-place of heroic time; But he, in northern deserts bred, Spared not the living for the dead,[120] Nor heard the voice whose pleading cries From temple and from tomb arise. He pass’d--the light of burning fanes Hath been his torch o’er Grecian plains; And woke they not--the brave, the free, To guard their own Thermopylæ? And left they not their silent dwelling, When Scythia’s note of war was swelling? No! where the bold Three Hundred slept, Sad freedom battled not--but wept! For nerveless then the Spartan’s hand, And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band; Nor one high soul from slumber broke When Athens own’d the northern yoke.