But was there none for _thee_ to dare The conflict, scorning to despair? O City of the seven proud hills! Whose name e’en yet the spirit thrills, As doth a clarion’s battle-call-- Didst thou, too, ancient empress, fall? Did no Camillus from the chain Ransom thy Capitol again? Oh, who shall tell the days to be No patriot rose to bleed for thee! Heard ye the Gothic trumpet’s blast? The march of hosts as Alaric pass’d? That fearful sound, at midnight deep,[121] Burst on the Eternal City’s sleep:-- How woke the mighty? She whose will So long had bid the world be still, Her sword a sceptre, and her eye Th’ ascendant star of destiny! She woke--to view the dread array Of Scythians rushing to their prey, To hear her streets resound the cries Pour’d from a thousand agonies! While the strange light of flames, that gave A ruddy glow to Tiber’s wave, Bursting in that terrific hour From fane and palace, dome and tower, Reveal’d the throngs, for aid divine, Clinging to many a worshipp’d shrine: Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed O’er spear and sword, with carnage red, Shone o’er the suppliant and the flying, And kindled pyres for Romans dying. Weep, Italy! alas, that e’er Should tears alone thy wrongs declare! The time hath been when _thy_ distress Had roused up empires for redress! Now, her long race of glory run, Without a combat Rome is won, And from her plunder’d temples forth Rush the fierce children of the North, To share beneath more genial skies Each joy their own rude clime denies.