Ye who on bright Campania’s shore Bade your fair villas rise of yore, With all their graceful colonnades, And crystal baths, and myrtle shades, Along the blue Hesperian deep, Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep-- Beneath your olive and your vine Far other inmates now recline; And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed With rich libations duly shed,[122] O’er guests, unlike your vanish’d friends, Its bowery canopy extends. For them the southern heaven is glowing, The bright Falernian nectar flowing; For them the marble halls unfold, Where nobler beings dwelt of old, Whose children for barbarian lords Touch the sweet lyre’s resounding chords. Or wreaths of Pæstan roses twine To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine. Yet, though luxurious they repose Beneath Corinthian porticoes-- While round them into being start The marvels of triumphant art-- Oh! not for them hath Genius given To Parian stone the fire of heaven, Enshrining in the forms he wrought A bright eternity of thought. In vain the natives of the skies In breathing marble round them rise, And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade People the dark-green laurel shade. Cold are the conqueror’s heart and eye To visions of divinity; And rude his hand which dares deface The models of immortal grace. Arouse ye from your soft delights! Chieftains! the war-note’s call invites; And other lands must yet be won, And other deeds of havoc done. Warriors! your flowery bondage break, Sons of the stormy North, awake! The barks are launching from the steep-- Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,[123] And Afric’s burning winds afar Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric’s war. Where shall his race of victory close? When shall the ravaged earth repose? But hark! what wildly mingling cries From Scythia’s camp tumultuous rise? Why swells dread Alaric’s name on air? A sterner conquerer hath been there! A conqueror--yet his paths are peace, He comes to bring the world’s release; He of the sword that knows no sheath, The avenger, the deliverer--Death!