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that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud, triumphal course through Rome, Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurl'd,— Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome,—

I see her now, dismantled of her state, Spoil'd of her sceptre; crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car, and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around!

Oh! that a stranger's envious hand had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, "Vengeance, Italia!" in the burning thought, Losing my grief; but 'tis th' ignoble sway Of vice hath bow'd thee!—Discord, slothful ease, Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.