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The barks are launching from the steep, Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep,4 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 conqueror 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, Th' avenger, the deliverer—Death!

Is then that daring spirit fled? Doth Alaric slumber with the dead? Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength, And he and earth are calm at length. The land where heaven unclouded shines, Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines; The land by conquest made his own, Can yield him now—a grave alone.