Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/47

 With various fruitage? murmur not the brooks Along the flow'ry vallies? they, content, Feasted at Nature's hand, indelicate, Blithe, in their easy taste, and only sought To know their duties; that their only strife, Their gen'rous strife, and greatly to perform. They thro' all shapes of peril and of pain, Intent on honour, dar'd in thickest death To snatch the glorious deed. Nor Trebia quell'd, Nor Thrasymene, nor Cannæ's bloody field, Their dauntless courage: storming Hannibal In vain the thunder of the battle roll'd; The thunder of the battle they return'd Back on his Punic shores, till Carthage fell, And danger fled afar. The City gleam'd With precious spoils: alas, prosperity! Ah, baneful state! yet ebb'd not all their strength In soft luxurious pleasures; proud desire Of boundless sway, and feverish thirst of gold, Rouz'd them again to battle. Beauteous Greece, Torn from her joys, in vain with languid arm Half rais'd her rusty shield; nor could avail The sword of Dacia, nor the Parthian dart, Nor yet the car of that fam'd British chief Which sev'n brave years beneath the doubtful wing Of vict'ry dreadful roll'd its grinding wheels Over the bloody war: the Roman arms Triumph'd till Fame was silent of their foes. And now the world unrivall'd they enjoy'd In proud security: the crested helm, The plated greave and corselet, hung unbrac'd; Nor clank'd their arms, the spear and sounding shield, But on the glitt'ring trophy to the wind. Dissolv'd in ease and soft delights they lie, Till ev'ry sun annoys, and ev'ry wind