Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/514

476

Soon was that stillness broken: like the cry

Of the hoarse onset of the surging wave,

Or louder rush of whirlwinds sweeping by

Was the wild shout those Gothic myriads gave,

As towered on high, above their moonlit road,

Scenes where a Cæsar triumpht, or a Scipio trod.

Think ye it strikes too slow, the sword of fate,

Think ye the avenger loiters on his way,

That your own hands must open wide the gate,

And your own voice must guide him to his prey;

Alas, it needs not; is it hard to know

Fate's threat'nings are not vain, the spoiler comes not slow.

And were there none, to stand and weep alone,

And as the pageant swept before their eyes

To hear a dim and long-forgotten tone

Tell of old times, and holiest memories,

Till fanciful regret and dreamy woe

Peopled night's voiceless shades with forms of long Ago.

Oh yes! if fancy feels, beyond to-day,

Thoughts of the past and of the future time,

How should that mightiest city pass away

And not bethink her of her glorious prime,

Whilst every chord that thrills at thoughts of home

Jarr'd with the bursting shout, "they come, the Goth, they come!"