Page:Vida's Art of Poetry.djvu/89

 Thy streams, old Tyber, swell'd with conscious pride, Had borne thy kindred warrior down thy tide; While crowded up in heaps thy waves admire, The captive nations, and their strange attire; Behind his wheels should march a num'rous train Of scepter'd slaves reluctant to the chain; Forget their haughty threats; and boast in vain. Tho' the proud foe, of Jury's realm possest, Now spreads his wide dominion thro' the east; Sees his dread standard there at large unfurl'd, And grasps in thought the empire of the world; And now(ye gods) increast in barb'rous pow'r, His armies hover o'er the Hesperian shore. To see the passing pomp, the ravisht throng Thro' every street should flow in tides along; The sacred father, as the numbers roll'd, Should his dear citizens again behold, High o'er the shouting crowds enthron'd in gold; Should shew the trophies of his glorious toils, And hang the shrines with consecrated spoils. Piles