Should one, its fury spent, subside,
Another lifts its boist'rous head,
And foams around the city's shattered prow.
But should the rough tempestuous wave
Force through our walls, too slight to save,
And lay the thin partition low,
Will not the flood's resistless sway
Sweep kings and people, town and realms away?
The dreadful curse pronounced of old
To vengeance rouses ruthless hate;
And slaughter, ranging uncontrolled,
Pursues the hideous work of fate.
Wrecked in the storm, the great, the brave, the wise,
Are sunk beneath the roaring tide.
Such was the chief, this city's pride,
Dear to each god in yon bright skies,
Whose prudence took our dead away,
The ravening monster gorged with human prey.
Where now the chief? his glories where?
Fallen, fallen. From the polluted bed
Indignant madness, wild despair,
And agonising grief succeed.
The light of heaven, himself, his sons, abhorred,
Darkling he feeds his gloomy rage,
Bids them, with many a curse, engage
And part their empire with the sword.
That curse now holds its unmoved state,
The furious fiend charged with the work of fate."
The messenger returns. The city has escaped the yoke of slavery; the boasts of the mighty are fallen; and the vessel of the state having sprung no leak under all the assaults of the wave, now rides in calm
