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13
Sent to salute their brethren,—sent to tell
Their great exploits, and give new laws to hell.
I see the Spaniards, once erect and vain,
Humbled in pride, and prostrate on the plain;
I see the corses of Batavians lie
A prey to ev'ry bird that wings the sky.
I see th’Italians, an unmanly brood,
With strength exhausted, floating on the flood:
No friendly dolphin wafts them o'er the main,
They sing, alas! their own funereal strain.
No more, my muse, anticipate the woes,
Nor paint the suff'rings of our falling foes:
Not from revenge this mournful war they wage,
But mad ambition, and the Consul's rage.
