160 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



Is this the. man, whose nod 

 Made the Earth tremble ? whose terrific rod 

 Levell'd her loftiest cities ? Where he trod 



Famine pursued, and frown'd, 



Till Nature, groaning round, 

 Saw her rich realms transform'd to deserts dry ; 



While at his crowded prison's gate, 



Grasping the keys of Fate, 

 Stood stern Captivity. 



Vain Man ! behold thy righteous doom ; 



Behold each neighb'ring monarch's tomb ; 



The trophied arch, the breathing bust, 



The laurel shades their sacred dust ; 

 While thou, vile outcast, on this hostile plain, 

 Moulder'st, a vulgar corse, among the vulgar slain. 



No trophied arch, no breathing bust, 

 Shall dignify thy trampled dust ; 



No laurel flourish o'er thy grave. 

 For why ? proud King, thy ruthless hand 

 Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land. 

 And crush'dthe subject race, whom kings are born to save. 



Eternal Infamy shall blast thy name ; 

 And all thy sons shall share their impious father's shame. 



Rise, purple Slaughter ! furious rise, 

 Unfold the terrors of thine eyes ; 



Dart thy vindictive shafts around : 

 Let no strange land a shade afford, 

 No conquer'd Nations call them Lord ; 

 Nor let their cities rise, to curse the goodly ground, 



For thus Jehovah swears : No name, no son, 

 No remnant shall remain of haughty Babylon. 



Thus saith the righteous Lord : 

 My vengeance shall unsheath the flaming sword ; 

 O'er all thy realms my fury shall be pour'd. 



Where yon proud city stood 



I'll spread the stagnant flood ; 

 And there the bittern in the sedge shall lurk, 



Moaning with sullen strain : 



While, sweeping o'er the plain, 

 Destruction ends her work. 



