Odes From Horace. - To The Roman People, On Their Renewing The Civil Wars. Book The Fifth, Ode The Seventh.

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains,         Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword?      Is it believ'd that Roman veins         Their crimson tides have sparely pour'd?      Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease,      Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?      Those scowling brows, those lifted spears,         Bend they against the threat'ning towers      Proud Carthage emulously rears?         Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores?      That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway,      May pass in chains along our SACRED WAY?      No! - but that warring Parthia's curse         May quickly blast these far-famed Walls;      Accomplish'd when, with direful force,         By her own strength the City falls;      When Foes no more her might resistless feel,      But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel.      O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce,         Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind!      By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce         Each other's breast in fury blind? -      Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs,      Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes!      The blood our rising walls that stain'd,         Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide,      High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd         Should spread the rage of discord wide,      Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow      Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.