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
