XLVI.
But ye! that beam’d on Fate’s tremendous night,
When the storm burst o’er golden Babylon;
And ye, that sparkled with your wonted light
O’er burning Salem, by the Roman won;
And ye, that calmly view’d the slaughter done
In Rome’s own streets, when Alaric’s trumpet-blast
Rang through the Capitol: bright spheres! roll on!
Still bright, though empires fall; and bid man cast
His humbled eyes to earth, and commune with the past.