II.
Thus saith the Lord of Battles: "Shall it be,
That this great city, planted by the sea,
With threescore thousand souls--with fanes and spires
Reared by a race of unexampled sires--
That I have watched, now twice a hundred years,[1]
Nursed through long infancy of hopes and fears,
Baptized in blood at seasons, oft in tears;
Purged with the storm and fire, and bade to grow
To greatness, with a progress firm but slow--
That being the grand condition of duration--
Until it spreads into the mighty nation!
And shall the usurper, insolent of power,
O'erwhelm it with swift ruin in an hour!
And hurl his bolts, and with a dominant will,
Say to its mighty heart--'Crouch, and be still!
My foot is on your neck! I am your Fate!
Can speak your doom, and make you desolate!'