Whom she hath nursed to stature proud and great;
Catch one last glance from her imploring eyes,
Then close your ranks and face the threatening fate.
To save her proud soul from that loathed thrall
Which yet her spirit cannot brook to name;
Or, if her fate be near, and she must fall,
Spare her—she sues—the agony and shame.
From all her fanes let solemn bells be tolled,
Heap with kind hands her costly funeral pyre,
And thus, with paean sung and anthem rolled,