The most ardent lover of the olden time cannot but startle, as he treads the deserted streets, or enters the unbarred portals of Borcovicus, and other cities of the Wall, at the thought that the Mistress of Nations is now no more,[[13]] and that the Eternal City is buried in her own debris. The broken column, the prostrate altar, ever and anon obtrude the fact upon him. Another empire has sprung into being of which Rome dreamt not. In a sense different from that which Virgil intended, the words in his third Georgic are peculiarly striking—
Vel scena ut versis discedat frontibus, utque
Purpurea intexti tollant aulæa Britanni.
Or see how on the stage the shifting scenes
In order pass, and pictured Britons rise
Out of the earth, and raise the purple curtain.
PROSPECTIVE FATE OF BRITAIN.
In that island, where, in Roman days, the painted savage shared the forest with the beast of prey—a lady sits upon her throne of state, wielding a sceptre more potent than Julius or Hadrian ever grasped! Her empire is threefold that of Rome in the hour of its prime. But power is not her brightest diadem. The holiness of the domestic circle irradiates her. Literature, and all the arts of peace, flourish under her sway. Her people bless her.
Will Britain always thus occupy so prominent a position in the scene of this world’s history?
... Valet ima summis