Be thine ear closed against her suppliant cries,
Bid thy soul triumph in her agonies;
Let carnage revel e’en her shrines among,
Spare not the valiant, pity not the young!
Haste! o’er her hills the sword’s libation shed,
And wreak the curse of Carthage on her head!”
The vision flies—a mortal step is near,
Whose echoes vibrate on the slumberer’s ear;
He starts, he wakes to woe—before him stands
Th’ unwelcome messenger of harsh commands,