To human search, in daring pride would sweep,
As o’er the trampled dust wherein they soon must sleep.
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!