When at thy voice, to burst the yoke,
The soul of Rome indignant woke?
Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111]
Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112]
Th’ illusions, that around her cast
Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113]
Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray,
Shed o’er her midnight of decay;
Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine
Must rivet every chain—but thine.