Camped sumless, ’twixt the Black and Baltic main:
Brute hosts, I own; but Sparta could not write,
And Rome, half-barbarous, bound Achaia’s chain:
So Russia’s spirit, midst Sclavonic night,
Burns with a fire more dread than all your polished light.
But Russia’s limbs (so blinded statesmen say)
Are crude, and too colossal to cohere.
O, lamentable weakness! reckoning weak
The stripling Titan, strengthening year by year.
What implement lacks he for war’s career,