Spain conquered, o’er the Pyrenees he bounds.
Nature opposed her everlasting mounds,
Her Alps and snows. O’er these with torrent force
He pours, and rends through rocks his dreadful course.
Yet thundering on, “Think nothing done,” he cries,
“Till o’er Rome’s prostrate walls I lead my powers,
And plant my standard on her hated towers!”
Big words? But view his figure, view his face!
Ah, for some master hand the lines to trace,
As through the Etrurian swamps, by floods increased,