The rapture of the strife 1 —
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that swayWhich man seem’d made but to obey.Wherewith renown was rife —
All quell’d! — Dark Spirit! what must beThe madness of thy memory!
V.
The Desolator desolate!
The victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others* lateA Suppliant for his own !
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince — or live a slave —
Thy choice is most ignobly braye!
vr.
He 2 who of old would rend the oak,Dreamed not of the rebound;
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,