And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show,
    The souls who dwell above in joy and peace,
    And their mere mortal frames have left below,
    Implore thee this long civil strife may cease,
    Which kills all confidence, nips every good,
    Which bars the way to many a roof, where men
    Once holy, hospitable lived, the den
    Of fearless rapine now and frequent blood,
    Whose doors to virtue only are denied. 
    While beneath plunder’d Saints, in outraged fanes
    Plots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains;
    And, contrast sad and wide,
    The very bells which sweetly wont to fling
    Summons to prayer and praise now Battle’s tocsin ring!

    Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowd
    Of tender years, infirm and desolate Age,
    Which hates itself and its superfluous days,
    With each blest order to religion vow’d,
    Whom works of love through lives of want engage,
    To thee for help their hands and voices raise;
    While our poor panic-stricken land displays
    The thousand wounds which now so mar her frame,
    That e’en from foes compassion they command;
    Or more if Christendom thy care may claim. 
    Lo!  God’s own house on fire, while not a hand
    Moves to subdue the flame: 
    —­Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end,
    And on the holy work Heaven’s blessing shall descend!

    Often against our marble Column high
    Wolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base Snake
    Even to their own injury insult shower;
    Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry,
    The noble Dame who calls thee here to break
    Away the evil weeds which will not flower. 
    A thousand years and more! and gallant men
    There fix’d her seat in beauty and in power;
    The breed of patriot hearts has fail’d since then! 
    And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now,
    A race, which ne’er to her in reverence bends,
    Her husband, father thou! 
    Like care from thee and counsel she attends,
    As o’er his other works the Sire of all extends.

    ’Tis seldom e’en that with our fairest scheme
    Some adverse fortune will not mix, and mar
    With instant ill ambition’s noblest dreams;
    But thou, once ta’en thy path, so walk that I
    May pardon her past faults, great as they are,
    If now at least she give herself the lie. 
    For never, in all memory, as to thee,
    To mortal man so sure and straight the way
    Of everlasting honour open lay,
    For thine the power and will, if right I see,
    To lift our empire to its old proud state. 
    Let this thy glory be! 
    They succour’d her when young, and strong, and great,
    He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate. 
    Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the bold
    Tarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst