Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,Peoples and towns, and Rome, their head,And mothers of barbarian lords,And tyrants in their purple dread,Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fallThe state's tall prop, lest crowds on fireTo arms, to arms! the loiterers call,And thrones be tumbled in the mire.Necessity precedes thee stillWith hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp:Her hand the nails and wedges fill,The molten lead and stubborn clamp.