Not the lopp'd Hydra task'd so soreAlcides, chafing at the foil:No pest so fell was born of yoreFrom Colchian or from Theban soil.Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sightMore splendid: grappled, it will quellUnbroken powers, and fight a fightWhose story widow'd wives shall tell.No heralds shall my deeds proclaimTo Carthage now: lost, lost is all:A nation's hope, a nation's name,They died with dying Hasdrubal.”What will not Claudian hands achieve?Jove's favour is their guiding star,And watchful potencies unweaveFor them the tangled paths of war.

Best guardian of Rome's people, dearest boonOf a kind Heaven, thou lingerest all too long:Thou bad'st thy senate look to meet thee soon:Do not thy promise wrong.