Lady of Antium, grave and stern!O Goddess, who canst lift the lowTo high estate, and sudden turnA triumph to a funeral show!Thee the poor hind that tills the soilImplores; their queen they own in thee,Who in Bithynian vessel toilAmid the vex'd Carpathian sea.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.