Hope, precious Truth in garb of white,Attend thee still, nor quit thy sideWhen with changed robes thou tak'st thy flightIn anger from the homes of pride.Then the false herd, the faithless fair,Start backward; when the wine runs dry.The jocund guests, too light to bearAn equal yoke, asunder fly.O shield our Caesar as he goesTo furthest Britain, and his band,Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foesTheir fear, and on the Red Sea strand!O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!O brother's blood! O iron time!What horror have we left undone?Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?What shrine has rapine held in awe?What altar spared? O haste and beatThe blunted steel we yet may drawOn Arab and on Massagete!