How great thy debt to Nero's race,O Rome, let red Metaurus say,Slain Hasdrubal, and victory's graceFirst granted on that glorious dayWhich chased the clouds, and show'd the sun,When Hannibal o'er Italy Ran, as swift flames o'er pine-woods run,Or Eurus o'er Sicilia's sea.Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil,Rome's prowess grew: her fanes, laid wasteBy Punic sacrilege and spoil,Beheld at length their gods replaced.Then the false Libyan own'd his doom:—“Weak deer, the wolves' predestined prey,Blindly we rush on foes, from whom'Twere triumph won to steal away.That race which, strong from Ilion's fires,Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,Its sons, its venerable sires,Bore to Ausonia's citied coast;