The Speech Of Flattery

See how he lies, still mighty in his ease,
The fields' huge fear, the terrifying saint;
And nothing needed but his straightened knees,
A polished helm,-perhaps a little paint.
His breast is broad, as when behind the shield
He thrust its front across the clanging line,
And stood with Gore, as trembling armies kneeled
To lay their carven trophies at his shrine.
And now the very gates would yield at sight,
The earth cry "Welcome" and the maidens sing
"The day has come, at last, lat last, the light!
Sick Peace is slain, and slaying War is king!"
Oh, even yet will Beauty yield to Might,
And deck his couch while Numa's temples ring.'