XIII

 
Not the raging fire’s furious reign,
Nor the cutting edge of conquering blade,
Nor the havoc ruthless soldiers made,
In sacking you, Rome, ever and again,

Nor the tricks that fickle fortune played,
Nor envious centuries corrosive rain,
Nor the spite of men, nor gods’ disdain,
Nor your own power in civil strife displayed,

Nor the impetuous storms that you withstood,
Nor the river-god’s winding course in flood,
That has so often drowned you in its thunder,

Not all combined have so abased your pride,
As that this nothing left you, by Time’s tide,
Still makes the world halt here, and gaze in wonder.