XXII

 
When this brave city, honouring the Latin name,
Bounded on the Danube, in Africa,
Among the tribes along the Thames’ shore,
And where the rising sun ascends in flame,

Her own nurslings stirred, in mutinous game
Against her very self, the spoils of war,
So dearly won from all the world before,
That same world’s spoil suddenly became:

So when the Great Year its course has run,
And twenty six thousand years are done,
The elements freed from Nature’s accord,

Those seeds that are the source of everything,
Will return in Time to their first discord,
Chaos’ eternal womb their presence hiding.