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Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dread. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien:-- Rome, Rome, thou art no more As thou hast been.

Those graceful groves that shade the plain, Where Tiber rolls majestic to the main, And flattens, as he runs, the fair campagne.

Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort; Draw them to the Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.