_ The world's
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow.
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow.
Byron
Why will you vex him? Have we not enough
To think on? Arnold! I will lead the attack
To-morrow.
_Arn. _ I have heard as much, my Lord.
_Bourb. _ And you will follow?
_Arn. _ Since I must not lead.
_Bourb. _ 'Tis necessary for the further daring
Of our too needy army, that their chief
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's
First step.
_Caes. _ Upon its topmost, let us hope:
So shall he have his full deserts.
_Bourb.
_ The world's
Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. [dn]
Through every change the seven-hilled city hath
Retained her sway o'er nations, and the Caesars
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest.
Still the world's masters! Civilised, barbarian,
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus
Have been the circus of an Empire. Well!
'Twas _their_ turn--now 'tis ours; and let us hope
That we will fight as well, and rule much better.
_Caes. _ No doubt, the camp's the school of civic rights.
What would you make of Rome?
_Bourb. _ That which it was.
_Caes. _ In Alaric's time?
_Bourb. _ No, slave!