IV Attila
What though his feet were shod with sharp, fierce flame,And death and ruin were his daily squires,The Scythian, helped by Heaven’s thunders, came:The time was ripe for God’s avenging fires.Lo! loose, lewd trulls, and lean, luxurious liarsHad brought the fair, fine face of Rome to shame,And made her one with sins beyond a name—That queenly daughter of imperial sires!The blood of elders like the blood of sheep,Was dashed across the circus. Once while dinAnd dust and lightnings, and a draggled heapOf beast-slain men made lords with laughter leap,Night fell, with rain. The earth, so sick of sin,Had turned her face into the dark to weep.