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First Line: Mona! With flame thine oaks are streaming
Last Line: The queen of nations bows to earth!
Alternate Author Name(s): Tennyson, Lord Alfred; Tennyson, 1st Baron; Tennyson Of Aldworth And Farringford, Baron


MONA! with flame thine oaks are streaming,
Those sacred oaks we rear'd on high:
Lo! Mona, Lo! the swords are gleaming
Adown thine hills confusedly.

Hark! Mona, Hark! the chargers' neighing!
The clang of arms and helmets bright!
The crash of steel, the dreadful braying
Of trumpets thro' the madd'ning fight!

Exalt your torches, raise your voices;
Your thread is spun -- your day is brief;
Yea! Howl for sorrow! Rome rejoices,
But Mona -- Mona bends in grief!

But woe to Rome, though now she raises
You eagles of her haughty power;
Though now her sun of conquest blazes,
Yet soon shall come her darkening hour!

Woe, woe to him who sits in glory,
Enthroned on thine hills of pride!
Can he not see the poignard gory,
With his best heart's-blood deeply dyed?

Ah! what avails his gilded palace,
Whose wings the seven-hill'd town enfold?
The costly bath, the chrystal chalice?
The pomp of gems -- the glare of gold?

See where, by heartless anguish driven,
Crownless he creeps 'mid circling thorns;
Around him flash the bolts of heaven,
And angry earth before him yawns.

Then, from his pinnacle of splendour,
The feeble king, with locks of grey,
Shall fall, and sovereign Rome shall render
Her sceptre to the usurper's sway.

Who comes with sounds of mirth and gladness,
Triumphing o'er the prostrate dead?
Ay, me! thy mirth shall change to sadness,
When Vengeance strikes thy guilty head.

Above thy noon-day feast suspended,
High hangs in air a naked sword:
Thy days are gone, thy joys are ended,
The cup, the song, the festal board.

Then shall the eagle's shadowy pinion
Be spread beneath the eastern skies;
And dazzling far with wide dominion,
Five brilliant stars shall brightly rise.

Then, coward king! the helpless aged
Shall bow beneath thy dastard blow;
But reckless hands and hearts, enraged,
By double fate shall lay thee low.

And two, with death-wounds deeply mangled,
Low on their parent-earth shall lie;
Fond wretches! ah! too soon entangled
Within the snares of royalty.

Then comes that mighty one victorious
In triumph o'er this earthly ball,
Exulting in his conquests glorious --
Ah! glorious to his country's fall!

But thou shalt see the Romans flying,
O Albyn! with yon dauntless ranks;
And thou shalt view the Romans dying,
Blue Carun! on thy mossy banks.

But lo! what dreadful visions o'er me
Are bursting on this aged eye!
What length of bloody train before me,
In slow succession passes by!

Thy hapless monarchs fall together,
Like leaves in winter's stormy ire;
Some by the sword, and some shall wither
By light'ning's flame and fever's fire.

They come! they leave their frozen regions,
Where Scandinavia's wilds extend;
And Rome, though girt with dazzling legions,
Beneath their blasting power shall bend.

Woe, woe to Rome! though tall and ample
She rears her domes of high renown;
Yet fiery Goths shall fiercely trample
The grandeur of her temples down!

She sinks to dust; and who shall pity
Her dark despair and hopeless groans?
There is a wailing in her city --
Her babes are dash'd against the stones!

Then, Mona! then, though wan and blighted
Thy hopes be now by Sorrow's dearth,
Then all thy wrongs shall be requited --
The Queen of Nations bows to earth!







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