Age with devouring fingers spareth naught,—
Nor populous realm, nor consecrated laws;
Sea, now an alien flock to pasture draws
Within the shade where once the Tribunes taught;
No more, behind triumphant chariots caught,
Go kings in chains to swell the victor's cause;
Nor the Clitumnian oxen—'mid the pause
Move toward the altar pompously enwrought.

Like cloud or shadow or swift-fleeting bark,
Laws, armies, glories, all, are swept away;
Alone a cross above the ruins, see!
Tell me, O cross, what destiny you mark?—
Of old Rome's greatness shall the future say,
'Twas human glory, or God's majesty?