An Ode To Fortune

O Lady Fortune! 't is to thee I call,     Dwelling at Antium, thou hast power to crown     The veriest clod with riches and renown,     And change a triumph to a funeral     The tillers of the soil and they that vex the seas,     Confessing thee supreme, on bended knees     Invoke thee, all.     Of Dacian tribes, of roving Scythian bands,     Of cities, nations, lawless tyrants red     With guiltless blood, art thou the haunting dread;     Within thy path no human valor stands,     And, arbiter of empires, at thy frown     The sceptre, once supreme, slips surely down     From kingly hands.     Necessity precedes thee in thy way;     Hope fawns on thee, and Honor, too, is seen     Dancing attendance with obsequious mien;     But with what coward and abject dismay     The faithless crowd and treacherous wantons fly     When once their jars of luscious wine run dry,--     Such ingrates they!     Fortune, I call on thee to bless     Our king,--our Csar girt for foreign wars!     Help him to heal these fratricidal scars     That speak degenerate shame and wickedness;     And forge anew our impious spears and swords,     Wherewith we may against barbarian hordes     Our Past redress!