Rome sees thy face, since Brutus fell, no more,
A stranger thou on many a cultur'd shore:
The Polish lord, of thy embraces vain,
Pricks his proud courser o'er Sarmatia's plain;
Erects his haughty front in martial pride,
And spurns the burgher, grovelling at his side;
The grovelling burgher burns with secret fires,
Looks up, beholds thee, sighs, despairs, expires.