To a Triumpher

Illustrious Imperator, thine arch crown
With old chiefs yoked, barbarian warriors' throng,
Bits that to armor and to boats belong,
With beak and stern of ships thine arms struck down.

Whoe'er thou art, from Ancus sprung or clown,
Thy honors, names and lineage, short or long,
In bas-reliefs and frieze engrave them strong,
That future years dim not thy just renown.

Even now Time lifts his fatal arm. Dost hope
To give thy fame's report eternal scope?
Why, let an ivy climb, thy trophy dies;

And on thy blazoned blocks, dispersed and rent,
As choked with grass their glory's ruin lies,
Some Samnite mower will his scythe indent.