A town with seven distinguish’d gates was shown, Which spoke its name, and made the city known; Before it, piles and tombs, and rising flames, The rites of death, and choirs of mourning dames Who bared their breasts, and gave their hair to flow, The signs of grief, and marks of public wo. Their fountains dried, the weeping Naiads mourn’d, The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn’d, No herbage clothed the ground, a ragged flock Of goats half famish’d lick’d the naked rock Of manly courage, and with mind serene, Orion’s daughters in the town were seen; One heav’d her chest to meet the lifted knife, One plunged the poniard through the seat of life, Their country’s victims; mourns the rescued state, The bodies burns, and celebrates their fate. To save the failure of the illustrious line, From the pale ashes rose, of form divine, Two generous youths; these, fame Coronae calls, Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother’s falls.

These burnish’d figures form’d of antique mould, Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold; A wreath of gilt acanthus round the brim was roll’d.