And then, indeed my life of woe began.

And ere great Caesar in triumphant pride,
Led on by conquest, bade Rome's eagles soar
To this fair isle; full many a victim died
Upon my breast, and I was drenched with gore:
For "midst the tangling horrors of the wood,"
I stood an altar, stained with human blood.

I've witnessed scenes, which I now dread to name,
I've seen the captive bound in wicker rods
Expire, midst shouts, to feed the sacred flame,
And glut the fury of offended gods;
Those days soon passed--the gospel's milder ray
Dispelled the gloom, and spread a brighter day.

Then superstition tottered on her throne,
And hid her head in shades of gloomy night;
Quenched were her fires--her impious fanes o'er thrown,
Her mists dispersed before the Prince of Light,
Then sank my grandeur; in some lonely spot
I slept for years unnoticed and forgot.

Until Vespasian, by Rome's stern command,
To quench rebellion in my native isle,
Brought his bold legions from a foreign strand,
Our land to torture, and our towers to spoil;
He hewed me in a fashion now unknown,
And dubbed me, what I am, "The London Stone."