It was not part of their blood,
For it came late in the night.
Bellows called for a flood.
Whispers longed, keen for a fight.
Their steps have long lost their poise.
Ever heavy grow their reins.
Where once pride filled their boys,
Now does wrath so flow through their veins.
Their hearts tired of restraint,
And haste has culled their ranks.
As their patience e’re grows faint,
They reach deep in search of thanks.
Nature cares not for their worth,
Nor forgives those folly obey.
Nor is Sophia short of mirth,
For Rome was not built in a day.
Our towers ache with hunger.
For glory is ever near.
T’was there when we were younger.
Still awaiting our thousandth year.
I might remove “so” in line 8. I believe it throws off the metre. The rest is very good.