Heaven gives its favourites-early death; yet shed (50)

A sunset charm around her and illume

With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.

СІІІ.

Perchance she died in age-surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children-with the silver gray
On her long tresses, which might yet recal,
It may be, still a something of the day

When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
By Rome-But whither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know-Metella died,
The wealthiest Roman's wife; Behold his love or
pride!

CIV.

I know not why, but standing thus by thee
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou tomb and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone

Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind;
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone

Till I had bodied forth the heated mind

Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;

CV.

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks,
Built me a little bark of hope, once more
'To battle with the ocean and the shocks
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar
Which rushes on the solitary shore

Where all lies foundered that was ever dear:

But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

CVI.

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night
The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry,
As I now hear them, in the fading light
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site,
Answering each other on the Palatine,

With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright,

And sailing pinions.-Upon such a shrine

What are our petty griefs?—let me not number mine.

CVII.

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column

strown

In fragments, choaked up vaults, and frescos steep'd

In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, Deeming it midnght:-Temples, baths, or halls? Prononnce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd From her research hath been, that these are walls

Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. (51)

CVIII.

There is the moral of all human tales; (52) 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,

First Freedom, and then Glory-when that fails,

Wealth, vice, corruption,-barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page,-'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask-Away with words! draw near,

CIX.

Admire, exult-despise-laugh, weep,--for here
There is such matter for all feeling :-Man!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van

Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?

CX.

Tully was not so eloquent as thou,

Thou nameless column with the buried base!.
What are the laurels of the Cæsar's brow?
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus or Trajan's? No-'tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, (53)

CXI.

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars: they had contain'd
A spirit which with these would find a home,

The last of those who o'er the whole earth

reign'd,

The Roman globe, for after none sustain❜d, But yielded back his conquests :-he was more Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues-still we Trajan's name adore. (54)

CXII.

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the

steep

Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleep— The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicero !

CXIII.

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd;
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes;

Till every lawless soldier who assail'd

Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

CXIV.

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame-

The friend of Petrarch-hope of Italy-
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree (55)
Of Freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf,
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be-

The forum's champion, and the people's chiefHer new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart (56)
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art
Or wert, a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
Or it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un-
wrinkled,

Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep

CXVII.

Fantastically tangled; the green hills

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the

grass

VOL, I.--P