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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.
CIII. 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
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
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
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
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
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.
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
words! draw near,
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! Where are its golden roofs? where those who
dared to build?
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
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
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
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 veild, And Anarchy assumed her attributes; Till every lawless soldier who assaild Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
'The friend of Petrarch-hope of Italy,
The forum's champion, and the people's chiefHer new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas ! too
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart (56)
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,
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
CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the
grass VOL, I,-