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Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die,
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?
LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
(46) She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a moment of antique art, Thou standest:--mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild
teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, And thy limbs black with lightning--dost thou
yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond .charge
Some one vain man, who is not in the grave,
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd
XCI. And came--and saw--and conquer'd! But the
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Coquettish in ambition--still he aim'd-
Without an ark for wretched man's abode,
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right
bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have
too much light.
Within the same arena where they see
XCV. I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker--but of things allow'd, Averr'd, and known, and daily, hourly seenThe yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, And the intent of tyranny avow'd, The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the
throne ; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.
Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild,
On infant Washington ? Has earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such
XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst-his
XCVIII. Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and
dying, The loudest still' the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, But the sap lasts, -and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.
XCIX. . There is a stern round tower of other days, (49) Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave
What was this tower of strength ? within its cave What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid ?-A woman's
C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace ? was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's-or more--a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? How lived-how loved-how died she? Was she
not So honour'd-and conspicuously there,
Where meaner relics must not dare to‘rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?
CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they Who love the lords of others? such have been, Even in the olden time Rome's annals say. Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Or the light of Egypt's gracefnl queen, Profuse of joy-or 'gainst it did she war, Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs ?-for such the af
CII. Perchance she died in youth : It may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom