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 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, yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost ;-but all thy foster-babes are dead- And fought and conquer'd, and the same course At apish distance; but as yet none have, Nor could the same supremacy have near'd, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave XC. The fool of false dominion-and a kind With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet,-and now himself he beam'd, XCI. And came--and saw-and conquer'd! But the man Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; With but one weakest weakness-vanity, Coquettish in ambition--still he aim'dAt what? can he avouch-or answer what he claim'd! XCII. And would be all or nothing--nor could wait Without an ark for wretched man's abode, XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. XCV. I speak not of men's creeds-they rest between The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown throne ; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled' On infant Washington? Has earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore? 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 we have seen And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst-his second fall. 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. ХСІХ. There is a stern round tower of other days, (49) The garland of eternity, where wave The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown;— What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?-A woman's grave. C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, not So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? Cl. Was she as those who love their lords, or they To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?-for such the affections are. CII. Perchance she died in youth: It may be, bow'd |