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 forget?

LXXXIX.

Thou dost ;-but all thy foster-babes are dead-
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled
In imitation of the things they fear'd,

And fought and conquer'd, and the same course
steer'd,

At apish distance; but as yet none have,

Nor could the same supremacy have near'd,
Some one vain man, who is not in the grave,

But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a

slave

XC.

The fool of false dominion-and a kind
Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, (47)

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
For the sure grave to level him; few years
Had fix'd him with the Cæsars in his fate,
On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd,
An universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man's abode,
And ebbs but to reflow.-Renew thy rainbow, God!

XCIII.

What from this barren being do we reap?
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, (48)
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale;
Opinion an omnipotence,--whose veil

Mantles the earth with darkness, until right
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale
Lest their own judgments should become too
bright,

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

XCIV.

And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage

To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage

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
Man and his Maker--but of things allow'd,
Averr'd, and known,-and daily, hourly seen-
The 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.

XCVI.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she

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)
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

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,
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?

Cl.

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 graceful 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 affections are.

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