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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!
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
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, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a
The fool of false dominion-and a kind .
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd
XCI. And came--and saw-and conquerd! 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'd At what? can he avouch-or answer what he
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
too much light.
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 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
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.
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
But who was she, the lady of the dead,
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 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
СІІ. 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