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CXVI. 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?
CXVII. 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-kis 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 eternily, 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
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 air 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 Heaven gives its favourites - early death; yet shed so A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.
ClII. 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 imate 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 ivicd 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 founder'd 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
is here. VOL. VII.