CV. And from the planks, far shattered 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 foundered that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-forn store Worn Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. CVI. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, What are our petty griefs ?—let me not number mine. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown (1) The Palatine is one mass of ruins, particularly on the side towards the Circus Maximus. The very soil is formed of crumbled brick-work, Nothing has been told, nothing can CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales; 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory—when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption,-barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page,-'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or car, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask-Away with words! draw near, CIX. Admire, exult-despise-laugh, weep,-for here Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? CX. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base! To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, be told. to satisfy the belief of any but a Roman antiquary. -See-Historical Illustrations, page 206. CXI. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, But yielded back his conquests :-he was more With household blood and wine, serenely wore CXII. Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the traitor's leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleepThe Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicero! CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, The Forum's champion, and the people's chief— Her new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief. CXV. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers and ivy, creep, CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, CXVIII. Here did'st thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting CXIX. And did'st thou not, thy breast to his replying, And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, The purity of heaven to earthly joys, The dull satiety which all destroys— And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? |