LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: LXXIII. (39) Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which-had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine-might be worshipp❜d more; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXXIV. Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, For still they soar'd unutterably high: I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos, Olympus, Etna, Atlas, made These hills seem things of lesser dignity, All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word (40) In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI. Aught that recals the daily drug which turn'd Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, LXXVIII. Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day— A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, LXXXII. Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs! (42) and the day Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! LXXXIII. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,(43) With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath,-couldst thou divine By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? Her warriors but to conquer-she who veil'd Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block-immortal rebel! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! but beneath His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! |