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For who would trust the seeming sighs

Of wife or paramour ?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes

We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.

And now I'm in the world alone,

Upon the wide, wide sea :
But why should I for others groan,

When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands ; But long ere I come back again

He'd tear me where he stands.

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!

And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves !

My Native Land-Good Night!


Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul !
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and seo

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.

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago ;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow,

Old Tiber! through 'a marble wilderness ?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

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,

up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the Capitol ; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void

O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,

say, “here was, or is,” where all is doubly light?



The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, have wrapt and wrap
All round us; we but feel oúr way to err:
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map,
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap
Our hands, and


“ Eureka!” it is clearWhen but some false mirage of ruin rises near

Alas! the lofty city! and alas !
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page !—but these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside—decay.

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was


Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou who didst subdue
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew
O’er prostrate Asia ;—thou, who with thy frown
Annihilated senates--Roman, too,

With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown-

The dictatorial wreath-couldst thou divine
To what would one day dwindle that which made
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ?
She who was named Eternal, and array'd
Her warriors but to conquer-she who veild
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,

Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd,
Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd !

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 fate the moral lurks of destiny;

His day of double victory and death
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his


The third of the same moon whose former course
Had all but crown’d him, on the self-same day
Deposed him gently from his throne of force,
And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway,
And all we deem delightful, and consume
Our souls to compass through each arduous way,

Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ?
Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom!

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And thou, dread statue! yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest, ʼmid the assassins' din,
At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
An offering to thine altar from the queen
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 ?

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument 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 ethereal dart,

And thy limbs black with lightning-dost thou yet
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget!

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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

At apish distance; but as yet none have,
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd,

Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,
But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave-

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