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; And now I'm in the world alone, But why should I for others groan, But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves ! My Native Land-Good Night! "ROME AND HER IMITATORS." Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 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, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and wide O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly light? U The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, have wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our 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 cry "Eureka!” it is clear— When but some false mirage of ruin rises near Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 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 ? Her warriors but to conquer-she who veil'd Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd! Sylla was first of victors; but our own, Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 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. The third of the same moon whose former course Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! And thou, dread statue! yet existent in An offering to thine altar from the queen And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! And thy limbs black with lightning-dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? Thou dost; but all thy foster-babes are dead-- In imitation of the things they fear'd And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, 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- |