Ilad fix'd him with the Cæsars in his fate,

On whom we tread : For this the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears

And blood of earth flow on, as they have flowed,
An universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man's abode,

And ebbs but to reflow !-Renew thy RAINBOW, GOD!
XCIII.

What from this barren being do we reap?

Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 45
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale;
Opinion an omnipotence,-whose veil

Mantles the earth with darkness, until right

And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale

Lest their own judgments should become too bright,

And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

XCIV.

And thus they plod in sluggish misery,

Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage

To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,

Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage

Within the same arena where they see

Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

XCV.

I speak not of men's creeds-they rest between
Man and his Maker-but of things allowed,
Averr'd and known,-and daily, hourly seen-
The yoke that is upon us doubly bowed,
And the intent of tyranny avowed,

The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown
The apes of him who humbled once the proud,

And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. XCVI.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she

Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
Or must such minds be nourished 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?

XCVII.

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-his second fall, XCV III.

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 being forth,
XCIX.

There is a stern round tower of other days, 48

Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength displays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, 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 graye.

But who was, she the lady of the dead,

Tombed 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 honoured-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, bowed
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weighed 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 shed47

A sunset charm around her, and illume

With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,

Of her consuming cheek, the autumnal leaf-like red,

CIII.

Perchance she died in age-surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children-with the silver grey
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 pride.
CIV.

I know not why-but standing thus by thee

It seems as if I had thine inmate 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 ivied stone

Till I had bodied forth the heated mind

i

Forms from the floating wreck, which Ruin leaves behind;

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