Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due The third of the same moon whose former course Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, And all we deem delightful, and consume way, Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? Were they but so in man's, how different were his doom! And thou, dread statue! yet existent in scene? And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down | And thy limbs black with lightning—dost 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? thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond Thou dost;-but all thy foster-babes are She who was named Eternal, and array'd Her rushing wings play'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Sylla was first of victors; but our own Down to a block-immortal rebel! See Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, The fool of false dominion-and a kind And an immortal instinct which redeem'd And the intent of tyranny avow'd, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; And came—and saw—and conquer'd! But Too glorious, were this all his mighty How lived-how loved-how died she? Was | But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I she not So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? Was she as those who love their lords, or they Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, And sailing pinions.-Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?-let me not number mine. Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower grown Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud A sunset-charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaflike red. Perchance she died in age-surviving all, Charms, kindred, children-with the silver-gray 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! I know not why-but standing thus by thee And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more steep'd In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, Deeming it midnight:-Temples, baths, or halls? Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap'd From her research hath been, that these are walls Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. There is the moral of all human tales; Wealth, vice, corruption,—barbarism at last. -Away with words! draw near, Admire, exult-despise-laugh, weep.- Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Titus or Trajan's? No-'tis that of Time: The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble; bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 1 Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befel? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle! And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Blend a celestial with a human heart; And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Share with immortal transports? could thine art Make them indeed immortal, and impart Alas! our young affections run to waste, plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion And trees whose gums are poison; such the Antipathies-but to recur, ere long, flies O'er the world's wilderness,and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. Oh Love! no habitant of earth: thou art- Our life is a false nature—'tis not in The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew Even with its own desiring phantasy, Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where. it would bloom again? Who loves, raves-'tis youth's frenzy-but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize,-wealthiest when most undone. see And worse, the woes we see not-which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. Yet let us ponder boldly-'tis a basc Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine Too brightly on the unprepared mind, The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind. Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine. As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless mine We wither from our youth, we gasp away-Of contemplation; and the azure gloom Sick-sick; unfound the boon-unslaked Of an Italian night, where the deep skies the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first But all too late,—so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice-'tis he same, Each idle and all ill-and none the worstFor all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. Few-none-find what they love or could have loved, Though accident, blind contact, and the strong Necessity of loving, have removed assume Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. |