Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, To where the prospect terminates—thee only. TYPE of the antique Rome! rich reliquary Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst I kneel, an altered and an humble man, II. Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! III. Here, where a hero fell, a column_falls! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair IV. But stay! these walls-these ivy-clad arcades- These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— By the corrosive hours to Fate and me? V "Not all!" the echoes answer me; "not all! As melody from Memnon to the sun. Not all our power is gone-not all our fame— I SAW thee once-once only-years ago— I must not say how many, but not many: It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, * Founded, we are told, on a real adventure.-Ed. |