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Temple and tower went down, nor left a What crimes it costs to be a moment free
And famous through all ages! but beneath
yield his breath. The double night of ages, and of her, The third of the same moon whose former Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath' wrapt
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day All round us ; we but feel our way to crr: Deposed him gently from his throne of force, The ocean hath his chart, the stars their And laid him with the earth's preceding map,
Were they but so in man's, how different
were his doom!
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie,
Oh thoa, whose chariot rollid on Fortune's And thou , the thunder-stricken nurse of wheel,
Rome! Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugsimpart Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
wild teat, Annihilated senates—Roman, too,
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart,
charge forget ?
dead Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd By aught than Romans Rome should thus be Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled
In imitation of the things they fear'd She who was named Eternal, and array'
y'd And fought and conquerd, and the same Her warriors but to conquer-she who veil'd
course steerd, Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- At apish distance; but as yet none have,
Nor could, the same supremacy have near’d, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail’d, Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, Her rushing wings Oh! she who was But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own Almigthy hailid !
slaves a slaveSylla was first of victors; but our own The fool of false dominion--and a kind The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he Of bastard-Caesar, following him of old Too swept off scnates while he hew'd the With steps anequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modellid in a less terrestrial mould, Down to a block-immortal rebel! See With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd And the intent of tyranny avow'd,
the throne; And came—and saw—and conquer'd! But Too glorious, were this all his mighty the man
arm had done. Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, And Freedom find no champion and no child Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, Such as Columbia saw arise when she With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled A listener to itself, was strangely framed; Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, With but one weakest weakness—vanity, Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar Coquettish in ambition--still he aimed of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled At what? can he avouch-or answer what On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more he claim'd? Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no
such shure ? And would be all or nothing-nor could wait
But France got drunk with blood to vomit For the sure grave to level him; few years
crime, Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, And fatal have her Saturnalia been On whom we tread : For this the conqueror To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen, The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And vile Ambition, that built up between And blood of earth flow on as they have Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon the scene, An universal deluge, which appears Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Without an ark for wretched man's abode, Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's And ebbs but to reflow!--Renew thy rain
worst-his second fall. bow, God!
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but What from this barren being do we reap ?
flying, Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, Streams like the thunder-storm against the Life short, and truth a gem which loves
wind; the deep,
Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Opinion an omnipotence,—whose veil Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Mantles the earth with darkness, until right Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale
worth, Lest their own judgments should become too But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find bright,
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; And their free thoughts becrimes, and earth So shall a better spring less bitter fruit have too much light.
bring forth. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, There is a stern round tower of other days, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Bequeathing their hereditary rage Standing with half its battlements alone, To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage And with two thousand years of ivy grown, War for their chains, and rather than be The garland of eternity, where wave free,
The green leaves over all by time o'erBleed gladiator-like, and still engage
thrown ;Within the same arena where they see What was this tower of strength ? within Their fellows fall before, like leaves of
its cave the same tree What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ?--A
woman's Shave. I speak not of men's creeds--they rest between
But who was she, the lady of the dead, Man and his Maker-but of things allow'd, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Averr'd, and known ,--and daily, hourly Worthy a king's--or more—a Roman's bed? seen
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear! The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, What daughter of her beauties was the heir?
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 So honour'd—and conspicuously there,
steer? Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal
save what is here. lot?
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Was she as those who love their lords, or they Shall henceforth be my music, and the night Who love the lords of others? such have been, The sound shall temper with the owlet's cry, Even in the olden time Rome's annals say. As I now hear them, in the fading light Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, Answering each other on the Palatine, Profuse of joy-or 'gainst it did she war, With their large eyes, all glistening gray Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean
and bright, To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar And sailing pinions.—Upon such a shrine Love from amongst her griefs?—for such What are our petty griefs ?-let me not the affections are.
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, Cypress and ivy, weed and wall-flower bow'd
grown With woes far heavier than the ponderous Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, coThat weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud
lumn strown Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescos In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom
steep'd Heaven gives its favourites-early death; In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd,
Deeming it midnight:- Temples, baths, or A sunset-charm around her, and illume
halls? With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Pronounce who can; for all that Learning Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf
reap'd like red. From her research hath been, that these are
walls Perchance she died in age-surviving all, Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the Charms, kindred, children—with the sil
mighty falls. ver-gray On her long tresses, which might yet recal, There is the moral of all human tales; It may be, still a something of the day 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past : When they were braided, and her proud First Freedom, and then Glory-when that array.
fails, And lovely form were envied, praised, and Wealth, vice,corruption,-barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast, By Rome–But whither would Conjecture Hath but one page,— 'tis better written here,
Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amassid Thus much alone we know-Metella died, All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, The wealthiest Roman's wife; Behold his Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask
-Away love or pride!
with words! draw near, I know not why—but standing thus by thee Admire, exult-despise-langh, weep,It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
for here Thou tomb! and other days come back on me There is such matter for all feeling:-Man! With recollected music, though the tone Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Ages and realms are crowded in this span, Of dying thunder on the distant wind; This mountain, whose obliterated plan Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone The pyramid of empires pinnacled, Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin Till the sun's rays with added flame were leaves behind;
Where are its golden roofs? where those And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the
who dared to build ?
Built me a little bark of hope, once more Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Titus or Trajan's ? No—'tis that of Time: The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace Or, it might bé, a beauty of the earth, Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb Who found a more than common votary thero To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, slept sublime, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly
bodied forth. Buried in air, the deep-blue sky of Rome, And looking to the stars: they had contain's The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled A spirit which with these would find a home, With thine Elysian water-drops; the face The last of those who o'er the whole earth Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unreign’d,
wrinkled, The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Butyielded back his conquests:-he was more Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd Art's works; nor must the delicate waters With household-blood and wine, serenely
Prison'd in marble; bubbling from the base His sovereign virtues—still we Trajan's Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap name adore. The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers,
and ivy, creep Where is the rock of Triumph, the high
hills Where Rome embraced her heroes? where Are clothed with early blossoms, through Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Of summer- birds sing welcome as ye pass ; Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes A thousand years of silenced factions sleep, Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The Forum, where the immortal accents The sweetness of the violet's deep-blue eyes,
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems And still the eloquent air breathes—burns
colourd by its skies. with Cicero!
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted The field of freedom, faction, fame, and
cover, blood :
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; From the first hour of empire in the bud The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic To that when further worlds to conquer
meeting fail'd ;
With her most starry canopy, and seating But long before had Freedom's face been Thyself by thine adorer, what befel?
This cave was surely shaped out for the And Anarchy assumed her attributes;
greeting Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell Trod on the trembling senate's slavish Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle!
mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. And didst thog not, thy breast to his replying,
Blend a celestial with a human heart; Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, And Love, which dies as it was born, in From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
sighing, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame Share vith immortal transports ? could The friend of Petrarch-hope of Italy
thine art Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree Make them indeed immortal, and impart Of Freedon's wither'd trunk puts forth a The purity of heaven to earthly joys,
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart-Even for thy tomb a garland let it be The dull satiety which all destroys The forums champion, and the people's | And root from out the soul the deadly weed chief
which cloys? Her new-born Numa thou—with reign, alas!
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert; whence arise Egeria! sweet creation of some heart But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Which found no inortal resting-place so fair Rank at the core,though tempting to the eyes, As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Flowers whose wild odours breathe but Or wert,-a young Aurora of the air,
And trees whose gums are poison ; such the Antipathies—but to recur, ere long,
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; Which spriug beneath her steps as Passion And Circumstance, that unspiritual god
And miscreator, makes and helps along O'er the world's wilderness,and vainly pants Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, For some celestial fruit forbidden to our Whose touch turns Hope to dust,—the dust wants.
we all have trod.
Oh Love! no habitant of eartl: thou art Our life is a false nature—'tis not in
The skies which rain their plagues on men Even with its own desiring phantasy,
like dewAnd to a thought such shape and image given, Disease, death, bondage-all the woes we As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'dwearied—wrung-and riven. And worse, the woes we see not—which
throb through Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, The immedicable soul, with heart-aches And fevers into false creation :-where,
ever new Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath
Yet let us ponder boldly—'tis a basc In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? Abandonment of reason to resign Where are the charms and virtues which we Our right of thought-our last and only dare
place Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, Thongh from our birth the faculty divine Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb’d, And overpowers the page where. it would
confined, bloom again? And bred in darkness, lest the truth should
shine Who loves, raves—’tis youth's frenzy—but Too brightly on the unprepared mind,
The beam pours in, for time and skill will Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds
couch the blind. Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Ideal shape of such, yet still it binds Would build up all her triumphs in one The fatal spell, and still it draws us on,
dome, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine.
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Should be the light which streams here, Seems ever near the prize,_wealthiest when
to illume most undone. 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 Hues which have words, and speak to ye at first
of heaven, But all too late,--so are we doubly curst. Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monuLove, fame, ambition, avarice'tis he same,
ment, Each idle—and all ill—and none the worst- And shadows forth its glory. There is given For all are meteors with a different name, Unto the things of earth, which time hath And Death the sable smoke where vanishes
the flame. A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is Few-none-find what they love or could
a power have loved, And magic in the ruined battlement, Though accident, blind contact, and the For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages Necessity of loving, have removed
are its dower.