Rome.--ALAS! the lofty city! and alas!
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page!—but these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside-decay.

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,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance, till thine eagles flew
O'er prostrate Asia;-thou, who with thy frown
Annihilated senates-Roman, too,

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?
She who was named Eternal, and array'd
Her warriors but to conquer-she who voil'd
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd,

Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd

Tully was not so eloquent as thou,

Thou nameless column with the buried base!
What are the laurels of the Cæsar's brow?
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus, or Trajan's? No-'tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars: they had contain'd
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign'd,

The Roman globe, for after none sustain❜d,
But yielded back his conquests :-he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd

With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues-still we Trajan's name adore.

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleepThe Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicero! BYRON

XIV.-Greece.

HE who hath bent him o'er the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled;
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress;
(Before decay's effacing fingers

Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)
And marked the mild angelic air-
The rapture of repose that's there-
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

That fires not-wins not-weeps not-now-
And but for that chill changeless brow,
Whose touch thrills with mortality

And curdles to the gazer's heart,
As if to him it could impart

The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon-
Yes-but for these and these alone,
Some moments-ay-one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power,
So fair-so calm-so softly seal'd
The first-last look-by death reveal'd!

Such is the aspect of this shore-
'Tis Greece-but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb-
Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of feeling past away!
Spark of that flame-perchance of heavenly birth-
Which gleams—but warms no more its cherish'd earth

CLIME of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave—
Shrine of the mighty, can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave-
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave,
Oh, servile offspring of the free-
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis !

These scenes their story not unknown-
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires,
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,
Attest it, many a deathless age,
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes-though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command—
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace
Enough no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes, Self-abasement pav'd the way
To villain-bonds and despot-sway.

BYRON.

XV.-Battle of Flodden.

BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which, (for far the day was spent,)
The western sun-beams now were bent.
But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent."

66

And sudden, as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,
Was wreathed in sable smoke ;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.-
Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,
Until at weapon-point they close.-
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust;

And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast:
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
The broken billows of the war,

And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
Floating like foam upon the wave;
But nought distinct they see:
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come,
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn Highlandman,
And many a rugged Border clan,
With Huntly, and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broad-sword plied:
'Twas vain-But Fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile cheered Scotland's fight,