The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire.

Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride: She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site ;Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?

LXXXI.

The double night of ages, and of her,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, and

wrap

Al round us; we but feel our way to err: .
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map,
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample
lap;

But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap

Our hands, and cry Eureka ! it is clear→ When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

LXXXII.

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!

LXXXIII.

O 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

LXXXIV.

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 veil'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!

LXXXV.

Sylla was first of victors; but our own,
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell!-he
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne
Down to a block-immortal rebel! See
What crimes it costs to be a mon:ent free
And famous through all ages! But beneath
His fate the moral lurks of destiny;

His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath.

LXXXVI.

The third of the same moon whose former

course

Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same day Deposed him gently from his throne of force, And laid him with the earth's preceding clay, And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway,

*Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He is followed by Panvinius, and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the modern writers.

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 worsthis second fall.

XCVIII.

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 bring forth.

XCIX.

There is a stern round tower of other days.
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
Such as an army's baffled strength delays,
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 grave.*

C.

But who was she, the lady of the dead,

Tomb'd 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 honour'd 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 affec-

tions are.

CII.

Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weigh'd 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 shed
A sunset charm around her, and illume

The tomb of Cecilia Metella.

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 recall, 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,

Forms from the floating wreck which ruin leaves behind;

CV.

And from the planks, far shatter'd 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 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.

CVI.

Then let the winds how! on! their harmony
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry,
As I now hear them, in the fading light
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site,
Answer each other on the Palatine,

With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright,

And sailing pinions.-Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs?-let me not number mine.

CVII.

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd
On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column
strown

In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes 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 wallsBehold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.

CVIII.

There is the moral of all human tales;
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom, and then Glory-when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption-barbarism at last.