XXXVII. The tears and praises of all time; while thine Would rot in its oblivion-in the sink Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line Is shaken into nothing; but the link Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think Of thy poor inalice, naming thee with scornAlfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink From thee! if in another station born, XLIV. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him," Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn: In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight, LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Lay where there roots are; but a brook hath ta'en- A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 36 LXVII. And on thy happy shore a temple still, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps LXVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! LXIX. The roar of waters!-from the headlong height LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald:-how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows With many windings, through the vale :-Look back! As if to sweep down all things in its track, Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract. 37 A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. E 34 LXXIX. LXXXVI. The Niobe of nations! there she stands Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, The third of the same moon whose former course Our souls to compass through each arduous way, LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! yet exist in 45 An offering to thine altar from the queen And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night? Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err : The ocean hath his 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 clearWhen but some false mirage of ruin rises near. LXXXII. Alas! the lofty city. and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs! 42 and the day LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart The milk of conquest yet within the dome Where, as a monument of antique art, Thou standest:-Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, And thy limbs black with lightning-dost thou yet Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? LXXXIX. Thou dost ;-but all thy foster-babes are dead- And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave-- LXXXIII. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,43 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 Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne And famous through all ages! but beneath His fate the moral lurks of destiny; His day of double victory and death XC. The fool of false dominion-and a kind Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould,17 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, And an immortal instinct which redeem'd The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd At Cleopatra's feet,--and now himself he beam'd, XCI. And came-and saw-and conquer'd! But the ma Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; With but one weakest weakness-vanity, Coquettish in ambition-still he aim'dAt what? can he avouch-or answer what he claim'd хсн. And would be all or nothing-nor could wait Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. And ebbs but to reflow!-Renew thy rainbow, God |