CVI. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos 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 walls— Behold 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. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page,-'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask-Away with words! draw near, CIX. Admire, exult-despise-laugh, weep,-for here Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd! Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build? CX. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base! To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, CXI. Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 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! CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, The forum's champion, and the people's chief— CXV. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art —a young Aurora of the air, Or wert, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep |