CX.

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, (53)

CXI.

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. (54)

CXII.

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 sleep— The Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicero !

CXIII.

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood :
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd;
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes;

Till every lawless soldier who assail'd

Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

CXIV.

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name,

From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame-
The friend of Petrarch-hope of Italy-
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree (55)
Of Freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf,
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be—

The forum's champion, and the people's chiefHer new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart (56)
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art

Or wert, a young Aurora of the air,

-

The nympholepsy of some fond despair;

Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face

Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base

Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy, creep

CXVII.

Fantastically tangled; the green hills

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass;
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;

The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its

skies.

VOL. II.

L

CXVIII.

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,

Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;

The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy, and seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befel?

This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting
Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle!

CXIX.

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
Blend a celestial with a human heart;

And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
Share with immortal transports? could thine art
Make them indeed immortal, and impart

The purity of heaven to earthly joys,

Expel the venom and not blunt the dart

The dull satiety which all destroys

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which

cloys?