CXL. I see before me the Gladiator lie: (59) He leans upon his hand-his manly brow And his droop'd head sinks gradually low- Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won. CXLI. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rush'd with his blood-Shall he expire CXLII. But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, (61) My voice sounds much-and fall the stars' faint On the arena void-seats crush'd-walls bow'dAnd galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. rays CXLIII. A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. CXLIV. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head; (62) When the light shines serene but doth not glare, Then in this magic circle raise the dead: Heroes have trod this spot-'tis on their dust ye tread. CXLV. "While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; "When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; (63) "And when Rome falls-the World." From our own land Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty w wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, The World, the same wide den—of thieves, or what ye will. CXLVI. Simple, erect, sevére, austere, sublime— Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods Of art and piety-Pantheon!-pride of Rome! CXLVII. Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! To art a model; and to him who treads Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them close. (65) CXLVIII. There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light (66) It is not so; I see them full and plain- The blood is nectar:-but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? CXLIX. Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives What may the fruit be yet?—I know not-Cain was VOL. II. Eve's. M |