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LXXXIX. Thon dost;- but all thy foster-babes are deadThe men of iron; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they fear’d, And fought and conquer'd, and the same course

steer'd, At apish distance; but as yet none have, Nor could, the same supremacy have near’d,

Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave

The fool of false dominion - and a kind
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
Was modellid in a less terrestrial mould, 47)
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeen'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,

xc. And came-and saw-and conquer'd! But the man 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'd At what? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd ?

XCII. And would be all or nothing - nor could wait For the sure grave to level him : few years Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears The arch of triumph! and for this the tears And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, An universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to reflow!- Renew thy rainbow, God!

XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, 48) Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale; Opinion an omnipotence, whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, nntil right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

xcIv. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, Bequeathing their hereditary rage To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage War for their chains, and rather than be Bleed gladiator - like, and still engage

Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

| xcv. I speak not of men's creeds -- they rest between Man and his Maker - but of things allow'd, Averr'd, and known, - and daily, hourly seen The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, And the inte.it of tyranny avow'd, The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled

On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?

XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime: Because the deadly days which we have seen, 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.

XCVII. 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, 19) 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 cart What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid? - A woman's


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?

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 af.
fections are.

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 gaiher o'er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the dooni
Heaven gives its favourites — early death; yet

shed 50)
A sunset charm around her, and illume

With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf.like red.

с .
Perchance she died in age surviving all,
Charms, kindred, children - with the silver gray
On her long tresses, which might yet recal,
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

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


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.

+ GVI. Then let the winds howl 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, Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes,all glistening gray 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 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'i

From her research hath been, that these are wallsBehold the Imperial Mount!''tis thus the mighty falls. 51)

CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales; 59) '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,

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