Cv. And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 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. CVI. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 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 strown In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd Deeming it midnight:- Temples, baths, or halls Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap From her research hath been, that these are wallsBehold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the might falls. 51) CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales; 5) "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 askAway with words! draw near, CIX. for here Man! Admire, exult-despise laugh, weep, Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van CX. Tully was not so eloquent as thou, Thou nameless column with the buried base! What are the laurels of the Caesar'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, 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 tlie 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: 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, The forum's champion, and the people's chiefHer newborn Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief. Cxv. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 56) Which found no mortal resting-place só 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 work's; 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 ills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies. CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 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? CXX. Alas! our young affections run to waste, But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd-weariedwrung-and riven. CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation: where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again? CXXIII. Who loves,raves-'tis youth's frenzy-but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm, by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds; The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize-wealthiest when most undone. CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp awaySick-sick; unfound the boon-unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at firstBut all too late, so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice-'tis the same, Each idle-and all ill-and none the worstFor all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame. |