880 | 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, | |
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, | |
885 | 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; - | |
890 | What was this tower of strength? within its cave |
What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid? – A woman’s grave. | |
C | |
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? | |
895 | 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, | |
900 | Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? |
CI | |
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, | |
905 | 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 affections are. | |
CII | |
910 | 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 gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom | |
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom | |
915 | Heaven gives its favourites – early death; yet shed |
A sunset charm around her, and illume | |
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, | |
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. | |
CIII | |
Perchance she died in age – surviving all, | |
920 | 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 | |
925 | By Rome – but whither would Conjecture stray? |
Thus much alone we know – Metella died, | |
The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride! | |
CIV | |
I know not why – but standing thus by thee | |
It seems as if I had thine inmate known, | |
930 | 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 | |
935 | Till I had bodied forth the heated mind |
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; | |
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 | |
940 | 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? | |
945 | There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. |
CVI | |
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 | |
950 | 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 | |
955 | 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, | |
960 | 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; | |
965 | 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 | |
970 | Where gorgeous Tyranny hath 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 | |
There is such matter for all feeling: – Man! | |
975 | Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, |
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, | |
This mountain, whose obliterated plan | |
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, | |
Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van | |
980 | 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! | |
What are the laurels of the Cæsar’s brow? | |
985 | 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 | |
990 | To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime, |
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, | |
995 | 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. | |
CXII | |
1000 | 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 | |
1005 | 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: | |
1010 | 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; | |
1015 | 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, | |
1020 | Redeemer of dark centuries of shame – |
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy – | |
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree | |
Of freedom’s wither’d trunk puts forth a leaf | |
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be - | |
1025 | The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief– |