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

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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
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'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;

'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,

First Freedom, and then Glory-when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption,-barbarism at last.

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And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page,-'tis better written here

Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,

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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!

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

Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd!

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Where are its golden roofs where those who dared to build?

CX

Tully was not sc 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, 990

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.

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

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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 chief

Her new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief,

CXV

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
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

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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 colour'd by its skies.

CXVIII

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,

Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;

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The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting

With her most starry canopy, and seating

Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?

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-

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And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?

CXX

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert; whence arise
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 poisons; 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—
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,-
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,-
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;

The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,
Even with its own desiring phantasy,

And to a thought such shape and image given,

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As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd, wearied, wrung, 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 seiz'd?

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,

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Seems ever near the prize-wealthiest when most undone.

CXXIV

We wither from our youth, we gasp away

Sick-sick; unfound the boon, unslaked the thirst,
Though to the last, in verge of our decay,

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Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first

But all too late, so are we doubly curst.
Love, fame, ambition, avarice-'tis the same,
Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst-
For all are meteors with a different name,

And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame.

CXXV

Few-none-find what they love or could have loved,
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong
Necessity of loving, have removed
Antipathies-but to recur, ere long,
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong;
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god
And miscreator, makes and helps along
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod,

1120

Whose touch turns Hope to dust,-the dust we all have trod.

CXXVI

Our life is a false nature: 'tis not in

The harmony of things, this hard decree,

This uneradicable taint of sin,

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree,

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 1130 The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew— Disease, death, bondage-all the woes we see,

And worse, the woes we see not-which throb through The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.

CXXVII

Yet let us ponder boldly-'tis a base
Abandonment of reason to resign

Our right of thought-our last and only place
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine:

Though from our birth the faculty divine

Is chain'd and tortured-cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, 1140 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine

Too brightly on the unprepared mind,

The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.

CXXVIII

Arches on arches! as it were that Rome,

Collecting the chief trophies of her line,

Would build up all her triumphs in one dome,

Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine

As 'twere its natural torches, for divine

Should be the light which streams here to illume
This long-explored but still exhaustless mine
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

CXXIX

Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven,
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument,
And shadows forth its glory. There is given

Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,

A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant

His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruin'd battlement,
For which the palace of the present hour

Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.

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