LXXIX.
The Niobe of nations! there she
stands,
Childless and crownless, in her
voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered
hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long
ago;
The Scipios’ tomb contains
no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers:
dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!
LXXX.
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War,
Flood, and Fire,
Have dwelt upon the seven-hilled
city’s pride:
She saw her glories star by star
expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs
ride,
Where the car climbed the Capitol;
far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor
left a site; —
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace
the void,
O’er the dim fragments cast
a lunar light,
And say, ‘Here was, or is,’ where all
is doubly night?
LXXXI.
The double night of ages, and of
her,
Night’s daughter, Ignorance,
hath wrapt, and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way
to err:
The ocean hath its chart, the stars
their map;
And knowledge spreads them on her
ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where
we steer
Stumbling o’er recollections:
now we clap
Our hands, and cry, ‘Eureka!’
it is clear —
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
LXXXII.
Alas, the lofty city! and alas
The trebly hundred triumphs! and
the day
When Brutus made the dagger’s
edge surpass
The conqueror’s sword in bearing
fame away!
Alas for Tully’s voice, and
Virgil’s lay,
And Livy’s pictured page!
But these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside—decay.
Alas for Earth, for never shall
we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was
free!
LXXXIII.
O thou, whose chariot rolled on
Fortune’s wheel,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who
didst subdue
Thy country’s foes ere thou
wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or
reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine
eagles flew
O’er prostrate Asia;—thou,
who with thy frown
Annihilated senates—Roman,
too,
With all thy vices, for thou didst
lay down
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown —
LXXXIV.
The dictatorial wreath,—couldst
thou divine
To what would one day dwindle that
which made
Thee more than mortal? and that
so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should
thus be laid?
She who was named eternal, and arrayed
Her warriors but to conquer—she
who veiled
Earth with her haughty shadow, and
displayed
Until the o’er-canopied horizon
failed,
Her rushing wings—Oh! she who was almighty
hailed!