CXLIV.

   But when the rising moon begins to climb
   Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
   When the stars twinkle through the loops of time,
   And the low night-breeze waves along the air,
   The garland-forest, which the grey walls wear,
   Like laurels on the bald first Caesar’s head;
   When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,
   Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 
Heroes have trod this spot—­’tis on their dust ye tread.

CXLV.

   ’While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
   When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
   And when Rome falls—­the World.’  From our own land
   Thus spake the pilgrims o’er this mighty wall
   In Saxon times, which we are wont to call
   Ancient; and these three mortal things are still
   On their foundations, and unaltered all;
   Rome and her Ruin past Redemption’s skill,
The World, the same wide den—­of thieves, or what ye will.

CXLVI.

   Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime —
   Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,
   From Jove to Jesus—­spared and blest by time;
   Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods
   Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods
   His way through thorns to ashes—­glorious dome! 
   Shalt thou not last?—­Time’s scythe and tyrants’ rods
   Shiver upon thee—­sanctuary and home
Of art and piety—­Pantheon!—­pride of Rome!

CXLVII.

   Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
   Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads
   A holiness appealing to all hearts—­
   To art a model; and to him who treads
   Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds
   Her light through thy sole aperture; to those
   Who worship, here are altars for their beads;
   And they who feel for genius may repose
Their eyes on honoured forms, whose busts around them close.

CXLVIII.

   There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light
   What do I gaze on?  Nothing:  Look again! 
   Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight —
   Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
   It is not so:  I see them full and plain —
   An old man, and a female young and fair,
   Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
   The blood is nectar:  —­but what doth she there,
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?

CXLIX.