| |
| THE RAIN had ceased, and in the watery west | |
| Enough of daylight lingered to beguile | |
| A traveller’s footsteps from the narrow town | |
| And past the mighty wall, beneath whose shade | |
| The streets have clustered, to the tranquil road | 5 |
| Which leads to Orange from the distant north. | |
| And there, on my amazed and ignorant eyes, | |
| Rose the fair span of a triumphal arch,— | |
| A strange pathetic witness of the chains | |
| Which Cæsar fixed on Gaul, and bound her fast | 10 |
| With network of his causeways, east and west. | |
| I passed beneath it, as the evening fell | |
| Misty and golden-green with southern March; | |
| And looked up at the sculptures undecayed, | |
| And at the vast proportions, square and strong, | 15 |
| In which Rome wrought her masonry. It seemed | |
| A strange, sad exile from that dearest land | |
| Where stand the other three, beneath the crests | |
| Of Capitol and Palatine, and groves | |
| Which crown the churches on the Cœlian Hill. | 20 |
| |
| But Nismes I saw in sunshine, when the light | |
| Flooded the great steps of the Golden House, | |
| And painted it against the tender sky, | |
| As any time within this thousand years | |
| And half as much again. And all the Place | 25 |
| By which the Golden House is girt about, | |
| Was thronged with citizens’ feet, which have not ceased | |
| Their hurrying tread since first that house was built | |
In honor of a god.
With Arles the same,— | |
| Whose accents yet retain a Roman note, | 30 |
| Whose dark-eyed women smile with Julia’s eyes | |
| And grave Cornelia’s pride; whose people sit | |
| Unto this hour upon their seats of stone, | |
Spectators of the game;
For far and wide | |
| Within the valley of the rushing Rhone, | 35 |
| Beneath her stony hills, and where the vine | |
| Mates with the olive on the sunburnt slopes, | |
| This mighty Nation of the seven mounts | |
| Planted her eagles; and her legions laid | |
| Their arms together while she built in peace, | 40 |
And dwelt in peace for centuries.
All the land | |
| Is vocal with her presence; the swift streams | |
| Are spanned by her embrace, and as the Rhone | |
| Bursts from the snow-fed crescent of the lake | |
| Which cradles his young streams, he sweeps his course | 45 |
| Through famous memories, second but to those | |
| Which Tiber bears to Ostia, where the waves | |
| Of yellow water whisper to the sea | |
| The latest word from Rome. | |
| |
