| |
| ’T IS sunset on the Palatine. A flood | |
| Of living glory wraps the Sabine hills, | |
| And o’er the rough and serrate Apennines | |
| Floats like a burning mantle. Purple mists | |
| Rise faintly o’er the gray and ivied tombs | 5 |
| Of the Campagna, as sad memory steals | |
| Forth from the twilight of the heart, to hold | |
| Its mournful vigil o’er affection’s dust. | |
| Was that thy camp, old Romulus? where creeps | |
| The clinging vine-flower round yon fallen fanes | 10 |
And mouldering columns?
Lo! thy clay-built huts, | |
| And band of malcontents, with barbarous port, | |
| Up from the sea of buried ages rise, | |
| Darkening the scene. Methinks I see thee stand, | |
| Thou wolf-nursed monarch, o’er the human herd | 15 |
| Supreme in savageness, yet strong to plant | |
| Barrier and bulwark, whence should burst a might | |
| And majesty, by thy untutored soul | |
| Unmeasured, unconceived. As little dreams | |
| The truant boy, who to the teeming earth | 20 |
| Casts the light acorn, of the forest’s pomp, | |
| Which, springing from that noteless germ, shall rear | |
| Its banner to the skies, when he must sleep | |
A noteless atom.
Hark! the owlet’s cry | |
| That, like a muttering sibyl, makes her cell | 25 |
| Mid Nero’s house of gold, with clustering bats | |
| And gliding lizards. Would she tell to man, | |
| In the hoarse plaint of that discordant shriek, | |
The end of earthly glory?
See how meek | |
| And unpretending, mid the ruined pride | 30 |
| Of Caracalla’s circus, yon white flock | |
| Do find their sweet repast. The playful lamb, | |
| Fast by its mother’s side, doth roam at peace. | |
| How little dream they of the hideous roar | |
| Of the Numidian lion, or the rage | 35 |
| Of the fierce tiger, that in ancient times | |
| Fought in this same arena, for the sport | |
| Of a barbarian throng. With furious haste | |
| No more the chariot round the stadium flies; | |
| Nor toil the rivals in the painful race | 40 |
| To the far goal; nor from yon broken arch | |
| Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to claim | |
| The hard-earned garland. All have past away, | |
| Save the dead ruins, and the living robe | |
| That Nature wraps around them. Anxious fear, | 45 |
| High-swollen expectancy, intense despair, | |
| And wild, exulting triumph, here have reigned, | |
And perished all.
’T were well could we forget | |
| How oft the gladiator’s blood hath stained | |
| Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome, | 50 |
| With all her fairest, brightest brows looked down | |
| On the stern courage of the wounded wretch | |
| Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh | |
| Or tone of tender pity were to him | |
| A dialect unknown, o’er whose dim eye | 55 |
| The distant vision of his cabin rude, | |
| With all its echoing voices, all the rush | |
| Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang | |
| To which the torture of keen death was light. | |
| A haughtier phantom stalks! What dost thou here, | 60 |
| Dark Caracalla, fratricide? whose step | |
| Through the proud mazes of thy regal dome | |
| Pursued the flying Geta; and whose hand | |
| Mid that heaven-sanctioned shrine, a mother’s breast, | |
| Did pierce his bosom. Was it worth the price | 65 |
| Thus of a brother’s blood, to reign alone, | |
Those few, short, poisoned years?
* * * Again the scene | |
| Spreads unempurpled, unimpassioned forth; | |
| The white lambs resting ’neath the evening shade, | |
| While dimly curtained mid her glory, Rome | 70 |
| Slumbereth, as one o’erwearied. | |
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