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Julia Alpinula

Hic jaceo
lafelicis patris, infelix,

Deae Aventiae Sacers
Exorare patris necem non
Male mori in fatis ille er

Vixi annos XX1:1.
I know of no human composit
as this, nor a history of deeper in
are the names and actions whics
perish, and to which we turn
healthy teuderness, from the wretcher
decail of a confused mass of congen
with which the mind is rousedici
and feverish sympathy, from wkt.
length with all the nausea conseqr
toxication,

17.
In the sun's face, like yonter 1"

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This is written in the eve ot
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LXXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which — had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine – might be worshipp'd

more; 39) But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never - trodden snow, and seen the hoar

Glaciers of bleak Mont-Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,

LXXIV.
Th’ Acroceraunian mountains of old name;
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,
For still they soar'd' unutterably high :
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye;
Athos, Olympus, Aetna, Atlas, made
These hills seem things of lesser dignity,

All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid

Lxxv. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake quote in

sic raptures, and awake The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake,

The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word) In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record

LXXVI.

Aught that recals the daily drug which turn'd My sickening memory; and, though Time hath

taught My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought,

If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.

LXXVII.
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow,
To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
Although no deeper_Moralist rehearse
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art,
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce,
Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart,
Yet fare thee well – upon Soracte's ridge we part.

LXXVIII.
Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul !
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!

Whose agonies are evils of a day
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

LXXIX.
The Niobe of Nation's! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago;
The Scipios tomb contains no ashes now; 41)
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 di-
stress.

LXXX.
TheGoth, theChristian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd 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,

“ here was, or is,» where all is doubly
night?

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And say,

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 his 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! 42) 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. Oh thou, whose chariot rollid on Fortune's wheel,45) 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 array'd Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,

Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing, wings --- Oh! she who was Almighty

hail'd!

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