The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Caesars palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot, where the Cæsars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battle- ments,
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, While Caesar's chambers and the Augustan halls Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. —
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries, Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old !— The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms, on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared? Alas! developed, opens the decay, When the colossal fabric's form is neared; It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away.
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 gray walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare, -
Then in this magic circle raise the dead; Heroes have trod this spot, 't is on their dust ye tread.
"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.
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!
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 honored forms, whose busts around them close.
Blue and orange and purple,
Rosy and yellow and white, Rising in rainbow bubbles,
Streaking the lawns with light.
And down from the old stone-pine trees, Those far-off islands of air, The birds are flinging the tidings
Of a joyful revel up there.
And now for the grand old fountains, Tossing their silvery spray, Those fountains, so quaint and so many, That are leaping and singing all day.
Those fountains of strange weird sculpture, With lichens and moss o'ergrown,
Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths, Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone?
Down many a wild, dim pathway We ramble from morning till noon; We linger, unheeding the hours, Till evening comes all too socn.
And from out the ilex alleys, Where lengthening shadows play,
We look on the dreamy Campagna, All glowing with setting day,- All melting in bands of purple, In swathings and foldings of gold, In ribbons of azure and lilac,
Like a princely banner unrolled.
And the smoke of each distant cottage, And the flash of each villa white, Shines out with an opal glimmer, Like gems in a casket of light.
And the dome of old St. Peter's With a strange translucence glows, Like a mighty bubble of amethyst Floating in waves of rose.
In a trance of dreamy vagueness, We, gazing and yearning, behold That city beheld by the prophet, Whose walls were transparent gold.
And, dropping all solemn and slowly, To hallow the softening spell, There falls on the dying twilight The Ave Maria bell.
With a mournful, motherly softness, With a weird and weary care, That strange and ancient city
Seems calling the nations to prayer. And the words that of old the angel To the mother of Jesus brought Rise like a new evangel,
To hallow the trance of our thought. With the smoke of the evening incense Our thoughts are ascending, then,
To Mary, the mother of Jesus,
To Jesus, the Master of men.
O city of prophets and martyrs !
O shrines of the sainted dead! When, when shall the living day-spring Once more on your towers be spread?
When He who is meek and lowly
Shall rule in those lordly halls,
And shall stand and feed as a shepherd The flock which his mercy calls,
O, then to those noble churches, To picture and statue and gem, To the pageant of solemn worship, Shall the meaning come back again. And this strange and ancient city,
In that reign of his truth and love, Shall be what it seems in the twilight, The type of that City above.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
"Roma, Roma, Roma! Non è più come era prima."
ROME, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat'st a queen.
Thou hadst thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men
Bowed at thy feet.
They that thy mantle wore, As gods were seen,
Rome, Rome! thou art no more
As thou hast been!
Rome thine imperial brow
Never shall rise:
What hast thou left thee now?
Thou hast thy skies!
Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar
With colored light.
Thou hast the sunset's glow Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough, Temple and tower!
And all sweet sounds are thine Lovely to hear,
While night, o'er tomb and shrine, Rests darkly clear.
Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung, Sweeps through the arches dim, Thy wrecks among. Many a flute's low swell
On thy soft air Lingers, and loves to dwell With summer there.
Thou hast the south's rich gift Of sudden song,
A charméd fountain, swift, Joyous, and strong.
Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread ; Thou hast proud fanes above
Thy mighty dead.
Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien : Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been!
THIS region, surely, is not of the earth. Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove, Citron, or pine, or cedar, not a grot Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings On the clear wave some image of delight, Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, Some ruined temple or fallen monument, To muse on as the bark is gliding by, And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, Was with his household sacrificing there, From daybreak to that hour, the last and best, When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow, And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn Steals o'er the trembling waters.
Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry, Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers, Like a young child her grandam. Fable came; Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, A thousand, thousand colors not their own: And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields, Those fields with ether pure and purple light Ever invested, scenes by him described Who here was wont to wander, record What they revealed, and on the western shore Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, Beloved Parthenope.
Yet here, methinks, Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape Filling the mind by turns with awe and love, By turns inclining to wild ecstasy And soberest meditation.
With daring aims irregularly great; Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human-kind pass by; Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashioned, fresh from Nature's hand, Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control, While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear. OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
When at the altar of the temple stood The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof, Like an articulate wail, and there, alone, Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt. The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up, Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off His costly raiment for the leper's garb, And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still, Waiting to hear his doom:—
"Depart! depart, O child
Of Israel, from the temple of thy God, For he has smote thee with his chastening rod, And to the desert wild
From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee, That from thy plague his people may be free.
"Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more; Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er; And stay thou not to hear
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow, Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched The loathsome water to his fevered lips, Praying that he might be so blest, Footsteps approached, and with no strength to flee, He drew the covering closer on his lip, Crying, "Unclean! unclean!" and in the folds Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face, He fell upon the earth till they should pass. Nearer the stranger came, and bending o'er The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name. "Helon!". the voice was like the master-
Of a rich instrument, most strangely sweet; And the dull pulses of disease awoke, And for a moment beat beneath the hot And leprous scales with a restoring thrill. "Helon! arise!" and he forgot his curse, And rose and stood before him.
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye. As he beheld the stranger. He was not In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back, nor in his hand Buckler, or sword, or spear, yet in his mien Command sat throned serene, and if he smiled, A kingly condescension graced his lips, The lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn; His stature modelled with a perfect grace; His countenance, the impress of a God, Touched with the open innocence of a child; His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky In the serenest noon; his hair unshorn Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard The fulness of perfected manhood bore. He looked on Helon earnestly awhile, As if his heart was moved, and, stooping down, He took a little water in his hand
And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!" And lo! the scales fell from him, and his blood Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins, And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow The dewy softness of an infant's stole. His leprosy was cleansed, and he fell down Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped him.
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