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.

BYRON.

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.

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

"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!

FELICIA HEMANS.

NAPLES.

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.

Everywhere

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.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

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.

Day was breaking

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

to die!

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-

tone

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.

Love and awe

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.