The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd,

But yielded back his conquests :—he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd

With household blood and wine, serenely wore

His sovereign virtues-still we Trajan's name adore.

CXII.

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place

Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep

Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race,

The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap

Cured all ambition.

Did the conquerors heap

Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleepThe Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicero !

CXIII.

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud

To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd;
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes;

Till every lawless soldier who assail'd
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

CXIV.

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name,

From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame-
The friend of Petrarch-hope of Italy-
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree

Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf,
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be―

The forum's champion, and the people's chief--
Her new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart

Which found no mortal resting-place so fair

As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art
Or wert, a young Aurora of the air,
The nympholepsy of some fond despair;

Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
Who found a more than common votary there

Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth,

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.

The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled

With thine Elysian water-drops; the face

Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,

Whose green, wild margin now no more erase

Art's works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base

Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep

CXVII.

Fantastically tangled: the green hills

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass;
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;

The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,

Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies.

CXVIII.

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Egeria thy all heavenly bosom beating

For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;

The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy, and seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell?

This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting

Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle!

CXIX.

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,

Blend a celestial with a human heart;

And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
Share with immortal transports? could thine art

Make them indeed immortal, and impart

The purity of heaven to earthly joys,

Expel the venom and not blunt the dart

The dull satiety which all destroys

And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?

CXX.

Alas our young affections run to waste,

Or water but the desert; whence arise
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste,
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes,
Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies,
And trees whose gums are poison; such the plants
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants

For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants.

CXXI.

Oh Love! no habitant of earth art thou

An unseen seraph, we believe in thee,-
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,—
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see

The naked eye, thy form, as it should be;
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven,

Even with its own desiring phantasy,

And to a thought such shape and image given,

As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd, wearied, wrung, and riven.