And the night was dark and calm; There was not a breath of air The leaves of the grove were still,
As the presence of death was there ;- Only a moaning sound
Came from the distant sea;
It was as if, life-like,
It had no tranquillity.
A warrior and a child
Passed through the sacred wood, Which, like a mystery,
Around the temple stood.
The warrior's brow was worn
With the weight of casque and plume;
And sun-burnt was his cheek,
And his eye and brow were gloom.
The child was young and fair,
But the forehead large and high, And the dark eyes' flashing light Seemed to feel their destiny.
They entered in the temple,
And stood before the shrine; It streamed with the victim's blood, With incense and with wine.
The ground rocked beneath their feet, The thunder shook the dome; But the boy stood firm, and swore Eternal hate to Rome.
There's a page in history
O'er which tears of blood were wept,
And that page is the record
How that oath of hate was kept.
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains.—Beautiful! I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering-upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;
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 Cæsars' 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 battlements, 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 Cæsar'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 'twere 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.
The shroud of years thrown back, thou didst revive, Half-raised, half-buried,-dead, yet still alive! Gathering the world around thee, to admire Thy disinterment, and with hearts on fire, To catch the form and fashion of the time When Pliny lived and thou wert in thy prime; So strange thy resurrection, it may seem Less waking life than a distressful dream.
Hushed in this once-gay scene, nor murmurs more The city's din, the crowd's tumultuous roar, The laugh convivial, and the chiming sound Of golden goblets with Falernian crowned;
The mellow breathings of the Lydian flute, And the sweet drip of fountains, as they shoot From marble basements-these, all these are mute! Closed are her springs, unnumbered fathoms deep,- Her splendid domes are one dismantled heap, Her temples soiled, her statues in the dust, Her tarnished medals long devoured by rust; Its rainbow-pavements broken from the bath, The once-thronged forum-an untrodden path; The fanes of love-forgotten cells-the shrines Of vaunted gods-inurned in sulphur mines; The abodes of art, of luxury, and taste- Tombs of their once-glad residents—a waste O'er which compassionate years have gradual thrown The trailing vine, and bid the myrtle moan.
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low Chained down. His was a noble spirit,-rough, But generous, and brave, and kind.
He had a son,-'twas a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire
In face and gesture. In her pangs she died That gave him birth; and ever since the child Had been his father's solace and his care.
The father shared and heightened; but at length The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned To fetters and to darkness.
He felt in all its bitterness: the walls
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched His jailer with compassion ;-and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence that in every wound Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour
He was a poisoned arrow in the breast Where he had been a cure.
Of that first day of darkness and amaze The iron door was closed-for them
Never to open more! The day, the night, Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate Impending o'er the city. Well they heard The pent-up thunder in the earth beneath, And felt its giddy rocking; and the air Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw The boy was sleeping; and the father hoped The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell The dangers of their state. On his low couch The fettered soldier sank, and with deep awe Listened the fearful sounds: with upturned eye To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then strove To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile
His useless terrors ;-but he could not sleep; His body burned with feverish heat; his chains Clanked loud, although he moved not. Deep in earth Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died
Like the sad moanings of November's wind
In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold clammy sweats Came o'er him; then anon a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk, And shivered as in fear; now upright leaped,
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, And longed to cope with death.
A troubled, dreamy sleep. Never to waken more! But terrible his agony !
He slept at last Well-had he slept His hours are few,
Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air Shook with the thunder. They awoke-they sprang Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed A moment, as in sunshine-and was dark.
Again a flood of white flame fills the cell, Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.
And blackest darkness. With intensest awe
The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, As underneath he felt the fevered earth Jarring and lifting-and the massive walls
Heard harshly grate and strain. Yet knew he not.
While evils undefined and yet to come,
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given. Where, man of woe!
Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou callest His name in vain-he cannot answer thee!
When I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give.
Ye shall not raise a marble bust
Upon the spot where I repose; Ye shall not fawn before my dust, In hollow circumstance of woes ; Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of power to rest; Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was 'the scourge of God.' But ye the mountain stream shall turn, And lay its secret channel bare, And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, A resting-place for ever there : Then bid its everlasting springs Flow back upon the king of kings ; And never be the secret said
Until the deep gives up its dead.
My gold and silver ye shall fling
Back to the clods that gave them birth ;— The captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth; For, e'en though dead, will I control The trophies of the Capitol.
But when, beneath the mountain tide, Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side
Pillar or mound to mark the spot :
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