A dome, its image, while the base expands Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. The daring charge to raise it shall be given, His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word The stream of his great thoughts shall spring from me, Lord Byron. ROME. I SAW the ages backward rolled, The scenes long past restore; Scenes that Evander bade his guest behold, Sleeps in her cradle. But in that drear waste, And eagles on its crest their aerie hung; And when fierce gales bowed the high pines, when blazed The lightning, and the savage in the storm Some unknown godhead heard, and, awe-struck, gazed On Jove's imagined form; And in that desert, when swoln Tiber's wave Went forth the twins to save, Their reedy cradle floating on his flood; While yet the infants on the she-wolf clung, The spirit of her blood, As o'er them seen to breathe With fond reverted neck she hung, And licked in turn each babe, and formed with foster ing tongue; And when the founder of imperial Rome Fixed on the robber hill, from earth aloof, His predatory home, And hung in triumph round his straw-thatched roof The wolf-skin, and huge boar-tusks, and the pride Of branching antlers wide, And towered in giant strength, and sent afar And when the shepherds left their peaceful fold, And from the wild wood lair, and rocky den, Round their bold chieftain rushed strange forms of bar barous men, Then might be seen by the presageful eye The vision of a rising realm unfold, And temples roofed with gold. And in the gloom of that remorseless time, The shadowy arm of one of giant birth Forging a chain for earth; And though slow ages rolled their course between, His war-worn legions on, Troubling the pastoral stream of peaceful Rubicon. Such might o'er clay-built Rome have been foretold By word of human wisdom. But what word Save from thy lip, Jehovah's prophet! heard, Link a Faustina to an Antonine On their polluted temple, who but thou, The prophet of the Lord! what word, save thine, Yet, ere that destined time, The love-lute and the viol, song and mirth, A voice borne back on every passing wind, Wherever man has birth, One voice, as from the lip of human kind, The echo of thy fame? Flow they not yet, To commune with thy wrecks, and works sublime, Rome! thou art doomed to perish, and thy days, Like mortal man's, are numbered; numbered all, Ere each fleet hour decays. Though pride yet haunt thy palaces; though art Thy sculptured marbles animate; Though thousands and ten thousands throng thy gate; Though kings and kingdoms with thy idol mart Yet traffic, and thy throned priest adore, Thy second reign shall pass, yore. pass like thy reign of William Sotheby. ROME. I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts And I spring up as girt to run a race! Thou art in Rome! the city that so long |