Of the fierce tiger, that in ancient times
Fought in this same arena, for the sport
Of a barbarian throng. With furious haste
No more the chariot round the stadium flies;
Nor toil the rivals in the painful race
To the far goal; nor from yon broken arch
Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to claim
The hard-earned garland. All have past away,
Save the dead ruins, and the living robe
That Nature wraps around them. Anxious fear,
High-swollen expectancy, intense despair,
And wild, exulting triumph, here have reigned,
And perished all.
"T were well could we forget
How oft the gladiator's blood hath stained
Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome,
With all her fairest, brightest brows looked down
On the stern courage of the wounded wretch
Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh
Or tone of tender pity were to him
A dialect unknown, o'er whose dim eye
The distant vision of his cabin rude,
With all its echoing voices, all the rush
Of its cool, flowing waters, brought a pang
To which the torture of keen death was light.
A haughtier phantom stalks! What dost thou here, Dark Caracalla, fratricide? whose step
Through the proud mazes of thy regal dome
Pursued the flying Geta; and whose hand
Mid that heaven-sanctioned shrine, a mother's breast, Did pierce his bosom. Was it worth the price
Thus of a brother's blood, to reign alone,
Those few, short, poisoned years?
Spreads unempurpled, unimpassioned forth;
The white lambs resting 'neath the evening shade,
While dimly curtained mid her glory, Rome
Slumbereth, as one o'erwearied.
HE sun had set, the city gates were passed,
Up swelled the mighty dome;
The dream of childhood had come true at last,
We were in Rome!
The fountains trembled in their light and shade,
The pale new moon was dropping down the sky,
The pillars of the stately colonnade
Seemed to be marching by.
And Rome lay all before us in its glory,
Its glory and its beautiful decay,
But, like the student in the oft-read story,
I could have turned away
To the still chamber with its half-closed shutter,
Where the beloved father lay in pain,
To sit beside him in contentment utter,
Never to part again.
HE sits among the eternal hills, Their crown, thrice glorious and dear, Her voice is as a thousand tongues Of silver fountains, gurgling clear;
Her breath is prayer, her life is love,
And worship of all lovely things;
Her children have a gracious port,
Her beggars show the blood of kings.
By old Tradition guarded close,
None doubt the grandeur she has seen;
Upon her venerable front
Is written: "I was born a queen!"
She rules the age by Beauty's power,
As once she ruled by arméd might;
The Southern sun doth treasure her
Deep in his golden heart of light.
Awe strikes the traveller when he sees
The vision of her distant dome,
And a strange spasm wrings his heart
As the guide whispers, "There is Rome!"
Rome of the Romans! where the gods
Of Greek Olympus long held sway;
Rome of the Christians, Peter's tomb,
The Zion of our later day.
Rome, the mailed Virgin of the world, Defiance on her brows and breast; Rome, to voluptuous pleasure won, Debauched, and locked in drunken rest.
Rome, in her intellectual day,
Europe's intriguing step-dame grown;
Rome, bowed to weakness and decay,
A canting, mass-frequenting crone.
Then the unlettered man plods on,
Half chiding at the spell he feels,
The artist pauses at the gate,
And on the wondrous threshold kneels.
The sick man lifts his languid head
For those soft skies and balmy airs ;
The pilgrim tries a quicker pace,
And hugs remorse, and patters prayers.
For even the grass that feeds the herds
Methinks some unknown virtue yields;
The very hinds in reverence tread
The precincts of the ancient fields.
But wrapt in gloom of night and death, I crept to thee, dear mother Rome; And in thy hospitable heart
Found rest and comfort, health and home,
And friendships, warm and living still,
Although their dearest joys are fled;
True sympathies that bring to life
That better self, so often dead.
For all the wonder that thou wert,
For all the dear delight thou art,
Accept a homage from my lips,
That warms again a wasted heart.
And, though it seem a childish prayer,
I've breathed it oft, that when I die,
As thy remembrance dear in it,
That heart in thee might buried lie.
THE loud vettura rings along the way,
White as the road with dust. The purple day O'er Monte Mario dies from off the dome, And, lo! the first star leads us into Rome.
O glorious city! Through the deepening shade
A thousand heroes, like the gods arrayed,
And bards, with laurel rustling on their hair,
Walk proudly, and speak grandly, till the air
Is full of solemn majesty, and night
Is half-way robbed by temples marble white.
Yon tramping steeds and yonder glittering wheel
Chariot a Cæsar, while the commonweal
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