by Byron
And laid him with the earth’s preceding clay.
770
And show’d not Fortune thus how fame and sway,
And all we deem delightful, and consume
Our souls to compass through each arduous way,
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb?
Were they but so in man’s, how different were his doom!
LXXXVII
775
And thou, dread statue! yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest ’mid the assassins’ din
At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
780
An offering to thine altar from the queen
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die,
And thou too perish Pompey? have ye been
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?
LXXXVIII
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome
785
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The milk of conquest yet within the dome
Where, as a monument of antique art,
Thou standest: – Mother of the mighty heart,
Which the great founder suck’d from thy wild teat,
790
Scorch’d by the Roman Jove’s etherial dart,
And thy limbs black with lightning – dost thou yet
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget?
LXXXIX
Thou dost; – but all thy foster-babes are dead –
The men of iron; and the world hath rear’d
795
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled
In imitation of the things they fear’d,
And fought and conquer’d, and the same course steer’d,
At apish distance; but as yet none have,
Nor could the same supremacy have near’d
800
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,
But, vanquish’d by himself, to his own slaves a slave –
XC
The fool of false dominion – and a kind
Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman’s mind
805
Was modell’d in a less terrestrial mould,
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold,
And an immortal instinct which redeem’d
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold,
Alcides with the distaff now he seem’d
810
At Cleopatra’s feet, — and now himself he beam’d.
XCI
And came — and saw – and conquer’d! But the man
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee,
Like a train’d falcon, in the Gallic van,
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory,
815
With a deaf heart which never seem’d to be
A listener to itself was strangely framed;
With but one weakest weakness – vanity,
Coquettish in ambition – still he aim’d –
At what? can he avouch – or answer what he claim’d?
XCII
820
And would be all or nothing – nor could wait
For the sure grave to level him; few years
Had fix’d him with the Cæsars in his fate,
On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
825
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow’d,
An universal deluge, which aears,
Without an ark for wretched man’s abode
And ebbs but to reflow! – Renew thy rainbow, God!
XCIII
What from this barren being do we reap?
830
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weigh’d in custom’s falsest scale:
Opinion an omnipotence, – whose veil
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right
835
And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale
Lest their own judgments should become too bright,
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.
XCIV
And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
840
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage
845
Within the same arena where they see
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.
XCV
I speak not of men’s creeds – they rest between
Man and his Maker – but of things allow’d,
Averr’d, and known, – and daily, hourly seen -
850
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow’d,
And the intent of tyranny avow’d,
The edict of Earth’s rulers, who are grown
The apes of him who humbled once the proud,
And shook them from their slumbers on the throne;
855
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.
XCVI
Can trants but b trants conuer’d be
And Freedom find no champion and no child
Such as Columbia saw arise when she
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm’d and undefiled?
860
Or must such minds be nourish’d in the wild,
Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst the roar
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
On infant Washington? Has Earth no more
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
XCVII
865
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,
And fatal have her Saturnalia been
To Freedom’s cause, in every age and clime;
Because the deadly days which we have seen,
And vile Ambition, that built up between
870
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall,
And the base pageant last upon the scene,
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall
Which nips life’s tree, and dooms man’s worst — his second fall.
XCVIII
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying
875Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopp’d by the axe, looks rough and little worth,
880
But the sap lasts, and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.
XCIX
There is a stern round tower of other days,
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,
885
Such as an army’s baffled strength delays,
Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity, where wave
The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown; -
890
What was this tower of strength? within its cave
What treasure lay so lock’d, so hid? – A woman’s grave.
C
But who was she, the lady of the dead,
Tomb’d in a palace? Was she chaste and fair?
Worthy
a king’s – or more – a Roman’s bed?
895
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear?
What daughter of her beauties was the heir?
How lived – how loved – how died she? Was she not
So honour’d – and conspicuously there,
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot,
900
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot?
CI
Was she as those who love their lords, or they
Who love the lords of others? such have been
Even in the olden time, Rome’s annals say.
Was she a matron of Cornelia’s mien,
905
Or the light air of Egypt’s graceful queen,
Profuse of joy – or ’gainst it did she war,
Inveterate in virtue? Did she lean
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar
Love from amongst her griefs? — for such the affections are.
CII
910
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow’d
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb
That weigh’d upon her gentle dust, a cloud
Might gather o’er her beauty, and a gloom
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom
915
Heaven gives its favourites – early death; yet shed
A sunset charm around her, and illume
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead,
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red.
CIII
Perchance she died in age – surviving all,
920
Charms, kindred, children – with the silver gray
On her long tresses, which might yet recal,
It may be, still a something of the day
When they were braided, and her proud array
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed
925
By Rome – but whither would Conjecture stray?
Thus much alone we know – Metella died,
The wealthiest Roman’s wife: Behold his love or pride!
CIV
I know not why – but standing thus by thee
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
930
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind;
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone
935
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind
Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind;
CV
And from the planks, far shatter’d o’er the rocks,
Built me a little bark of hope, once more
To battle with the ocean and the shocks
940
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar
Which rushes on the solitary shore
Where all lies founder’d that was ever dear:
But could I gather from the wave-worn store
Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer?
945
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here.
CVI
Then let the winds howl on! their harmony
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night
The sound shall temper with the owlets’ cry,
As I now hear them, in the fading light
950
Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native site,
Answering each other on the Palatine,
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright,
And sailing pinions. – Upon such a shrine
What are our petty griefs? – let me not number mine.
CVII
955
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and mass’d together, hillocks heap’d
On what were chambers, arch crush’d, column strown
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep’d
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep’d,
960
Deeming it midnight: – Temples, baths, or halls?
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reap’d
From her research hath been, that these are walls—
Behold the Imperial Mount! ’tis thus the mighty falls.1
CVIII
There is the moral of all human tales;
965
Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom and then Glory – when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption, – barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page, – ’tis better written here,
970
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass’d
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask – Away with words! draw near,
CIX
Admire, exult – despise – laugh, weep, – for here
There is such matter for all feeling: – Man!
975
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van
980
Till the sun’s rays with added flame were fill’d!
Where are its golden roofs! where those who dared to build?
CX
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base!
What are the laurels of the Cæsar’s brow?
985
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus or Trajan’s? No – ’tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
990
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
CXI
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars: they had contain’d
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o’er the whole earth reign’d,
995
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
1000
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
1005
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below,
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep —
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes – burns with Cicero!
CXIII
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
1010
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;
1015
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 he
r latest tribune’s name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
1020
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 -
1025
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
1030
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; whatso’er thy birth,
1035
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,
1040
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
1045
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,
1050
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,
1055
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting
With her most starry canopy, and seating
Thyself by thine adorer, what befel?
1060
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting
Of an enamoured 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;
1065
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,
