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,
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

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

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.

Perchance she died in age

СІІІ

surviving all,

Charms, kindred, children with the silver gray

On her long tresses, which might yet recall,
It may be, still a something of the day

"The lone Soracte's height,

· from out the plain

Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing.”

When they were braided, and her proud array

And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed

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,
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

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
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?

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
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

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, 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! 't is thus the mighty falls.

CVIII

There is the moral of all human tales;

'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,

First Freedom and then Glory when that fails,

Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last.