Seine Elegie über Rom in dem 4ten Canto von Childe
Harold ist eine der schönsten, die ich kenne.

Oh Rome! my country, city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control

Der Krieger wacht noch eh' der Morgen blinkt,
Indefs die Bürger durcheinander wallen,
Sie lispeln nur, von Schrecken halb versteint,
Mit blassen Lippen, ach! er kommt, er kommt

der Feind!

Und hoch und wild schallt's: Schottländer hervor,
Das Kriegsgeschrei des Hochlands Albion kannte
Es früher, auch der Sassen feindlich Ohr,
Des Bibrochs Ruf tönt zu dem Mond empor;
Die Kriegespfeife gellend wild ermannte
Den Muth im tapfern Bergbewohner - Chor;

Und die Erinn'rung löst Vergessen's Bande,

Von tausend Jahren rollt der Vorhang fort,

Und Evan's, Donald's Ruhm ist jedes Stammann's Wort,

Die Kricger zieh'n durch den Ardennerwald,
Von seinen grünen Blättern thauen Thränen,
Es ist als ahu'ten trauernd sie, dass bald
Vernichtet fällt manch' blühende Gestalt;
Am Abend ruhen von den tapfern Söhnen
Viel in dem Gras, das unter ihnen wallt,
Und über ihnen, - wenn der Hoffnung Wähnen
Die Tapferkeit sich dünkend Herr der Welt,
Im nächsten Lenz schon kalt und tief in Staub zerfällt,

Pferd, Reuter, Freund und Feind ein weites blut'ges Grab!

Auf Frankreichs weitem Grabe Harald stand

Bei Waterloo, wo in der einen Stunde,

Was einst sie gab entrifs des Schicksals Hand,
Und sich der Ruhm zu Andern hingewandt.
Im höchsten Fluge traf die Todeswunde
Den Adler, der durchirrt das blut'ge Land,
Vom Pfeil erreicht aus der Nationen Bunde;
Vergebens nun, dafs Ehrsucht lebt' und stritt,
Der Adler schleppt der Welt zerriss'ne Fessel mit.

In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance?
Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

Rise, with thy yellow waves and mantle her distress!

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,

O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,

And say,,,here, was or is," where all is doubly night?

The double night of ages, and of her,

Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err:
The ocean hath his chart, the stars, their map,
And Knowledge spreads them on her ampie lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap
Our hands, and cry, Eureka!" it is clear
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

Alas! the lofty city! and alas!

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass

The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,

And Livy's pictured page!

but these shall be

Her resurrection; all beside decay.

Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see

That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was

free!

Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel,
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue
Thy country's foes ere thou would pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew
O'er prostrate Asia; thou, who with thy frown

With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown

The dictatorial wreath,

couldst thou divine

To what would one day dwindle that which made
1 Thee more than mortal? and that so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?
She who was named Eternal, and array'd

Her warriors but to conquer she who veild

Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd,

Her rushing wings

Oh! she who was Almighty haild!

And thou, dread statue! yet existent in
The austerest form of naked majesty,
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din,
At thy bath'd base the bloody Caesar lie,
Folding his robe in dying dignity,
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 ?

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
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,
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?

Thou dost; but all thy foster-babes are dead
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd
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,
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,

But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave

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The fool of false dominion - and a kind
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old
With steps unequal; for the Roman's mind
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

At Cleopatra's feet, - and now himself he beam'd,

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,

With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be
A listener to itself, was strangely framed;
With but one weakest weakness

vanity,

- or answer what he claim'd?

And would be all or nothing - nor could wait,
For the sure grave to level him; few years.
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate,

On whom we tread: For this the conqueror rears
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears
And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd,
An universal deluge, which appears

Without an ark for wretched man's abode,
And ebbs but to reflow!

Renew thy rainbow, God! *)

*) O Rom! mein Vaterland! Stadt meiner Seele! die im Herzen Verwayseten müssen sich zu dir wenden, einsame Mutter todter Reiche! und in ihrem verschlossenen Busen ihr kleines Elend beherrschen. Was sind unsere Schmerzen und Leiden? Kommt und seht die Cypresse, hört die Eule, und taumelt euren Weg über Trümmer zerbrochener Throne und Tempel, ihr, deren Zuckungen Uebel eines Tages sind eine Welt liegt zu unsern

Füssen, so vergänglich wie unser Staub.

Die Niobe der Nationen! da steht sie, kinderlos und kronenlos in ihrem lautlosen Schmerz; eine leere Urne in ihren verwelkten Händen, deren heiliger Staub längst schon verweht ist; der Scipionen Grab enthält keine Asche mehr; selbst die Gräber sind leer von ihren heroischen Bewohnern; fliessest du, alte Tiber! durch eine Marmor wüste? Steige auf mit deinen gelben Wogen und verhülle ihr Elend!

Der Gothe, der Christ, Zeit, Krieg, Wasserfluthen und Feuer haben den Stolz der Siebenhügel-Stadt unter sich getheilt; sie sah die Sterne ihrer Glorie einen nach dem andern verlöschen, und die jähe Anhöhe barbarische Könige hinanreiten, auf welcher der Siegeswagen zum Capitol fuhr; fern und weit stürzten Tempel und Thürme ein und liefsen keine Spur zurück: Chaos von Ruinen! wer wird die Oede abzeichnen, über die düsteren Trümmer ein Mondlicht werfen, und sagen: ,, hier war oder ist," wo alles doppelte Nacht ist?

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