A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes

Hail sacred Stream, whose waters roll
Immortal thro' the classic page!
To Thee the Muse-devoted soul,
Tho' destin'd to a later age
And less indulgent clime, to Thee,
Nor thou disdain, in runic lays
Weak mimic of true harmony,
His grateful homage pays.
Far other strains thine elder ear
With pleas'd attention wont to hear,
When he, who strung the Latian lyre,
And he, who led th'Aonian quire

From Mantua's reedy lakes with osiers crown'd,
Taught Echo from thy banks with transport to resound.
Thy banks?—alas, is this the boasted scene,
This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain,
Where sick'ning Nature wears a fainter green,
And Desolation spreads her torpid reign?
In this the scene where Freedom breath'd,
Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,
And Health at opening day
Bade all her roseate breezes fly,
To wake the sons of Industry,
And make their fields more gay?

II.

Where is the villa's rural pride,
The swelling dome's imperial gleam,
Which lov'd to grace thy verdant side,
And tremble in thy golden stream?
Where are the bold, the busy throngs,
That rush'd impatient to the war,
Or tun'd to peace triumphal songs,
And hail'd the passing car?
Along the solitary road,
Th'eternal flint by Consuls trod,
We muse, and mark the sad decays
Of mighty works, and mighty days!
For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed
That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed?

Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,
The musing shepherd from Soracte's height
See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
And temples rise, and peopled farms unite?
They did. For this deserted plain
The Hero strove, nor strove in vain:
And here the shepherd saw
Unnumber'd towns and temples spread,
While Rome majestic rear'd her head,
And gave the nations law.

III.

Yes, Thou and Latium once were great.
And still, ye first of human things,
Beyond the grasp of time or fate
Her fame and thine triumphant springs.
What tho' the mould'ring columns fall,
And strow the desart earth beneath,
Tho' ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine its fatal wreath,
Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast
The numerous glories thou hast lost?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy shore,
Or Nile, with all his mystic lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
Ev'n now the Muse, the conscious Muse is here;
From every ruin's formidable shade
Eternal Music breathes on Fancy's ear,

And wakes to more than form th'illustrious dead.
Thy Cæsars, Scipios, Catos rise,
The great, the virtuous, and the wise,
In solemn state advance!
They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.

IV.

But chief that humbler happier train
Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th'historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory still survives.
Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams
What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride, or grace their storied urn.
Whilst Thou, with Rome's exalted genius joins,
Her spear yet lifted, and her corslet brac'd,
Can'st tell the waves, can'st tell the passing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and cheer the list'ning waste.
Tho' from his caves th'unfeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempests forth,

Yet still thy laurels bloom:
One deathless glory still remains,
Thy stream has roll'd thro' Latian plains,
Has wash'd the walls of Rome.

The Flaminian way.

University of Virginia Library

ODE TO THE TIBER.

WRITTEN ABROAD. By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Esq; On entering the Campania of Rome, at Otricoli, MDCCLV.

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