University of Virginia Library

Morning—with sunshine, round thee streams and glows,
Ruin of Ruins! and each ray that strows
Its quivering splendours o'er thee gains from thee
I know not what of solemn Sanctity.
Time's awful Shadow streams Superior here—
Superior?—No! around us far and near,
(While to pale memory we our Souls devote)
More awful, more majestic Shadows float,
And cloud and cover His!—Ye boundless spread,
Ye shadows of the great and glorious dead!
Spirits of Pride—of Victory—and of Might;
Whose new abode is in yon World of Light!
Your traces here are found—where e'er we turn,—
Till Earth, till Air doth with your Memory burn.
Ye Men of Rome, who awed and ruled a world;
Whose fame still streams—a banner wide unfurled.
Your very pastimes and your pleasures seemed
Colossal—and even luxury's self redeemed,
For still in these,—yourselves, yourselves ye beamed!
How ransacked forests, hunted countries sent
Their tributes to your feet, and largely lent
Their growths, their stores, your Revels to provide,
To furnish forth your sport, and swell your pride;
Here Nature, seated on the throne of Art,
Serenely breathes herself into the heart!
And whispers consolation!—while bright leaves,
With verdurous hues, all variously she weaves
O'er the long-fractured walls—light webs that shroud
Decay and Ruin in a friendly cloud!
How doth she bend her graciously above
The strange colossal Scene with looks of love.
Hath she mistaken this indeed for some
Of her own Works—this marvel of Old Rome?
Her Amphitheatral Alps or Appennines,—
Whose cloud-capped chain with snow pale-crested shines,—
Where they, a circus of dread mountains bend,
And, in a giant ring, far-sweeping tend?
(Her mighty eye o'er dazzled by the show
Of man's stupendous miracles below!
Till their proud girth she wildly magnifies,
Familiar with her own vast Earth and Skies,
And makes their towering greatness yet more great,
And adds to all their splendour and their state,
And more of magical perfection lends,
And with herself, in dreamy vision blends!)
Or, like a generous rival, would she show
Companionship and sympathy in woe
With shrunken Art, erst reigning by her side,
A sister-queen, in glory and in pride!
Howe'er it be—look round you here—behold,
She shrouds these walls with many a trailing fold,—
With many a fair festoon of quivering green,
And gilds and lights and consecrates the scene!
While by the alliance both gain deeper sway,
Than either, in their most divine display,
Could proudly compass, separate and apart;
For, oh! they speak united to the Heart!
Imperial wreck! how dost thou frowning stand,
With wrecks and fragments heaped on every hand!
And look, the chief and monarch of them all!
With thy thronged arches, and thy world of wall!
And the ivy folds, stirred by each gale's fresh breath,
Heaved, like a bright green ocean—while beneath
They hide too—as the ocean hides his prey,
But wrecks—and desolation—and decay!

Thy giant image in the mind stamped deep,
That mind shall evermore unaltered keep.
So dwell the eternal Mountains and the Sea—
Once seen—for ever on the memory!
While I stand, watching thee, and lingering stay,
(Scarce knowing how to tear myself away)
Thou seem'st to swell with ampler sweep of state,
To outstretch, to enlarge, to augment, and to dilate,—
To outspread thine area wide for countless throngs,
For gathered nations of all climes and tongues!
Thy front more near the o'er-hanging skies to lift—
Where sunbeams blaze, and golden clouds move swift—
'Tis but that thou absorbest the thought and gaze—
Still chained to thee in rapture of amaze!
Yea! they are transfixed, and concentrated there,
Nor may aught else their strict devotion share.
Thou takest the winged thoughts of the upspringing mind,
Like lightnings round thy dark scathed front to bind!
Its soaring energies to thee are given,
Well mayest thou rear thy proud head nearer heaven!
Thou fillest the Soul's deep airy wide embrace,
More boundless in itself than boundless Space!
Well may'st thou wax and spread and sweep and grow,
To something measureless, unmatched below!

Thou lookest to me—dread pile—(for ever new,
In thy worn age unto the enchanted view,)
Thyself a city—and a proud one too!
Thou seemest thyself the august superb remains
Of palaces and ramparts, towers and fanes,
Aye! seemest, 'midst splintered pillar, shrine, and dome,
The arch-wreck of all—the very Rome of Rome!