CIII.

   Perchance she died in age—­surviving all,
   Charms, kindred, children—­with the silver grey
   On her long tresses, which might yet recall,
   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
   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 shattered 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 foundered 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 owlet’s cry,
   As I now hear them, in the fading light
   Dim o’er the bird of darkness’ native site,
   Answer each other on the Palatine,
   With their large eyes, all glistening grey 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 massed together, hillocks heaped
   On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown
   In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped
   In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
   Deeming it midnight:  —­Temples, baths, or halls? 
   Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped
   From her research hath been, that these are walls —
Behold the Imperial Mount! ’tis 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. 
   And History, with all her volumes