vast,
   Hath but one page,—­’tis better written here,
   Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amassed
   All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask—­Away with words! draw near,

CIX.

   Admire, exult—­despise—­laugh, weep—­for here
   There is such matter for all feeling:  —­Man! 
   Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
   Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
   This mountain, whose obliterated plan
   The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
   Of Glory’s gewgaws shining in the van
   Till the sun’s rays with added flame were filled! 
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?

CX.

   Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
   Thou nameless column with the buried base! 
   What are the laurels of the Caesar’s brow? 
   Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
   Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
   Titus or Trajan’s?  No; ’tis that of Time: 
   Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace,
   Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,

CXI.

   Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
   And looking to the stars; they had contained
   A spirit which with these would find a home,
   The last of those who o’er the whole earth reigned,
   The Roman globe, for after none sustained
   But yielded back his conquests:  —­he was more
   Than a mere Alexander, and unstained
   With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues—­still we Trajan’s name adore.

CXII.

   Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
   Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep
   Tarpeian—­fittest goal of Treason’s race,
   The promontory whence the traitor’s leap
   Cured all ambition?  Did the Conquerors heap
   Their spoils here?  Yes; and in yon field below,
   A thousand years of silenced factions sleep —
   The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes—­burns with Cicero!

CXIII.

   The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: 
   Here a proud people’s passions were exhaled,
   From the first hour of empire in the bud
   To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
   But long before had Freedom’s face been veiled,
   And Anarchy assumed her attributes: 
   Till every lawless soldier who assailed
   Trod on the trembling Senate’s slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.

CXIV.