Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those
real men or ghosts?
The stillness spreads of Death abroad—down
come the temple posts,
Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with
silver waves
To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes
and raves.
All’s lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues
totter—crash!
Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust
and ash.
The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north
winds sound the horn
To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn.
Proud capital! farewell for e’er! these flames
nought can subdue—
The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o’er
hellish brew.
’Tis Nero’s whim! how good to see Rome
brought the lowest down;
Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such
a splendrous crown!
When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule
to thee;
That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent
knee.
Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this “immortal
star”
Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished—oh,
how far!
How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter
dark!
The youth who fired Ephesus’ fane falls low
beneath my mark.
The pangs of people—when I sport, what
matters?—See them whirl
About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl.
Take from my brow this poor rose-crown—the
flames have made it pine;
If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with
Cretan wine!
I like not overmuch that red—good taste
says “gild a crime?”
“To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs”
is—thanks! a hint sublime!
I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers
Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to e’en
a Jew, she dares!
Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them
all;
Alone I rest—except this pile, I leave
no single hall.
Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer
shine—
But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought
me not divine.
The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete—
And, slaves, bring in fresh roses—what
odor is more sweet?
REGRET.
("Oui, le bonheur bien vite a passe.")
[Bk. V. ii., February, 1821.]
Yes, Happiness hath left me soon behind!
Alas! we all pursue its steps! and when
We’ve sunk to rest within its arms entwined,
Like the Phoenician virgin, wake, and find
Ourselves alone again.
Then, through the distant future’s boundless
space,
We seek the lost companion of our days:
“Return, return!” we cry, and lo, apace
Pleasure appears! but not to fill the place
Of that we mourn always.
I, should unhallowed Pleasure woo me now,
Will to the wanton sorc’ress say,
“Begone!
Respect the cypress on my mournful brow,
Lost Happiness hath left regret—but thou
Leavest remorse, alone.”
