XCVIII. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, (49) Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid?-A woman's grave. C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? CI. Was she as those who love their lords, or they Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar Love from amongst her griefs?-for such the affections are. CII. Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven gives its favourites-early death; yet shed (50) A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. CIII. Perchance she died in age-surviving all, 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 Thou tomb! and other days come back on me Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind; CV. And from the planks, far shatter'd 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 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here. CVI. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, What are our petty griefs ?-let me not number mine. CVII. Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. (51) |