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LXXVI. Aught that recals the daily drug which turn'd My sickening memory; and, though Time hath
taught My mind to meditate wliat then it learn'd, Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wearing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose, I cannot now restore Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.
LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse, Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, Yet fare thee well – upon Socrate's ridge we part.
LXXVIII. Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and sec The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her wither'd hands, Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 14 The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves and mantle her distress!
LXXX. The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and
Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride; She saw her glories star by star expire, And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, Where the car climb’d the capitol; far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, And say, "here, was oris," where allis doubly night?
LXXXI. The double night of ages, and of her, Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap All round us; we but feel our way to err: The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap Our hands, and cry “Eureka!" it is clear When but some false mirage of ruin rises ncar.
LXXXII. Alas! the lofty city! and alas! The trebly hundred triumphs! 42 and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgils' lay, And Livy's pictured page!— but these shall be Her resurrection; all beside - decay. . Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was
LXXXIII. Oh thou, whose chariot rollid on Fortune's wheel, 43 Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue Thy: country's foes ere thou would pause to feel The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due Of họarded vengeance till thine eagles flew O’er prostrate Asia; -- thou, who with thy frown Annihilated senates Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown
LXXXIV. The dictatorial wreath, couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Thee'more than mortal ? and that so supine By anght than Romans Rome should thus be laid? She who was named Eternal, and array'd Her warriors but to conquer
she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er - canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty