Which loved to grace thy verdant side,
And tremble in thy golden stream?
Where are the bold, the busy throngs,
That rushed impatient to the war,
Or tuned to peace triumphal songs,
And hailed the passing car?

Along the solitary road,

The eternal flint by consuls trod,

We muse, and mark the sad decays

Of mighty works and mighty days!

For these vile wastes, we cry, had Fate decreed That Veii's sons should strive, for these Camillus bleed? Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,

The musing shepherd from Soracte's height
See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
And temples rise, and peopled farms unite?
They did. For this deserted plain
The hero strove, nor strove in vain;
And here the shepherd saw
Unnumbered towns and temples spread,
While Rome majestic reared her head,
And gave the nations law.

Yes, thou and Latium once were great.
And still, ye first of human things,
Beyond the grasp of time or fate

Her fame and thine triumphant springs.
What though the mouldering columns fall,
And strew the desert earth beneath,
Though ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine its fatal wreath,

Yet say, can Rhine or Danube boast The numerous glories thou hast lost? Can even Euphrates' palmy shore, Or Nile, with all his mystic lore, Produce from old records of genuine fame Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name? Even now the Muse, the conscious Muse, is here; From every ruin's formidable shade

Eternal music breathes on Fancy's ear,

And wakes to more than form the illustrious dead.
Thy Caesars, Scipios, Catos, rise

The great, the virtuous, and the wise,

In solemn state advance!

They fix the philosophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The lightning of the lance.

But chief that humbler, happier train
Who knew those virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, the historian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page

Thy glory still survives.

Through deep savannahs wild and vast,
Unheard, unknown, through ages past,
Beneath the sun's directer beams

What copious torrents pour their streams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals swell their pride or grace their storied urn.

TIBER, THE RIVER.

GENERAL

AL LIBRAR

University c.

99/CHIGAN

Whilst thou, with Rome's exalted genius joined,
Her spear yet lifted, and her corselet braced,
Canst tell the waves, canst tell the passing wind
Thy wondrous tale, and cheer the listening waste.
Though from his caves the unfeeling North
Poured all his legioned tempests forth,

Yet still thy laurels bloom;

One deathless glory still remains,

Thy stream has rolled through Latian plains,
Has washed the walls of Rome.

William Whitehead.

TIBER

THE RIVER TIBER.

IBER is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and
the Anio

Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;
Tiber and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,
With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian
fountain,

Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Hor

ace:

So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I, Here, as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,

Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;

Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,

Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous

waters!

Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gen

naro

(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,

Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),

Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,

Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Hor

ace:

So not seeing I sung; so now, nor seeing nor hearing, Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,

Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,

Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters, But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tileclad streets, the

Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and kitchengardens,

Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans.

Arthur Hugh Clough.

THE TIBER.

YASSIUS. I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;

CAS

We both have fed as well; and we can both

Endure the winter's cold as well as he.

For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tyber chafing with her shores,
Cæsar said to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow: so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside.
And stemming it with hearts of controversy:
But, ere we could arrive the point propos'd,
Cæsar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink!"
I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tyber
Did I the tired Cæsar. And this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body,

If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

Scarce can the sight discover if it moves,
So wondrous slow amidst the shady groves,
And tuneful birds that warble on its sides,
Within its gloomy banks the limpid liquor glides.
Silius Italicus. Tr. Joseph Addison.