| |
| TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary | |
| Of lofty contemplation left to Time | |
| By buried centuries of pomp and power! | |
| At length, at length, after so many days | |
| Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst | 5 |
| (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie), | |
| I kneel, an altered and an humble man, | |
| Amid thy shadows, and so drink within | |
| My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! | |
| |
| Vastness, and age, and memories of eld! | 10 |
| Silence, and desolation, and dim night! | |
| I feel ye now,—I feel ye in your strength,— | |
| O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king | |
| Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! | |
| O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee | 15 |
| Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! | |
| |
| Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! | |
| Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, | |
| A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! | |
| Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair | 20 |
| Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! | |
| Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, | |
| Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, | |
| Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon, | |
| The swift and silent lizard of the stones! | 25 |
| |
| But stay! these walls, these ivy-clad arcades, | |
| These mouldering plinths, these sad and blackened shafts, | |
| These vague entablatures, this crumbling frieze, | |
| These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin, | |
| These stones,—alas! these gray stones,—are they all, | 30 |
| All of the famed and the colossal left | |
| By the corrosive hours to fate and me? | |
| |
| “Not all,” the echoes answer me,—“not all! | |
| Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever | |
| From us and from all ruin unto the wise, | 35 |
| As melody from Memnon to the sun. | |
| We rule the hearts of mightiest men, we rule | |
| With a despotic sway all giant minds. | |
| We are not impotent,—we pallid stones. | |
| Not all our power is gone, not all our fame, | 40 |
| Not all the magic of our high renown, | |
| Not all the wonder that encircles us, | |
| Not all the mysteries that in us lie, | |
| Not all the memories that hang upon | |
| And cling around about us as a garment, | 45 |
| Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.” | |
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