Page:Tales and Historic Scenes.pdf/111

Thus must the beam of glory close
O'er the seven hills again that rose,
When at thy voice, to burst the yoke,
The soul of Rome indignant woke?
Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,^8[1]
Sunk is the crowning city's throne:^9[2]
Th' illusions, that around her cast
Their guardian spells, have long been past.^10[3]
Thy life hath been a shot-star's ray,
Shed o'er her midnight of decay;
Thy death at freedom's ruin'd shrine
Must rivet every chain—but thine.

Calm is his aspect, and his eye
Now fix'd upon the deep-blue sky,
Now on those wrecks of ages fled,
Around in desolation spread;
Arch, temple, column, worn and grey,
Recording triumphs pass'd away;
Works of the mighty and the free,
Whose steps on earth no more shall be,
Though their bright course hath left a trace
Nor years nor sorrows can efface.