22
PRIZE POEMS.
And hovering o'er thy domes that blazing glow,
Their waving pinions fan the flames below;
They view rejoiced the conflagration's gleams,
Shoot their long glare o'er Tiber's redden'd streams;
And snuff the carnage-tainted smokes that rise,
An incense sweet, a grateful sacrifice.
—"Sad Tiber's banks with broken columns spread!
Fall'n every fane that rear'd to heav'n its head!
Poor heaps of ashes! Grandeur's mould'ring tomb!
Art thou the place was once Eternal Rome?
"Yes, Roman; snatch thy triumph whilst thou may,
Weak is thy rage, and brief thy little day:
Vanish'd and past the momentary storm,
Albion, my Albion, brighter shews her form.
Far o'er the rolling years of gloom I spy
Her oak-crown'd forehead lifted to the sky,
Above the low-hung mists unclouded seen,
Amid the wreck of nations still serene;
She bursts the chains, when hands like thine would bind
The groaning world, and lord it o'er mankind.
Amid yon glitt'ring flood of liquid light,
Float regal forms before my dazzled sight;
Like stars along the milky zone that blaze,
Their sceptred hands and gold-bound fronts they raise:
My Sons!—my Daughters! faint, alas, and dim
Before these failing eyes your glories swim,
Mix'd with the mists of death. 'Tis yours to throw
Your radiance round, while happier ages flow;
I smile at storms of earthly woe, and rise,
Shades of my sires! to your serener skies."
Their waving pinions fan the flames below;
They view rejoiced the conflagration's gleams,
Shoot their long glare o'er Tiber's redden'd streams;
And snuff the carnage-tainted smokes that rise,
An incense sweet, a grateful sacrifice.
—"Sad Tiber's banks with broken columns spread!
Fall'n every fane that rear'd to heav'n its head!
Poor heaps of ashes! Grandeur's mould'ring tomb!
Art thou the place was once Eternal Rome?
"Yes, Roman; snatch thy triumph whilst thou may,
Weak is thy rage, and brief thy little day:
Vanish'd and past the momentary storm,
Albion, my Albion, brighter shews her form.
Far o'er the rolling years of gloom I spy
Her oak-crown'd forehead lifted to the sky,
Above the low-hung mists unclouded seen,
Amid the wreck of nations still serene;
She bursts the chains, when hands like thine would bind
The groaning world, and lord it o'er mankind.
Amid yon glitt'ring flood of liquid light,
Float regal forms before my dazzled sight;
Like stars along the milky zone that blaze,
Their sceptred hands and gold-bound fronts they raise:
My Sons!—my Daughters! faint, alas, and dim
Before these failing eyes your glories swim,
Mix'd with the mists of death. 'Tis yours to throw
Your radiance round, while happier ages flow;
I smile at storms of earthly woe, and rise,
Shades of my sires! to your serener skies."
