ANOTHER VOICE.
HE sky falls sad and sorrowful, The tempest hangs o'er Rome,Naught save the dropping rays of light, Lift the Campagna's gloom;Down dropping rays of sunny light, Like stairways from the skies,Where thought may climb the misty steps, And hope may strive to rise.
Grim ruins start, and dot the scene, A lonely watch-tower glooms,In company with withered shrubs, Dead in a land of tombs.
Mark the great spectral aqueduct Tramp on like solemn fate,A broken union—severed links Of what was once so great.
