In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, While every bleaching breeze that on her blows And hardens her to bear KIRKE WHITE. THE COLISEUM. ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome, Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant. For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.-Wherefore not? What matters where we fall, to fill the maws Of worms-on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. I see before me the Gladiator lie: Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, And roared or murmured like a mountain stream, Dashing or winding, as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much-and fall the stars faint rays On the arena void-seats crushed-walls bowedAnd galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. When the colossal fabric's form is neared : It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. But when the rising moon begins to climb Heroes have trod this spot-'tis on their dust ye tread. BYRON. DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, With some deep and immedicable wound; The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled The present happiness and promised joy Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. Peasants bring forth in safety.-Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for ONE; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead! Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed beamed. BYRON. SUN-SET. How dear to me the hour when day-light dies, And, as I watch the line of light, that plays And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest! MOORE. |