There is the moral of all human tales ;
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past,
First Freedom, and then Glory—when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption,-barbarism at last.
And History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page,—'tis better written here,
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask-Away with words !
Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep,—for here
There is such matter for all feeling :-Man!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear,
Ages and realms are crowded in this span,
This mountain, whose obliterated plan
The pyramid of empires pinnacled,
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fillid ! Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base !
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ?
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place.
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face,
Titus or Trajan's ? No—'tis that of Time:
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace
Scotsing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,