Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen.

CXXXIX.

And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause,
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man,
And wherefore slaughter'd? 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.

CXL.

I see before me the Gladiator lie:

He leans upon his hand

his manly brow

Consents to death, but conquers agony,

And his droop'd head sinks gradually low

And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow

From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.

CXLI.

He heard it, but he heeded not

his eyes

Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday

All this rush'd with his blood, Shall he expire,

And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

CXLII.

But here, where murder breathed her bloody

steam;

And here, where buzzing nations choked the

ways,

And roar'd or murmur'd 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 crush'd, walls bow'd, And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud.

CXLIII.

A ruin - yet what ruin! from its mass
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd;
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass,

And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd.

Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? Alas! developed, opens the decay,

When the colossal fabric's form is near'd: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away.

CLXIV.

But when the rising moon begins to climb
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there;
When the stars twinkle through the loops of
time,

And the low night-breeze waves along the air,

The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear,

Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare,

Then in this magic circle raise the dead: Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread.

CLXLV.

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls -the World." From

our own land

Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall In Saxon times, which we are wont to call Ancient; and these three mortal things are still

On their foundations, and unalter'd all;

Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what ye will.

CXLVI.

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime

Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time; Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods

Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods

His way through thorns to ashes - glorious dome !

Shalt thou not last? - Time's scythe and tyrants' rods

Shiver upon thee - sanctuary and home Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — Pride of Rome !

CXLVII.

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts — To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Gloiy sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts around them close.

CXLVIII.

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — Two insulated phantoms of the brain :