LXXXIII. Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, (') thou, who with thy frown Roman, too, With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown The dictatorial wreath, LXXXIV. couldst thou divine To what would one day dwindle that which made Her warriors but to conquer she who veil'd Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd, Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty hail'd! LXXXV. Sylla was first of victors; but our own The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne Down to a block — immortal rebel! See What crimes it costs to be a moment free And famous through all ages! but beneath His day of double victory and death Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. (1) Certainly were it not for these two traits in the life of Sylla, alluded to in this stanza, we should regard him as a monster unredeemed by any admirable quality. The atonement of his voluntary resignation of empire may perhaps be accepted by us, as it seems to have satisfied the Romans, who, if they had not respected, must have destroyed him. There could be no mean, ro division of opinion; they must have all thought, like Eucrates, that what had appeared ambition was a love of glory and that what had been mistaken for pride was a real grandeur of soul. * "Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idées de la façon dont je vous vois agir. Je croyois que vous aviez de l'ambition, mais aucune amour pour la gloire : je voyols bien que votre âme toit haute; mais je ne soupçonnois pas qu'elle fut grande.”— Dialogues de Sylla et d'Eucrate. LXXXVI. The third of the same moon whose former course Our souls to compass through each arduous way, Where they but so in man's, how different were his doom! LXXXVII. And thou, dread statue! yet existent in (*) LXXXVIII. And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome (*) Thou standest: Mother of the mighty heart, Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, And thy limbs black with lightning dost thou yet. Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? Thou dost ; LXXXIX. but all thy foster-babes are dead The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled In imitation of the things they fear'd, And fought and conquer'd, and the same course steer'd, Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a slave (1) On the third of September, Cromwell gained the victory of Dunbar; a year afterwards he obtained" his crowning mercy " of Worcester; and a few years aftor on the same day, which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for him, died. (2, 3) See" Historical Notes," Nos. XXIV. XXV. XC. The fool of false dominion — and a kind XCI. And came With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be At what? can he avouch vanity, or answer what he claim'd? XCII. And would be all or nothing nor could wait Without an ark for wretched man's abode, And ebbs but to reflow! Renew thy rainbow, God! XCIII. What from this barren being do we reap? Our senses narrow, and our reason frail, (3) Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light. (1) See "Historical Notes," at the end of this Canto, No. XXVI. (2)". omnes pene veteres ; qui nihil cognosci, nihil percepi, nihil sciri posse dixerunt; angustos sensus; imbecillos animos, brevia curricula vita; in profundo ve XCIV. And thus they plod in sluggish misery, To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage Within the same arena where they see Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. XCV. I speak not of men's creeds they rest between The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; XCVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, ritatem demersam; opinionibus et institutis omnia teneri: nihil veritati relinqui : deinceps omnia tenebris circumfusa esse dixerunt."* The eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since Cicero wrote this have not removed any of the imperfections of humanity; and the complaints of the ancient philosophers may, without injustice or affectation, be transcribed in a poem written yesterday. Academ. 1. 13. XCVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; XCVIII. his second Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, (') The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown; What was this tower of strength? within its cave C. But who was she, the lady of the dead, Tomb'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? Worthy a king's - or more - a Roman's bed? What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? What daughter of her beauties was the heir? How lived how loved-how died she? Was she not So honour'd-and conspicuously there, Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot? (1) Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, called Capo di Bove, in the Appian way. Sce-Historical Illustrations of the IVth Canto of Childe Harold, |