With his own name, Colossal ?—From the day
Has that sublime illusion shrunk away,
Leaving a blank weed-matted Pedestal
Of his high place the sole memorial ?—
And is this miracle of imperial power,
The chosen of his tutelage, hour by hour,
Following his doom, and Rome, alive,—awake?
Weak mother! orphaned as thou art, to take
From Fate this sordid boon of lengthened life,
Of most unnatural life, which is not life,
As thou wert used to live; oh! rather stand
In thy green waste, as on the palm-flecked sand,
Old Tadmor,* hiding not its death ;—a tomb,
Haunted by sounds of life, is none the less a tomb.-
Then from that picture of the wreck-strewn ground,
Which the arch held in frame-work, slowly round
I turned my eyes and fixed them, where was seen
A long spare shadow stretched across the green,
The shadow of the Crucifix,-that stood,
A simple shape of rude uncarven wood,
Raising, erect and firm, its lowly head
Amid that pomp of ruin,-amid the dead,

A sign of salient life;-the Mystery

Of Rome's immortal being was then made clear to me.

* Tadmor signifies the "City of the Palm-grove,"-hence the Roman appellation.

THE PAPAL BENEDICTION,

FROM ST. PETER'S.

HIGHER than ever lifted into space,

Rises the sovereign dome,-
Into the Colonnade's immense embrace

Flows all the life of Rome;

The assembled peasants of a hundred mountains,
Beneath the Sun's clear disk,

Behold that peerless whole of radiant Fountains,-
Exorcised Obelisk,-

And massive Front, from whose high ridge outslanted,
A spacious awning fell ;-

The swaying breadth each gazer's breast enchanted
To follow its slow swell.

Why are they met in their collective might,
That earnest multitude?

Is it to vindicate some injured right,

By threat and clamour rude?

To watch with tip-toe foot and eager eye

Some mere device of Pride,

Meaningless pomp of regal vanity

The void of Truth to hide ?

To feed some popular lust which cautious power

Would, for wise ends, restrain,

Not bartering to the passion of an hour
What ages toiled to gain?

Thanks, thanks to Heaven, that in these evil days,
Days of hard hearts and cold,

Days where no love is found in all our ways,
Where Man is overbold,

And loathes all tender mutual offices,
And nothing old reveres,
Unwilling to be seen upon his knees,
Ashamed of his own tears,-

My soul the gracious privilege of this sight,
This priceless sight, has won,

A people of too simple faith to slight
A Father's benison ;-

Not in low flattery, not in selfish dread,
Before one meek old man,

A People, a whole People, prostrated,

Infant and veteran.

K

By that High-Priest in prelude of deep prayer

Implored and sanctified,

The benediction of paternal care
Can never be denied.

Most surely from that narrow gallery
The oriflamme unfurled,
Shelters within its grand benignity

Rome and the orbèd world.

The faintest wretch may catch the dew that falls
From those anointed lips,

And take away a wealth that never palls,
A joy without eclipse.

Old pines that darkly skirt the circling hills,
Bend down in grateful awe,—

Infuse the earth's dry heart, prolific rills!
With Love's unbroken law.

Bear the glad tidings to your sister seas,
Mediterranean waves !

Let every muttering storm be hushed in peace,
Silent the thunderous caves!

And would my spirit from Earth's embasing rule
Were in this moment riven !

That I might pass through such fit vestibule
Up to the face of Heaven!

SIR WALTER SCOTT AT THE TOMB OF THE STUARTS IN ST. PETER'S.*

EVE's tinted shadows slowly fill the fane
Where Art has taken almost Nature's room,
While still two objects clear in light remain,
An alien pilgrim at an alien tomb.—

-A sculptured tomb of regal heads discrown'd,
Of one heart-worshipped, fancy-haunted, name,
Once loud on earth, but now scarce else renown'd
Than as the offspring of that stranger's fame.

There lie the Stuarts !-There lingers Walter Scott!
Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things!
A plain old moral, still too oft forgot,—

The power of Genius and the fall of Kings.

*When Sir Walter Scott was at Rome, the year of his death, the history and localities of the Stuarts seemed to absorb all other objects of his interest. The circumstance of this poem fell within the observation of the writer.