CXII. Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the ste Tarpeian? fittest goal of Treason's race, The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field below, A thousand years of silenced factions sleepThe Forum, where the immortal accents glow, And still the eloquent air breathes-burns with Cicer CXIII. The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood: Till every lawless soldier who assail'd Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, The forum's champion, and the people's chief— Her new-born Numa thou―with reign, alas! too brief. CXV. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart (56) Or wert, a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and creep CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the gra The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by skies. VOL. II. L CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, Make them indeed immortal, and impart The purity of heaven to earthly joys, The dull satiety which all destroys— And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys? CXX. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Or water but the desert; whence arise But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such the plan Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. CXXI. Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art And to a thought such shape and image given, wrung-and riven. |