Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base!
Thou nameless column with the buried base!
Byron - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
--Upon such a shrine
What are our petty griefs? --let me not number mine.
CVII.
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped
In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
Deeming it midnight:--Temples, baths, or halls?
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped
From her research hath been, that these are walls--
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.
CVIII.
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 amassed
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near,
CIX.
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 filled!
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?
CX.
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,
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
CXI.
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars; they had contained
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned,
The Roman globe, for after none sustained
But yielded back his conquests:--he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and unstained
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.
CXII.
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep
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 sleep--
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero!
CXIII.
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
But long before had Freedom's face been veiled,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes:
Till every lawless soldier who assailed
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
CXIV.
Then turn we to our latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--
The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy--
Rienzi! last of Romans!
What are our petty griefs? --let me not number mine.
CVII.
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
Matted and massed together, hillocks heaped
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column strown
In fragments, choked-up vaults, and frescoes steeped
In subterranean damps, where the owl peeped,
Deeming it midnight:--Temples, baths, or halls?
Pronounce who can; for all that Learning reaped
From her research hath been, that these are walls--
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls.
CVIII.
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 amassed
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear,
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask--Away with words! draw near,
CIX.
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 filled!
Where are its golden roofs? where those who dared to build?
CX.
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,
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept sublime,
CXI.
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome,
And looking to the stars; they had contained
A spirit which with these would find a home,
The last of those who o'er the whole earth reigned,
The Roman globe, for after none sustained
But yielded back his conquests:--he was more
Than a mere Alexander, and unstained
With household blood and wine, serenely wore
His sovereign virtues--still we Trajan's name adore.
CXII.
Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where the steep
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 sleep--
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes--burns with Cicero!
CXIII.
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
But long before had Freedom's face been veiled,
And Anarchy assumed her attributes:
Till every lawless soldier who assailed
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish mutes,
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
CXIV.
Then turn we to our latest tribune's name,
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame--
The friend of Petrarch--hope of Italy--
Rienzi! last of Romans!
