Amid these varying tales of ruin old,

Some, scantly gathered up; some, falsely told
Sibyl's or Vesta's we may hardly tell :

But he, who first devised, devised it well,

Here, where it stands, with circling columns bound,

And placed-how calm! above the gulf profound,

To tame these rugged rocks this torrent's stress

With power of Beauty and of Gentleness.

fair high-lineaged

So might we feign, some fair

queen

Rules o'er a raging crowd with look serene.
So too, when some great Master hath designed

To paint in human form th' Eternal Mind;

And humbly dares essay that lofty brow,

Which holds the Past-the Future-and the Now;

Awhile we pause before his art severe;

Then, reverent bend; yet less in love than fear.

But when, ere long, around those awful brows
In graceful curve his cherub-group he throws;
Each with its little arms - beneath above-

Outstretch'd to clasp, and childhood's look of love;
Behold! those awful brows no longer lower,

But Sense of Love hath soothed the Sense of Power.

So - Pilgrim-Friend! our pleasant day is sped : *"To-morrow, to fresh woods;" to-night, to bed. Yet from these heights throw one more glance abroad, And some few moments dream with dreamy Claude. Beneath are field and stream and lake and wood,

And site, where ancient city stands—or stood.

Around the hills. That-here-in bay recede,

As if for nestling culture taking heed;

Or boldly - there — indent the level plain,

Like promontory pronged into the main.

* LYCIDAS.

As parts for other clime th' unwilling day,
See! how that far Campagna sinks away.
A sea of purpled land, now, seems to be;
Now, scarce distinguished from the purple sea.
E'en while we gaze, how vanish on the view
Each bright — each fair — each fading — faded-hue!
A pensive light, while aught of light remains ;
Then-pensive veil for these Deserted Plains!

1848.

A DAY AT TIVOLI.

EPILOGUE.

FAREWELL, Romantic Tivoli !

With all thy pleasant out-door time;

For now, again, we cross the sea,

To house us in our northern clime.

Since Love and Duty both advise

No longer, even here, to roam;

Nor all too slackly hold the ties,

That cluster round the heart of home.