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CXVI. Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?
CXVII. But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall Which nips life’s tree, and dooms man's worst -his
. XCVIII. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and litle worth, But the sap lasts, - and still the seed we find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.
XCIX. There is a stern round tower of other days, 49 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, Such as an army's baffled strength delays, Standing with half its battlements alone, And with two thousand years of ivy grown, The garland of eternily, where wave. The green leaves over all by time o’erthrown; What was this tower of strength? within its cave What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? – A woman's
But who was she, the lady of the dead,
Was she as those who love their lords, or they
CII. Perchance she died in youth: it may be, bow'd With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb That weiglı’d upon her gentle dust, a cloud Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom Heaven givesits favourites — early death ;yet shed 50 A sunset charm around her, and illume With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf- like red.
CIII. Perchance slie died in age - surviving all, Charms, kindred, children – with the silver gray On her long tresses, which might yet recal, It may be, still a something of the day When they were braided, and her proud array And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed By Rome–But whither would Conjecture stray? Thus much alone we know - Metella died, The wealthiest Roman's wife; Behold his love or
CIV. I know not why--but standing thus by thee It seems as if I had thine inmate known, Thou tomb! and other days come back on me With recollected music, though the tone Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan Of dying thunder on the distant wind; Yet could I seat me by this iyird stone
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves
And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks,
is here. VOL. VII.