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The spacious desert, brightning in the sun,
Proud and more proud, in their august approach :
High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns,
Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind,
And here united pour their silver streams
Among the figur'd rocks, in murm'ring falls,
Musical ever.

These thy beauteous works :
And what beside felicity could tell
Of human benefit : more late the reft ;
At various times their turrets chanc'd to rise,
When impious tyranny vouchsaf'd to smile.

Behold by Tiber's food, where modern Rome $
Couches beneath the ruins : there of old
With arms and trophies gleam'd the field of Mars :
There to their daily sports the noble youth
Rufh'd emulous; to fling the pointed lance ;
To vault the feed; or with the kindling wheel
In aufty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal ;
Or wrestling, cope with adverse swelling breasts,
Strong, grappling arms, clos'd heads, and distant feet;
Or clash the lifted gauntlets : there they form'd
Their ardent virtues : lo the bofly piles,
The proud triumphal arches ; all their wars,
Their conquests, honours, in the sculptures live.
And see from every gate those ancient roads,

$ Modern Rome stands chiefly on the old Campus Martius.

With tombs high-verg'd, the folemn paths of Fame :
Deserve they not regard ? D'er whose broad flints
Such crowds have roll’d, so many storms of war;
Such trains of consuls, tribunes, fages, kings;
So many pomps; fo many wond'ring realms :
Yet still through mountains pierc’d, o'er vallies rais'd,
In even fate, to distant feas around,
They stretch their pavements. Lo the fane of Peace,
Built by that prince, who to the trust of pow'r h
Was honeft, the delight of human kind.
Three nodding illes remain; the rest an heap
Of sand and weeds ; her thrines, her radiant roofs
And columns proud, that from her spacious floor,
As from a shining fea, majestick rose
An hundred foot aloft, like stately beech
Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake,
Charming the mimick painter : on the walls
Hung Salem's facred fpoils; the golden board,
And golden trumpets, now conceald, entomb'd
By the funk roof.---O'er which in diftant view
Th’ Etruscan mountains swell, with ruins crown'd
Of ancient towns; and blue Soracte fpires,
Wrapping his fides in tempefts. Eaftward hence,
Nigh where the Cestian pyramid divides i

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Begun by Vefpafian, and finished by Titus. i The tomb of Cestius, partly within, and partly without the walls,

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The mould’ring wall, behold yon fabrick huge,
Whose duft the folemn antiquarian turns,
And thence in broken sculptures cast abroad,
Like Sybil's leaves, collects the builder's name
Rejoic'd, and the green medals frequent found
Doom Caracalla to perpetual fame :
The stately pines, that spread their branches-wide
In the dun ruins of its ample halls, ķ
Appear but tufts; as may whate'er is high
Sink in comparison, minute and vile.

These, and unnumber'd, yet their brows uplift,
Rent of their graces; as Britannia's oaks
On Merlin's mount, or Snowden's rugged fides,
Stand in the clouds, their branches scatter'd round,
After the tempeft ; Mausoleums, Cirques,
Naumachios, Forums ; Trajan's column tall,
From whose low base the sculptures wind aloft,
And lead through various toils, up the rough steep,
Its hero to the skies : and his dark tow'r!,
Whose execrable hand the city fir'd,
And while the dreadful conflagration blaz'd,
Play'd to the flames; and Phoebus' letter'd dome ; ma
And the rough reliques of Carina's street,
Where now the shepherd to his nibbling sheep
Sits piping with his oaten reed ; as erst

* The baths of Caracalla, a vast ruin.
i Nero's.
m The Palatin library.


There pip'd the shepherd to his nibbling theep,
When th' humble roof Anchifes' son explor'd
Of good Evander, wealth-despising king,
Amid the thickets : fo revolves the scene;
So time ordains, who rolls the things of pride
From dust again to duft. Behold that heap
Of mould'ring urns (their ashes blown away,
Duft of the mighty) the same story tell;
And at its base, from whence the serpent glides
Down the green defert street, yon hoary monk
Laments the fame, the vision as he views,
The folitary, filent, folemn scene,
Where Cæsars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie,
Blended in dust together; where the flave
Rests from his labours ; where th' insulting proud
Resigns his pow'r; the miser drops his hoard;
Where human folly sleeps.—There is a mood,
(I fing not to the vacant and the young)
There is a kindly mood of melancholy,
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies;
When tribulation cloaths the child of man,
When age

descends with sorrow to the grave,
''Tis sweetly-foothing sympathy to pain,
A gently wak’ning call to health and ease.
How musical! when all-devouring Time,
Here fitting on his throne of ruins hoar,
While winds and tempefts sweep his various lyre,
How sweet thy diapason, Melancholy !


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Cool ev'ning comes; the setting fun displays
His visible great round between yon tow'rs,
As through two shady cliffs; away, my Muse,
Though yet the prospect pleases, ever new
In vast variety, and yet delight
The many-figur'd fculptures of the path
Half beauteous, half effac'd; the traveller
Such antique marbles to his native land
Oft hence conveys; and ev'ry realm and state
With Rome's august remains, heroes and gods,
Deck their long galleries and winding groves ;
Yet miss we not th' innumerable thefts,
Yet ftill profuse of graces teems the waste.

Suffice it now th’Esquilian mount to reach
With weary wing, and seek the sacred refts
Of Maro’s humble tenement; a low
Plain wall remains; a little fun-gilt heap,
Grotesque and wild; the gourd and olive brown
Weave the light roof; the gourd and olive fan
Their am'rous foliage, mingling with the vine,
Who drops her purple clusters through the green.
Here let me lie, with pleasing fancy footh’d:
Here flow'd his fountain ; here his laurels grew ;
Here oft the meek good man, the lofty bard
Fram'd the celestial song, or social walk'd
With Horace and the ruler of the world ;
Happy Augustus ! who fo well inspird
Could'st throw thy pomps and royalties afide,


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