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Naming no name of friend or foe,
And reckless if they heard or no.
Ay, go thy way, thou painted thing -
Puppet, which mortals call a king!
Adorning thee with idle gems,
With drapery and diadems,
And scarcely guessing that beneath
The purple robe and laurel wreath
There's nothing but the common slime
Of human clay and human crime !
My rags are not so rich; but they
Will serve as well to cloak decay.
“ And ever round thy jeweled brow
False slaves and falser friends will bow,
And Flattery — as varnish flings
A brightness on the basest things-
Will make the monarch's deeds appear
All worthless to the monarch's ear,
Till thou wilt turn and think that Fame,
So vilely drest, is worse than shame!
The gods be thanked for all their mercies !
Diogenes hears naught but curses.
“And thou wilt banquet! air and sea
Will render up their hoards for thee;
And golden cups for thee will hold
Rich nectar, richer than the gold.
The cunning cāterer stiil must share
The dainties which his toils prepare ;
The page's lip must taste the wine
Before he fills the


for thine!
Wilt feast with me on Hec'ate's cheer ?
I dread no royal hemlock here.
“ And night will come; and thou wilt lie
Beneath a purple canopy,
With lutes to lull thee, flowers to shed

heir feverish fragrance round thy bed;
A princess to unclasp thy crest,
A Spartan spear to guard thy rest. —
Dream, happy one! — thy dreams will be
Of danger and of perfidy ; -
The Persian lance, the Carian club! -
I shall sleep sounder in my tub!

And thou wilt pass away, and have
A marble mountain o'er thy grave,
With pillars tall and chambers vast,
Fit palace for the worms' repast !
I too shall perish! let them call
The vulture to my funeral !
The Cynic's staff, the Cynic's den,
Are all he leaves his fellow-men ;
Heedless how his corruption fares,
Yea, heedless though it mix with theirs ! ”

PRAED (altered)

LXXXIII. - WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree. touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, and I'll protect it now. 'T was my forefather's hand that placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand -thy ax shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree, whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea and wouldst thou hack it down ? Woodman, forbear thy stroke — cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, now towering to the skies ! When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy, here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; my father pressed my hand; Forgive this foolish tear, but let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling, close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild bird sing, and still thy branches bend. Old tree, the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, thy ax shall harm it not !




FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour
Which awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return; not a hope may remain,
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantments around him while lingering with you

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And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles !
Too blest, if it tells me that, ’mid the

gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, “I wisn he were here!”
Let fate do her worst; there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she can not destroy ;
And which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
To bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled !
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled
You may break, you may ruin, the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.


LXXXV. – THE RUINS OF ROME. 0, Rome! my country! city of the soul !

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control

In their shut breasts their petty misery.

What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress,

hear the owl, and plod your way
O’er steps of broken thrones, and temples, ye,
Whose agonies are evils of a day –
A world is at our feet, as fragile as our clay.
The Ni'o-be of nations! there she stands

Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,

Whose holy dust was scattered long ago :

The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The

very sepulchers lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress! The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,

Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride ; They saw her glories star by star expire,

And, up the steep, barbarian monarchs ride

Where the car climbed the capitol ; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:-

Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void ?
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, “here was, or is,” where all is doubly night?
Alas! the lofty city! and alas !

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass

The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!

Alas, for Tully's * voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be

Her resurrection ; als beside — decay.
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!




The tone of the First is loud, animated, and exultant ; that of the Second,

mournful and measured.


A TRUMPET's note is in the sky, in the glorious Roman sky, Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory; There is crowding to the capitol

, the imperial streets atong, For again a conqueror must be crowned, a kingly child of song!


Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
'Midst the joy of Rome.


A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far,
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car;
A thousand 'haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of

flowers, To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like showers.

* Cicero, whose first names were Marcus Tullius, is thus sometimes oalled in English.

+ Tasso died at Rome (1595) on the day before that appointed for his coro nation in the capitol.




Peace! within his chamber
Low the mighty lies;
With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.


Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose rushing strain In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the

main! Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to dwell, As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.


Yes ! for him, the victor,
Sing, — but low, sing low!
A soft, sad mis-e-ré're chant
For a soul about to go!


The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way,
Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden


Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsar's past


Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!


Shut the proud bright sunshine
From the fading sight!
There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper's light.


The wreath is twined, the way is strown, the lordly train are

met, The streets are hung with coronals — why stays the minstrel yet? Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!


Silence! forth we bring him,
In his last array ;
From love and grief the freed, the flown -
Way for the bier

make way!


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