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ALEXANDER AND DIOGENES.
Naming no name of friend or foe,
heir feverish fragrance round thy bed;
“ And thou wilt pass away, and have
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 !
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour
THE RUINS OF ROME.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
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
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
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
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void ?
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's * voice, and Virgil's lay,
Her resurrection ; als beside — decay.
LXXXVI. - TASSO'S CORONATION.
FOR TWO SPEAKERS.
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,
A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far,
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
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,
The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way,
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
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,