ROME IN HER RUINS

Amidst these scenes, O Pilgrim, seek’st thou Rome?
Vain is thy search—the pomp of Rome is fled;
Her silent Aventine is glory’s tomb;
Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead.

That hill, where Caesars dwelt in other days,
Forsaken mourns, where once it towered sublime;
Each mouldering medal now far less displays
The triumphs won by Latium, than by Time.

Tiber alone survives;—the passing wave
That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave,
Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes.

Rome! Of thine ancient grandeur all is past
That seemed for years eternal, framed to last;—
Nought but the wave, a fugitive, remains.