A graveyard, where some lonely tombs remain,
A desert city, where the long grass waves,
The living figures a slow-moving herd
Of large gray oxen, with their flaunting horns,
Or, keeping watch, a shepherd in his hut;
But for the most part still, and wild, and waste,
Its wide green levels rounded by bold hills,
Clothed in the verdure of this Southern soil,
And hinting in its pathways where old Rome
And her proud sons marshalled their fearless men.
Here was the Appian Way; with tombs once lined,
And seats of pleasure, in the elder time,
Where now the sallow, ragged herdsman stalks,
Himself, the ruins, and the scene confused.
These plains were furnished proudly as those hills,
Where the Eternal City rears her towers,
And by her shadows from the fading past
Attracts devoted pilgrims to her shrines.
How bathes the desolation Nature's love
In flowing sunlight, and the tall grass waves,
Proud as the tresses on a Roman brow,
O'er all the crumbling fragments, buried deep.
And from the shadow of the graceful hills
A veil of silentness the twilight weaves,
And drapes the elder nations in the gray,
Departing presence of the Modern day.

Here were their houses; near, a Temple stood;
This was a Circus; there, the cheerful home
Of some good family. I see the sons
Come running there at eve, to please the eyes
Of the fond mother, who by yonder gate
Stands in columnar beauty, like the shape
Of some old Goddess exquisite in Heaven.
There bends a hoary Grandsire o'er his staff,
Who seeks his home upon yon rising ground,
Whence we comprise the snow-capped Apennines,
And for his children's children, who did then
Worship the white-haired elder of their line.
Now sweep the way a troop of Chariots,
The solid stones grating their brazen wheels,
And with red nostrils fly the headlong steeds,
In the light harness panting to escape.
In his white, floating robe the charioteer
Bends forward eager, for behind the train
Rush whirling on him, as if their fierce speed
Would swallow the swift conqueror in front.
To that sweet Temple, in slow march, proceeds
A group of lovely Maidens, to the shrine
Of sea-born Venus bear some offerings fine, —
Branches, and wreaths of myrtle, and far more,
Pulsing most tenderly their virgin hearts.
Near this fair band, I see a youth advance,
Like an Apollo in his noble form.
As the soft train of maidens fill the door,
And with slow motion, graceful as a stream,
Then quietly flow through and o'er the porch,
He silently approaches, with light steps
Retreats behind the pillars, nor in vain;
As if the Goddess favors, in the train
He sees that modest form he long has loved,
A maiden, with a snowy fillet bound
Upon her low, white brow, beneath whose shade
The large dark eyes slowly excite his soul
Who gazes on them to celestial hope.
As if in sport, her playful head she bends
Upon the column of her marble neck,
Until he sees her face, and the round form
Hid in her robe of early Womanhood.
It is not long before she idles there,
Behind the column; now have gone the twain,
Pass in the open space, and so away.
I see them turning, where the surface falls,
And look back, laughing at their sweet escape.

Figures of Beauty! who in the old days,
Ruled by some laws that influenced your lives,
Worshipped the delicacies of your dreams,
And kept the rites that later times disown,
How are you only flitting o'er these plains,
Where man once dwelt, now this wide solitude?
Was something blighting in the fevered eye
Of Christian martyrs that befooled old Rome,
And brought the second dear delusion in,
Than worship of old Gods more difficult,
The reverence for something past belief?
I love the Ruins more, be as it may,
Than all thy pomp, and worship, and gay shows.
'T is like the prostrate forest, where we touch
The trunks of giants who for ages past
Had stretched their tall tops to the arms of Heaven,
And in some hissing whirlwind toppled down,
Tearing a path among the lesser growths,
With earnest rush and roar of branches breaking,
To serve content the riches of that soil.
No melancholy voice whispers from thee,
Once the home of men, mighty Campagna!
Along thy graceful swells no sorrow steals,
Though there Malaria fastens his wolf-tusks
Upon the Shepherd's throat, and sends him home
To scale his mountains, yellow as the leaf
That on the ask flutters in autumn frosts.
Shall not the forests of Humanity,
Like the thick pines that load the ravine's side,
After their blossoms, fruits, and leaves have done
Whatever duty fitted them to do,
Gracefully droop, and to the earth rush down,
Tearing away a place for them to grow
Who live in after ages, while their boughs,
And all of them that was, fattens the soil,
In which those Nations who come after thrive?
Of old times these ruins are mementos,
Proverbs, and saws, and Bibles of their art,
Which like the necessary seeds have slept,
Safe covered in the dew, and frost, and snow
Of twenty centuries, for the Planter's hand.

We rapidly rush downward to our graves,
Time, and the storms, and winters are upon us,
Yet let us meet them with an equal heart,
Secure in the old laws which bind the race,
Secure in Heaven, that never was yet false.
In Nature's hand, why should not we delight,
E'en if she paints the plain and silent fields,
Or like a mother softly parts the locks
Of whispering verdure on the column's crown?
Is not her hand still perfect as of old?
Has she yet lost one string from all her lyre?
The nations crumble, down sinks tower and town,
The Greeks are fancies in a dreamer's eye,
The Romans live in song that few may read, —
'T is all man leaves behind him, his decay.
And Nature, with a song of even sweetness,
And Love's caresses, twines the landscape round,
And ere the Greek is buried in his grave,
Or ere the Roman's cuirass rusts away,
With a light, soft, and graceful depth of shade,
She veils the downfall of these human walls,
So soothingly she touches them with rain,
So tenderly her frost strikes through their joints.

Come to these fields, ye rash, deluded tribe,
Who in thick cities, or in crowded towns,
Inflate your lungs, or with well-sharpened pen
Drive out a swarm of serious sentences,
That well declare the moral of our day,
How it alone is Age majestical,
And it alone for evermore shall last! —
Come to these fields, and sit upon these stones.
The stern old Romans are beneath thy feet,
Above thy head the soft Italian skies,
Pulsates the sweet wind like the fire of morn, —
Come to these fields, and listen to their voice.
O shallow host! O vain and idle band!
Here, on the relics of a master tribe,
Confess your vanities, and sit rebuked!
For ye are like the critic, whose wise head
Weighs most exactly in its shining scales
That work of Art, whose faintest line his hand
Never might sculpture; in whose soul no voice
Of linked sweetness from some subtler life
Draws out for him the meaning of the lines;
Who makes the mischief of the thing he scolds.
So would ye weigh golden Antiquity,
Balance the deeds of men by centuries,
Erase the bad, and shape a perfect Good,
That for the perfect state should firmly stand,
Decent, and true, and lovely as a hope.
'T is like the sculptor, who, with cunning hand,
Embalmed in marble a dear mistress' form,
Until he thought she lived, and clasped her charms;
Alas! how cold, how still, and too resigned!
So mould you at your statue, and then say, —
" Live thou for ever by this perfect rule
We have decided for thee; it is just. "
And Nature comes, and with a breath of wind
Scatters them o'er thy levels, green Campagna!

Farewell ! farewell for ever to thee, Rome!
Fade the last circles of thy mountain dome,
Through rosy twilight's intermingling ray.
Farewell to thee! farewell the southern day!

From a cold region sorrowful I came;
Thou kindled in my heart a searching flame;
The golden orange shone, the vineyards gay, —
My life was all festooned with lovely May.
Farewell to Rome! farewell, ye ruins high,
Whose shattered arches float upon the sky!
Farewell, ye giant Baths, where grandeur dwells!
Farewell, beneath the ground, the Martyr-cells!

Thou, Rome! art centred in my inmost heart, —
Palace of Kings, great storehouse of fine art,
Where Virgil sang his mellow summer hymn,
Where Caesar made all lesser fortunes dim,
Where Raphael with his pencil moulded men,
Where Michel with his chisel lived again.

Farewell to Rome! a long, a last Farewell!
I shall not hear again the Vesper bell,
Nor stand among the courteous multitudes;
Farewell! — now for the sea's green solitudes!

They rocked me in my dreams, those hissing storms;
I saw a circle of divinest forms
Around the cottage where my Ellen dwelt,
My children's kisses on my lips I felt,
And yet the ambitious surge walled out the sky,
And merry sprays hissed at our fore-top high.

Yet on we sped, and, in the calmer time,
Went o'er the blue sea in a mood sublime,
Watching the lazy drift-weed on its course,
Its thousand leagues sailing by inward force.
So blue those summer days, that Heaven seemed
As if it only slept, or idly dreamed.
Then boiled across our decks the Gulf's hot blast,
And weighed the sails, till bent the lofty mast,
And dizzy waves menaced our headlong flight;
But on we sped, like Sea-bird small and light,
Still in the foaming current shot the bow,
We fed the ocean with unceasing prow; —
Away, nor slacks the motion of the steed,
Through rushing waters, and the whirlwind's speed.

Farewell to Rome! farewell the painted mask
Called life or friendship! — Lethe 's all I ask,
To steep my soul in draughts of murmuring wine
And sing to Gods and men a mystic line.
Farewell to Rome! good-by to cant and show!
He who may love me gives me blow for blow;
Farewell to rule and order! for the Muse
She does all things but bravery refuse.
New England, homestead, friend or hope shall fly,
This plaything for a moment, earth and sky,
Like swift rack driven by the western breeze,
Swift o'er the land, and swifter o'er the seas.
Go, lonely, sad, to men a Hermit seem,
Outrun your life, outdream your subtlest dream,
Live on dry pulse, and quench thy thirst in brooks,
Thy only friendship how the bottom looks,
The world, the day, their Aims, their Thoughts refuse, —
Farewell to Rome! — there's greater for thy use.