Classic Poem

In yonder magic hill,
There is a dungeon deep,
Wherein, girt round with darkness, still
Tarpeia sits, in sleep.

Let no rude murmur break
The charmed trance of sin;
It were not good, for man to wake
The maid, who sleeps within.

For many an age, she sate,
Forbid to rest, or die;
Fast fettered by the hand of fate
To quenchless agony.

Wreathed flames around her head
Were fastened by a spell;
The gems, upon her neck, were fed
With the red fires of hell:

And as the lone hill rung
With shrieks of burning pain;
A demon-voice for ever sung
This cold and scornful strain.

That is the crown of gold
Which made this rock your home;
Those are the jewels, for which you sold
The warlike sons of Rome.

Such was Tarpeia's doom,
Within the dark hill side;
Until that day of mystic gloom,
When God for sinners died.

Since that, these pangs no more
Her heavy slumbers chase;
God grant, that by the penance sore,
Her soul may have found grace.

Still, let no murmurs break
The charmed trance of sin.
It were not good, for man to wake
The maid, who sleeps within.