Classic Poem

As once the trembling Lombard saw
The swift barbarians' line of spears
Wind down the Alps, thus here in awe
I watch the approaching line of years.

They come, the Goth and vandal bands,
With savage tread and look uncouth;
With spear and mace and murderous brands,
They file towards the plains of youth.

Down into life's Etrurian vales,
O'er green campagnas broad and fair,
They sweep like bitter Nor'land gales,
And fright the calm Italian air.

Their barbarous feet know no restraint;
They vent their rage before our eyes:
The shrines that held our dearest saint
A ruined heap before us lies

The temples by our young hearts reared,
Their ruffian malice batters down;
Ambition's altars, unrevered,
With domes of Hope, lie overthrown.

And Friendship's wayside shrines and towers
Too oft are shattered as they pass:
Oft Love, a statue wreathed with flowers,
Lies at their feet a crumbled mass.

But like these pure Etruscan skies,
Unsullied by the Goth's control,
One fane the vandal Time defies, —
The dome of sunshine in the soul!

And thou, fair maid, so young and blest!
When impious years shall touch thy brow,
Still hold this sunshine in thy breast,
And be as beautiful as now.