Classic Poem

Old Rome, whose thunderbolts were hurl'd
So long across a wondering world,
Whose legions swarmed from east to west,
Whose eagles kept the storms at bay,
Now Time hath lull'd thy heart to rest,
Where is thy pride, O Rome, today? ...
Thy heart is still, Old Rome, thy pride hath pass'd away!

Mount Atlas rises as of yore;
All round upon the Afric shore
The vast and solitary stones
Of thine imperial Cities stand —
The mighty Monster's bleaching bones
Half-buried in the desert sand! ...
Where are thy conquering eyes, O Rome, thy red right hand?

The sleepless Eagle's eyes at last
Are closed, its sunward flight hath pass'd!
But lo, afar across the sea
This new imperial Rome doth rise,
As strong, as fearless, and as free,
It feels the sun and fronts the skies ...
Thine ears are dust, Old Rome, and cannot hear its cries!

Dust! and we too, who now adjust
Our pomp and pride, shall be as dust!
And this, our Empire, too, shall share
The same inevitable doom, —
Thy death, Old Rome, and thy despair,
With all the weary world for tomb; —
The new race comes, the old and worn-out race gives room!

With bread and pageants we appease
The home-bred mob, while o'er the seas,
Snatching the spoil of many lands,
Conquering we sweep with sword and fire,
Nay, building up with bloody hands
The glory of our heart's desire, —
Raising (like thee, Old Rome!) our own proud funeral pyre!

Thy pride hath pass'd, and ours shall pass!
Over our graves shall grow the grass,
Within the cities we upraise
Jackal and wolf shall make their home,
A younger brow shall bear the bays,
A fairer fleet shall face the foam, —
When this our Rome is dust and laid with thine, Old Rome!