Classic Poem

Homeward turning from the music which had 'wildered so my brain,
That my way I scarce remembered to the Quirinal again, —
Not unwilling to forget it underneath a moon so fair,
In a solitude so sacred, and so summer-like an air, —
By the shore I came, of Tiber, little conscious where I stood,
Till I marked the yellow trembling of the light upon the flood.

Tethered near, some broken barges hid the wave's august repose;
Petty sheds of humble dealers nigh the Campus Martius rose;
Hardly could the dingy Thamis, when his tide is ebbing low,
Life's dull scene in colder colors to the homesick exile show.
Winding from the vulgar prospect, through a labyrinth of lanes,
Forth I stood upon the Corso, where its greatness Rome retains.

Yet it was not ancient glory, though the midnight radiance fell
Soft on many a princely mansion, many a dome's majestic swell;
Though, from some hushed corner gushing, oft a modern fountain gleamed,
Where the marble and the waters in their freshness equal seemed:
What though open courts unfolded columns of Corinthian mould?
Beautiful it was, — but altered! naught bespake the Rome of old.

So, regardless of the grandeur, passed I towards the Northern Gate;
All around were shining gardens, — churches glittering, yet sedate,
Heavenly bright the broad enclosure! but the o'erwhelming silence brought
Stillness to mine own heart's beating, with a moment's turn of thought,
And it startled me to notice I was walking unaware
O'er the Obelisk's tall shadow on the pavement of the square.

Ghost-like seemed it to address me, and conveyed me for a while
Backward, through a thousand ages, to the borders of the Nile,
Where the centuries watched its creeping from the morn when it begun,
O'er the stones perchance of Memphis, or the City of the Sun.
Kingly turrets looked upon it, pyramids and sculptured fanes;
Now the sand is king o'er Pharaoh, but the shadow still remains.

Out of Egypt came the trophy, from old empire to the new;
Here the eternal apparition met the millions' daily view.
Virgil's foot has touched it often; it hath kissed Octavia's face;
Royal chariots have rolled o'er it, in the frenzy of the race,
When the strong, the swift, the valiant, mid the thronged arena strove,
In the days of good Augustus, and the dynasty of Jove.

Herds are feeding in the Forum, as in old Evander's time;
Tumbled from the steep Tarpeian all the towers that sprang sublime.
Strange! that what seemed most inconstant should the most abiding prove;
Strange! that what is hourly moving no mutation can remove;
Ruined lies the cirque! the chariots long ago have ceased to roll:
Even the Obelisk is broken, — but the shadow still is whole.

What is fame! if mightiest empire leave so little mark behind,
How much less must heroes hope for, in the wreck of humankind!
Less than even this darksome picture, which I tread beneath my feet,
Copied by a lifeless moonbeam on the pebbles of the street:
Read the name upon the base there, — most of all Rome's names renowned,
Caesar! — what left he behind him, save the shadow of a sound?