Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/209

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Where art thou, wife of Crassus, whose proud tomb O'ermasters Time, mocking with towering walls, And Doric frieze, and knots of sculptured flowers His ill-dissembled wrath?—Soft, drooping shades, The dark, columnar cypress, the pale leaves Of the young olive, and the ivy wreath Close clustering, lend their tracery to make rich Thy sepulchre.—But thou hast left no trace On history's tablet, and in vain we ask These voiceless stones of thee.— Was hoarded wealth Thine idol, like thy husband's?—didst thou vaunt His venal honours, and exalt the power Of the triumvir, in thy purple robes, Presiding at his feasts, till Rome was sick Of pomp and revel?—or in secret cell To thy Penates breathe the matron prayer With trembling for his sake?—or in the grief Of solitary widowhood, deplore His breathless bosom pierced by Parthian darts?— —There is no record on these mighty walls Of thy lost deeds. Even thy sarcophagus Is rifled, and the golden urn where slept Thy mouldering ashes, proved but fitting bribe For the rapacious hand. Thy scattered dust, How doth it differ from the household slave's? Who 'neath thy bidding at the distaff wrought, Or bent with sterner toil, in ponderous vase, Brought the cool Martian waters, or perchance Through sinuous mazes of embroidery's art Guided the weary needle.