Page:The Poems of John Dyer (1903).djvu/42

 Of human benefit: more late the rest; At various times their turrets chanc'd to rise, When impious Tyranny vouchsaf'd to smile. Behold by Tiber's flood, where modern Rome Couches beneath the ruins; there of old With arms and trophies gleam'd the Field of Mars: There to their daily sports the noble youth Rush'd emulous, to fling the pointed lance, To vault the steed, or with the kindling wheel In dusty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal; Or, wrestling, cope, with adverse swelling breasts, Strong grappling arms, close heads, and distant feet; Or clash the lifted gauntlets: there they form'd Their ardent virtues: in the bossy piles, The proud triumphal arches, all their wars, Their conquests, honours, in the sculptures live. And see from ev'ry gate those ancient roads, With tombs high verg'd, the solemn paths of Fame! Deserve they not regard? o'er whose broad flints Such crowds have roll'd, so many storms of war, So many pomps, so many wond'ring realms: Yet still thro' mountains pierc'd, o'er vallies rais'd, In even state to distant seas around They stretch their pavements. Lo! the fane of Peace Built by that prince who to the trust of pow'r Was honest, the delight of human-kind. Three nodding aisles remain, the rest an heap Of sand and weeds; her shrines, her radiant roof And columns proud, that from her spacious floor, As from a shining sea, majestic rose An hundred foot aloft, like stately beech Around the brim of Dion's glassy lake, Charming the mimic painter: on the walls Hung Salem's sacred spoils; the golden board And golden trumpets, now conceal'd, entomb'd