Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/512

474

Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces,

Relics of nations thy memorial-stones:

And the dim glories of departed days

Fold like a shroud around thy withered bones:

And o'er thy towers the wind's half-uttered sigh

Whispers, in mournful tones, thy silent elegy.

Yes, in such eloquent silence didst thou lie

When the Goth stooped upon his stricken prey,

And the deep hues of an Italian sky

Flasht on the rude barbarian's wild array:

While full and ceaseless as the ocean roll,

Horde after horde streamed up thy frowning Capitol.

Twice, ere that day of shame, the embattled foe

Had gazed in wonder on that glorious sight;

Twice had the eternal city bowed her low

In sullen homage to the invader's might:

Twice had the pageant of that vast array

Swept, from thy walls, O Rome, on its triumphant way.

Twice, from without thy bulwarks, hath the din

Of Gothic clarion smote thy startled ear;

Anger, and strife, and sickness are within,

Famine and sorrow are no strangers here:

Twice hath the cloud hung o'er thee, twice been stayed

Even in the act to burst, twice threatened, twice delayed.