Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/516

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Yes, there he stood, upon that silent hill,

And there beneath his feet his conquest lay:

Unlike that ocean-city, gazing still

Smilingly forth upon her sunny bay,

But o'er her vanisht might and humbled pride

Mourning, as widowed Venice o'er her Adrian tide.

Breathe there not spirits on the peopled air?

Float there not voices on the murmuring wind?

Oh! sound there not some strains of sadness there,

To touch with sorrow even a victor's mind,

And wrest one tear from joy! Oh! who shall pen

The thoughts that toucht thy breast, thou lonely conqueror, then?

Perchance his wandering heart was far away,

Lost in dim memories of his early home,

And his young dreams of conquest; how to-day

Beheld him master of Imperial Rome,

Crowning his wildest hopes: perchance his eyes

As they looked sternly on, beheld new victories,

New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher,

Come floating up from the abyss of years;

Perchance that solemn sight might quench the fire

Even of that ardent spirit; hopes and fears

Might well be mingling at that murmured sigh,

Whispering from all around, "All earthly things must die."