Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/93

Rh Our afternoon was bright and warm the hour Lit by the westering sun, now soon to set. Winter is hard upon us, and a night Heavy with cloud, and ominous of storm. Theonöe, I knew you not so near

I listen'd, for I heard you speak of Rome. Ah, what a passion of insanity, Furies more fell than those of Atreus Beset this poor Tithonus of a world Which has outliv'd the glory of its prime. Immortal, Immemorial, Mother Rome, How can I help but hate your gloomy foes Who set their little nook of Galilee Above the Mistress City of the World. Poor brambles, jealous of the cedar tree, Beneath whose shade their puny briar sprung. These weeds wind-borne within our marble fane, Will work insidious their destructive way