Strange that what seemed most inconstant should the most abiding prove; Strange that what is hourly moving no mutation can remove: Ruined lies the cirque! the chariots, long ago, have ceased to roll, Even the Obelisk is broken, but the shadow still is whole. What is Fame! if mightiest empires leave so little mark behind, How much less must heroes hope for, in the wreck of humankind! Less than even this darksome picture, which I tread beneath my feet, Copied by a lifeless moonbeam on the pebbles of the street; Since, if Cæsar's best ambition, living, was to be renowned, What shall Cæsar leave behind him save the shadow of a sound? THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN WHERE towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds, And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds' ears Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, I gladly commune with the mind and heart Of him who thus survives by classic art, His actions witness, venerate his mien, And study Trajan as by Pliny seen; Behold how fought the chief whose conquering sword Stretched far as earth might own a single lord; In the delight of mortal prudence schooled, How feelingly at home the sovereign ruled; Memorial pillar! mid the wrecks of time Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime,— The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, Whence half the breathing world received its doom: Things that recoil from language; that, if shown Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides, Distinguished only by inherent state From honored instruments that round him wait; To enslave whole nations on their native soil; That, when his age was measured with his aim, Where now the haughty empire that was spread With such fond hope? Her very speech is dead; Yet glorious Art the power of Time defies, And Trajan still, through various enterprise, Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the skies: Still are we present with the imperial chief, Nor cease to gaze upon the bold relief, Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined, Becomes with all her years a vision of the mind. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE CORSO: THE ROMAN CARNIVAL. WHO can forget thy Carnival, Rome, thy Carnival flashing Joy and life through thy solemn streets? Ah, season when Pleasure Day after day its kaleidoscope turned of bright robes and bright faces; Rain of confetti and snowing of flowers from window to window; Tumult of chatter and laughter, glances of youths and of maidens, While their exchanges of flowers and bonbons beneath the balconies Made the heart flutter with dreams of a world too sweet for possession. Then the masking, the tricoloured plumes in the broad black sombrero; Blouses and harlequins battling like boys in a snowballing frolic; While the thronged Corso scarce opened a way for the carriages passing. Wild was the revelry,-counting no hours from noontide till nightfall; Till, as behind the solemn old palaces dropped the last sunbeam, Boomed the loud cannon that cleared the carriages off in an instant. Then came the cavalry making an opening amid the thronged faces, Down from the Piazza del Popolo on to the Palace Venetian: Then the mad race of the riderless horses, and shouts of the people Ended each many-hued day. Young hearts grew weary of pleasure. Tired feet trod upon flowers that lay on the pavement neglected, |