WE seek, as twilight saddens into gloom,
A poet's sepulchre; and here it is,—
The summit of a tufa precipice.
Ah! precious every drape of myrtle bloom
And leaf of laurel crowning Virgil's tomb!
The low vault entering, hark! what sound is this?
The night is black beneath us in the abyss,
Through one damp port disclosed, as from earth's womb,
That rumbling sound appalls us! Through the steep
Is hewn Posilipo's most marvellous grot;
And to the Prince of Roman bards, whose sleep
Is in this singular and lonely spot,
Doth a wild rumour give a wizard's name, Linking a tunnelled road to Maro's fame! WILLIAM HAMILTON GIBSON.
THE AMPHITHEATRE AT POZZUOLI
THE strife, the gushing blood, the mortal throe,
With scenic horrors, filled that belt below,
And where the polished seats were round it raised,
Worse spectacle! the pleased spectators gazed.
Such were the pastimes of times past! O shame!
O infamy! that men who drew the breath
Of freedom, and who shared the Roman name,
Should so corrupt their sports with pain and
THERE Baiæ sees no more the joyous throng;
Her bank all beaming with the pride of Rome:
No generous vines now bask along the hills,
Where sport the breezes of the Tyrrhene main:
With baths and temples mixed, no villas rise;
Nor, art sustained amid reluctant waves,
Draw the cool murmurs of the breathing deep:
No spreading ports their sacred arms extend:
No mighty moles the big intrusive storm,
From the calm station, roll resounding back.
An almost total desolation sits,
A dreary stillness saddening o'er the coast;
Where, when soft suns and tepid winters rose,
Rejoicing clouds inhaled the balm of peace;
Where citied hill to hill reflected blaze;
And where, with Ceres, Bacchus wont to hold
A genial strife. Her youthful form, robust,
E'en Nature yields; by fire and earthquake rent:
Whole stately cities in the dark abrupt
Swallowed at once, or vile in rubbish laid,
A nest for serpents; from the red abyss
New hills, explosive, thrown; the Lucrine lake
A reedy pool: and all to Cuma's point,
The sea recovering his usurped domain,
And poured triumphant o'er the buried dome.
RUINS OF CORNELIA'S HOUSE
I TURN from ruins of imperial power,
Tombs of corrupt delight, old walls the pride
Of statesmen pleased for respite brief to hide
Their laurelled foreheads in the Muses' bower,
And seek Cornelia's home. At sunset's hour
How oft her eyes, that wept no more, descried
Yon purpling hills! How oft she heard that tide
Fretting as now low cave or hollow tower!
The mother of the Gracchi! Scipio's child!-
"T was virtue such as hers that built her Rome!
Never towards it she gazed! Far off her home
She made, like her great father self-exiled.
Woe to the nations when the souls they bare,
Their best and bravest, choose their rest elsewhere!
AUBREY DE VERE,
BUT Baix, soft retreat in days of yore,
Recalls our step, and woos us to its shore.
Heroes and emperors trod this smiling strand,
And art, song, pleasure reigned, a fairy band.
Here Cæsar stooped his pride to garden bowers,
And stern-browed Marius wreathed his sword with
flowers;
Here rich Lucullus gorgeous banquets spread,
And Pollio time in chains of roses led:
Steeped in warm bliss seemed ocean, earth, and
Life one rich dream of love and luxury.
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