But Rome, thou art fallen, the memory of yore,
Only serves to reproach thee with what thou art now:
The joy of thy triumph for ever is o'er,
And sorrow and shame set their seal on thy brow.
Like the wind-shaken reed, thy degenerate race,
The children of those once the brave and the free—
Ah, who can the page of thy history trace,
Nor blush, thou lost city, blush deeply for thee!
Could the graves raise their dead, and thy warriors arise,
And see thy blades rusted, thy war-banners furled,
Would they know the proud eagle that soared through the skies,
Whose glance lighted over a terror-struck world?
Yet, e'en in disgrace, in thy sadness and gloom,
An halo of splendour is over thee cast:
It is but the death-light that reddens the tomb,
And calls to remembrance the glories long past.
It is unnecessary to point out the crudities in this exercise, such as the utter mistake in the fourth line; but I fancied there was a redeeming quality in some of the epithets and expressions, and the sentiment of the whole an evidence of thought which broods upon its subject. But the next little effusion, in the following "Gazette," set my mind at rest; for it spoke in the same tone of touching simplicity which has adorned later productions of a similar nature:—
THE MICHAELMAS DAISY.
Last smile of the departing year,
Thy sister sweets are flown;
Thy pensive wreath is still more dear,
From blooming thus alone.
Thy tender blush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have pass’d;
But now thou com'st with softer claim,
The loveliest and the last.
