Poems (Stoddard)/On the Campagna
ON THE CAMPAGNA.
STOP on the Appian Way,In the Roman Campagna; Stop at my tomb, The tomb of Cecilia Metella. To-day as you see it, Alaric saw it, ages ago,When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, Sat at the gates of Rome, Reading his Runic shield. Odin, thy curse remains!
Beneath these battlementsMy bones were stirred with Roman pride,Though centuries before my Romans died: Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king, My tomb remains!
When Rome commanded the earth Great were the Metelli: I was Metella's wife; I loved him—and I died.Then with slow patience built he this memorial: Each century marks his love.
Pass by on the Appian Way The tomb of Cecilia Metella;Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,Wild buffaloes tramp at its base. Deep is its desolation, Deep as the shadow of Rome!