Written in a Roman Fortification in Bavaria

There is a cloud before the sun,The wind is hushed and still,And silently the waters runBeneath the sombre hill.The sky is dark in every place,As is the earth below:Methinks it wore the self-same faceTwo thousand years ago.

No light is on the ancient wall,No light upon the mound;The very trees, so thick and tall,Cast gloom, not shade, around.So silent is the place and cold,So far from human ken,It hath a look that makes me old,And spectres time again.

I listen, half in thought to hearThe Roman trumpet blow--I search for glint of helm and spearAmidst the forest bough:And armour rings, and voices swell--I hear the legion's tramp,And mark the lonely sentinelWho guards the lonely camp.

Methinks I have no other home,No other hearth to find;For nothing save the thought of RomeIs stirring in my mind.And all that I have heard or dreamed,And all I had forgot,Are rising up, as though they seemedThe household of the spot.

And all the names that Romans knewSeem just as known to me,As if I were a Roman too--A Roman born and free:And I could rise at Cæsar's name,As though it were a charmTo draw sharp lightning from the tame,And brace the coward's arm.

And yet, if yonder sky were blue,And earth were sunny gay,If nature wore the summer hueThat decked her yesterday,The mound, the trench, the rampart's space,Would move me nothing moreThan many a sweet sequestred placeThat I have marked before.

I could not feel the breezes bringRich odours from the trees;I could not hear the linnets sing,And think on themes like these.The painted insects as they passIn swift and motley strife,The very lizard in the grassWould scare me back to life.

Then is the past so gloomy nowThat it may never bearThe open smile of nature's brow,Or meet the sunny air?I know not that--but joy is power,However short it last;And joy befits the present hour,If sadness fits the past.