The Coliseum

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquaryOf lofty contemplation left to TimeBy buried centuries of pomp and power!At length—at length—after so many daysOf weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)I kneel, an altered and an humble man,Amid thy shadows, and so drink withinMy very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—O spells more sure than e’er Judæan kingTaught in the gardens of Gethsemane!O charms more potent than the rapt ChaldeeEver drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hairWaved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon,The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—These stones—alas! these grey stones—are they all—All of the famed and the colossal leftBy the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—“not all!Prophetic sounds and loud arise for everFrom us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,As melody from Memnon to the Sun.We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we ruleWith a despotic sway all giant minds.We are not impotent—we pallid stones.Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—Not all the magic of our high renown—Not all the wonder that encircles us—Not all the mysteries that in us lie—Not all the memories that hang uponAnd cling around about us as a garment,Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained “the power of words”—denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond the utterance of the human tongue:And now, as if in mockery of that boast,Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—Italian tones, made only to be murmuredBy angels dreaming in the moon-lit “dewThat hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,Richer, far wilder, far diviner visionsThan even the seraph harper, Israfel,(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,I cannot write—I cannot speak or think—Alas, I cannot feel; for ’tis not feeling,This standing motionless upon the goldenThreshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,And thrilling as I see, upon the right,Upon the left, and all the way along,Amid unpurpled vapours, far awayTo where the prospect terminates—thee only.