The waves have now a redder glow—
The hours are breathing faint and low—
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
The Coliseum (1833)
[If the judges had not been unwilling to award both honors to the same contestant, this poem would have won the fifty dollar prize tvhen The MS. Found in aBottle won the hundred dollar prize offered by the Baltimore Saturday Morning Visitor. See page 2. Though written in blank verse—a meter used only three times by Poe as a lyric measure—the poem is divided into sections that correspond to the paragraphs of prose. In the last section, ruin, vanished power, and departed glory find their elect interpreter.]
Type of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to
Time By buried centuries of pomp and power
At length—at length—after so many days
Of 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 within
My 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 Judsean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever 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 hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle
