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��The careless boy, who to the teeming earth Casts the light acorn, of the forest's pomp, Which, springing from that noteless germ, shall rear Its banner to the skies, when he must sleep A noteless atom.
Hark ! the owlet's cry, That, like a muttering sybil, makes her cell 'Mid Nero's house of gold, with clustering bats, And gliding lizards. Tells she not to man, In the hoarse plaint of that discordant shriek, The end of earthly glory ?
With mad haste
No more the chariot round the stadium flies ; Nor toil the rivals in the painful race To the far goal ; nor from yon broken arch Comes forth the victor, with flushed brow, to claim The hard-earned garland. All have pass'd away, Save the dead ruins, and the living robe That nature wraps around them. Anxious fear, High-swollen expectancy, intense despair, And wild exulting triumph, here have reigned, And perished all.
'Twere well could we forget How oft the gladiator's blood hath stained Yon grass-grown pavement, while imperial Rome With all her fairest, brightest brows, looked down On the stern courage of the wounded wretch Grappling with mortal agony. The sigh
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