The Coliseum
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
Judaean
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!
Here,
where
on
golden
throne
the
monarch
lolled,
Glides,
spectre-like,
unto
his
marble
home,
Lit
by
the
wan
light
of
the
horned
moon,
The
swift
and
silent
lizard
of
the
stones!
But
stay!
these
walls-
these
ivy-clad
arcades-
These
moldering
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
left
By
the
corrosive
Hours
to
Fate
and
me?
"Not
all"-
the
Echoes
answer
me-
"not
all!
Prophetic
sounds
and
loud,
arise
forever
From
us,
and
from
all
Ruin,
unto
the
wise,
As
melody
from
Memnon
to
the
Sun.
We
rule
the
hearts
of
mightiest
men-
we
rule
With
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
upon
And
cling
around
about
us
as
a
garment,
Clothing
us
in
a
robe
of
more
than
glory."
