his wild rage
Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl
His fiery bolts upon the head
Of pyramid with ire, and crush
And raze it to its base with scorn!

V

Next Greece, the fairest nymph that trod
This belted globe upon, once shone
As shines the Morning Orb, long ere
The Dawn the rosy East has kissed;
High reared her sacred temples in
Olympia's shady groves, and built
There sacred altars to her gods.
Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat
In council with their fellow gods.
And Homer, fiery bard, was first
To smite the chords of nature's lyre;
Sweet sang he till the earth was filled
With rarest strains of rapturous song!
Then art and letters blew and blushed,
The fairest flowers of ages past,
Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze,
Is wafted still forever on
The twin deft with the flight of years;
And man in calm delight inhales
The fragrance of pure classic lore!
But Greece is gone! Her statues fair
Are mingled with the dust; each god
Has flown some fairer clime to rule,
Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss.

VI

Then Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen,
On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills
Securely built her throne. The world
Then saw a mighty power rise
In splendor great, as does the sun
On some young, swift-winged morn of June.
A brighter dawning seemed to break;
Another life was lived,--for through
The Roman vein there coursed a blood,
A fiery burning blood of ire,
That rose and conquered all the world.
Great Caesar led her legions forth
From victory on to victory,
And hung her royal pennons high
In tower, palace-hall, and throne;
The Roman sceptre swayed the globe.
Soft music soothed her savage ear,
Fine arts and sculptor were her toys,
And glory was her "starry crown."
But now we read the "Fall of Rome,"
The doleful lay that tells the tale
Of all who thus have passed away.

VII

To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate
The things which were but are no more;
That thou mightest know the worldly way,
And knowing, have no timid fear
To ever stir thy peaceful breast.
No fate like theirs awaits for thee;
For Fortune's maid shall tend with care
Thy every nod and beck--yes, place
Upon thy queenly brow a crown,
The "starry crown" by Freedom worn!
'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base,
No stone thy corner marks; for that
What carest thou? For boasted pride?
Thy frame is of the sturdy oak,
Inlaid with ribs of stately pine;
The Prince and Princess twain are they
Of all Co