To Rome

From the Spanish by Benjamin B. Wiffen Buried in Its Ruins STRANGER, ’t is vain! midst Rome thou seek’st for Rome In vain; thy foot is on her throne—her grave: Her walls are dust; Time’s conquering banners wave O’er all her hills; hills which themselves entomb. Yes! the proud Aventine is its own womb; The royal Palatine is ruin’s slave; And medals, moldering trophies of the brave, Mark but the triumphs of oblivious gloom. Tiber alone endures, whose ancient tide Worshipped the Queen of Cities on her throne And now, as round her sepulchre, complains. O Rome! the steadfast grandeur of thy pride And beauty all is fled; and that alone Which seemed so fleet and fugitive remains.