The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains, When strength of mind but only served to feel More deeply shame and grief; effeminate They sank without remorse. Yet Baiæ saw The conquer'd sea give place to palaces: Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain, And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves, Made nature subject to console themselves That they were subject too. And Cicero on this promontory died: This Gaëta we see. Ah! no regard Those triumvirs paid to posterity, Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived Of this great man: their crime continues still; Committed against us was this offence. Cicero 'neath the tyrant's dagger fell, But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled With yet his country free. Beside this shore He died; and still the ruins of his tomb Retain the name, "Tower of my native land:"[1] Touching allusion to the memory Which haunted his great soul. Marius found a refuge in yon marsh,[2] to the Scipios' home. Thus in all time Have nations persecuted their great men. But they enskied them after death;[3] and heaven, Where still the Romans deem'd they could command, Received amid her planets Romulus, Numa, and Cæsar; new and dazzling stars! Mingling together in our erring gaze The rays of glory and celestial light. And not enough alone of misery, The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behold The isle of Capri, where at length old age Disarm'd Tiberius; violent, yet worn; Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e'en of crime, He sought yet viler pleasures; as he were Not low enough debased by tyranny. And Agrippina's tomb is on these shores, Facing the isle,[4] reared after Nero's death; The murderer of his mother had proscribed Even her ashes. Long at Baiæ he dwelt Amid the memories of his many crimes. What wretches fate here brings before our eyes! Tiberius, Nero, on each other gaze. The isles, volcano-born amid the sea, Served at their birth the crimes of the old world. The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks, Watched 'mid the waves their native land afar, Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air: And often, a long exile worn away, Sentence of sudden death arrived to show They were remember'd by their enemies. O Earth! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers; And hast thou then no pity for mankind? Can thy maternal breast receive again Their dust, and yet not throb? L. E. L.