Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, survey The long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old, The broken marbles, arches in decay, Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolled In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, And buried, in forgetfulness profound, The owners and their fame. Thus Troy, I deem, must be, With many a mouldering mound; And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground; And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom Just laws redeemed not from the appointed doom. The envy of earth's cities once wert thou-- A weary solitude and ashes now! For Fate and Death respect ye not; they strike The mighty city and the wise alike. V. But why goes forth the wandering thought to frame New themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands? Enough the example that before me stands; For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering flame, And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die; So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell On those who near it dwell. And under night's still sky, As awe-struck peasants tell, A melancholy voice is heard to cry, "Italica is fallen!" the echoes then Mournfully shout "Italica" again. The leafy alleys of the forest nigh Murmur "Italica," and all around, A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound Of that illustrious name, repeat the call, "Italica!" from ruined tower and wall. WAITING BY THE GATE. Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair. O glory of our race that so suddenly decays! O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze! O breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where!