But see!--the banner of the brave O’er Adrian’s tomb hath ceased to wave. ’Tis lower’d--and now Stephania’s eye Can well the martial train descry, Who, issuing from that ancient dome, Pour through the crowded streets of Rome. Now from her watch-tower on the height, With step as fabled wood-nymph’s light, She flies--and swift her way pursues Through the lone convent’s avenues. Dark cypress groves, and fields o’erspread With records of the conquering dead, And paths which track a glowing waste, She traverses in breathless haste; And by the tombs where dust is shrined Once tenanted by loftiest mind, Still passing on, hath reach’d the gate Of Rome, the proud, the desolate! Throng’d are the streets, and, still renew’d, Rush on the gathering multitude. --Is it their high-soul’d chief to greet That thus the Roman thousands meet? With names that bid their thoughts ascend, Crescentius! thine in song to blend; And of triumphal days gone by Recall th’ inspiring pageantry? --There is an air of breathless dread, An eager glance, a hurrying tread; And now a fearful silence round, And now a fitful murmuring sound, Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem Phantoms of some tumultuous dream. Quick is each step and wild each mien, Portentous of some awful scene. Bride of Crescentius! as the throng Bore thee with whelming force along, How did thine anxious heart beat high, Till rose suspense to agony!-- Too brief suspense, that soon shall close, And leave thy heart to deeper woes. Who midst yon guarded precinct stands, With fearless mien but fetter’d hands? The ministers of death are nigh, Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye; And in his glance there fives a mind Which was not form’d for chains to bind, But cast in such heroic mould As theirs, th’ ascendant ones of old. Crescentius! freedom’s daring son, Is this the guerdon thou hast won? Oh, worthy to have lived and died In the bright days of Latium’s pride! Thus must the beam of glory close O’er the seven hills again that rose, When at thy voice, to burst the yoke, The soul of Rome indignant woke? Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,[111] Sunk is the crowning city’s throne:[112] Th’ illusions, that around her cast Their guardian spells, have long been past.[113] Thy life hath been a shot-star’s ray, Shed o’er her midnight of decay; Thy death at freedom’s ruin’d shrine Must rivet every chain--but thine.