He seeks no friend, but shuns the train Of courtiers with a proud disdain; And, save when Otho bids his lay Its half unearthly power essay In hall or bower the heart to thrill, His haunts are wild and lonely still. Far distant from the heedless throng, He roves old Tiber’s banks along, Where Empire’s desolate remains Lie scatter’d o’er the silent plains; Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrine That strews the desert Palatine, With mournful yet commanding mien, Like the sad genius of the scene, Entranced in awful thought appears To commune with departed years. Or at the dead of night, when Rome Seems of heroic shades the home; When Tiber’s murmuring voice recalls The mighty to their ancient halls; When hush’d is every meaner sound, And the deep moonlight-calm around Leaves to the solemn scene alone The majesty of ages flown-- A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb, He wanders through the sacred gloom; And midst those dwellings of decay At times will breathe so sad a lay, So wild a grandeur in each tone, ’Tis like a dirge for empires gone! Awake thy pealing harp again, But breathe a more exulting strain, Young Guido! for awhile forgot Be the dark secrets of thy lot, And rouse th’ inspiring soul of song To speed the banquet’s hour along!-- The feast is spread, and music’s call Is echoing through the royal hall, And banners wave and trophies shine O’er stately guests in glittering line; And Otho seeks awhile to chase The thoughts he never can erase, And bid the voice, whose murmurs deep Rise like a spirit on his sleep-- The still small voice of conscience--die, Lost in the din of revelry. On his pale brow dejection lowers, But that shall yield to festal hours; A gloom is in his faded eye, But that from music’s power shall fly; His wasted cheek is wan with care, But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there. Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high, Strike the bold chord exultingly! And pour upon the enraptured ear Such strains as warriors love to hear! Let the rich mantling goblet flow, And banish aught resembling woe; And if a thought intrude, of power To mar the bright convivial hour, Still must its influence lurk unseen, And cloud the heart--but not the mien!