But, lovely child! thy magic stole To me thy parents are unknown; How happy must thy parents be I called thee duteous; am I wrong? To Love!-for fiends of hate might see Oh! that my spirit's eye could see COLISEUM. BY EDGAR A. POE. TYPE of the antique Rome' rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation, left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length, at length-after so many days Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an alter'd and an humble man, Within thy shadows-and so drink, within My very soul, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory. Vastness, and age, and memories of old: Silence, and desolation, and dim night! I fec. ye now-I feel ye in your strength. O, spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O, charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind. now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the CESAR sate, On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder! Here, where on ivory couch the monarch loll'd, |