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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391508" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Alaric In Italy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast?<br>The march of hosts as Alaric passed?<br>His steps have tracked that glorious clime,<br>The birth-place of heroic time;<br>But he, in northern deserts bred,<br>Spared not the living for the dad,<br>Nor heard the voice, whose pleading cries <br>From temple and from tomb arise.<br>He passed - the light of burning fanes<br>Hath been his torch o'er Grecian plains;<br>And woke they not, the brave, the free,<br>To guard their own Thermopylae?<br>And left they not their silent dwelling,<br>When Scythia's note of war was swelling?<br>No! where the bold Three Hundred slept,<br>Sad freedom battled not - but wept!<br>For nerveless then the Spartan's hand, <br>And Thebes could rouse no Sacred Band;<br>Nor one high soul from slumber broke, <br>When Athens owned the Northern yoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But was there none for thee to dare<br>The conflict, scorning to despair?<br>O city of the seven proud hills! <br>Whose name e'en yet the spirit thrills,<br>As doth a clarion's battle-call-<br>Didst thou too, ancient empress, fall?<br>Did no Camillus from the chain<br>Ransom thy Capitol again?<br>Oh! who shall tell the days to be, <br>No patriot rose to bleed for thee?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast?<br>The march of hosts, as Alaric passed?<br>That fearful sound, at midnight deep,<br>Burst on the eternal city's sleep:<br>How woke the mighty? She, whose will<br>So long had bid the world be still,<br>Her sword a sceptre, and her eye<br>The ascendant star of destiny!<br>She woke - to view the dread array<br>Of Scythians rushing to their prey,<br>To hear her streets resound the cries<br>Poured from a thousand agonies!<br>While the strange light of flames, that gave<br>A ruddy glow to Tiber's wave,<br>Bursting in that terrific hour<br>From fane and palace, dome and tower,<br>Revealed the throngs, for aid divine<br>Clinging to many a worshiped shrine:<br>Fierce fitful radiance wildly shed<br>O'er spear and sword, with carnage red,<br>Shone o'er the suppliant and the flying,<br>And kindled pyres for Romans dying.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Weep, Italy! alas, that e'er<br>Should tears alone thy wrongs declare!<br>The time hath been when thy distress<br>Had roused up empires for redress!<br>Now, her long race of glory run,<br>Without a combat Rome is won,<br>And from her plundered temples forth<br>Rush the fierce children of the north,<br>To share beneath more genial skies<br>Each joy their own rude clime denies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye who on bright Campania's shore<br>Bade your fair villas rise of yore,<br>With all their graceful colonnades,<br>And crystal baths, and myrtle shades,<br>Along the blue Hesperian deep,<br>Whose glassy waves in sunshine sleep;<br>Beneath your olive and your vine<br>Far other inmates now recline,<br>And the tall plane, whose roots ye fed<br>With rich libations duly shed,<br>O'er guests, unlike your vanished friends,<br>Its bowery canopy extends.<br>For them the southern heaven is glowing, <br>The bright Falernian nectar flowing;<br>For them the marble halls unfold,<br>Where nobler beings dwelt of old,<br>Whose children for harbarian lords<br>Touch the sweet lyre's resounding chords,<br>Or wreaths of Paestan roses twine, <br>To crown the sons of Elbe and Rhine,.<br>Yet, though luxurious they repose<br>Beneath Corinthian porticoes,<br>While round them into being start<br>The marvels of triumphant art;<br>Oh! not for them hath genius given<br>To Parian stone the fire of heaven,<br>Enshrining in the forms he wrought <br>A bright eternity of thought. <br>In vain the natives of the skies<br>In breathing marble round them rise,<br>And sculptured nymphs of fount or glade <br>People the dark-green laurel shade;<br>Cold are the conqueror's heart and eye<br>To visions of divinity;<br>And rude his hand which dares deface<br>The models of immortal grace.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Arouse ye from your soft delights!<br>Chieftains! the war-note's call invites;<br>And other lands must yet be won,<br>And other deeds of havoc done.<br>Warriors! your flowery bondage break,<br>Sons of the stormy north, awake!<br>The barks are launching from the steep<br>Soon shall the Isle of Ceres weep, <br>And Afric's burning winds afar<br>Waft the shrill sounds of Alaric's war.<br>Where shall his race of victory close?<br>When shall the ravaged earth repose?<br>But hark! what wildly mingling cries<br>From Scythia's camp tumultuous rise?<br>Why swells dread Alaric's name on air?<br>A sterner conqueror hath been there!<br>A conqueror - yet his paths are peace,<br>He comes to bring the world's release;<br>He of the sword that knows no sheath,<br>The avenger, the deliverer - Death!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is then that daring spirit fled?<br>Doth Alaric slumber with the dead?<br>Tamed are the warrior's pride and strength,<br>And he and earth are calm at length.<br>The land where heaven unclouded shines,<br>Where sleep the sunbeams on the vines;<br>The land by conquest made his own,<br>Can yield him now - a grave alone.<br>But his - her lord from Alp to sea - <br>No common sepulchre shall be!<br>Oh, make his tomb where mortal eye<br>Its buried wealth may ne'er descry!<br>Where mortal foot may never tread<br>Above a victor-monarch's bed.<br>Let not his royal dust be hid<br>'Neath star-aspiring pyramid;<br>Nor bid the gathered mound arise,<br>To bear his memory to the skies.<br>Years roll away - oblivion claims<br>Her triumph o'er heroic names;<br>And hands profane disturb the clay<br>That once was fired with glory's ray;<br>And Avarice, from their secret gloom,<br>Drags e'en the treasures of the tomb.<br>But thou, O leader of the free!<br>That general doom awaits not thee:<br>Thou, where no step may e'er intrude,<br>Shalt rest in regal solitude,<br>Till, bursting on thy sleep profound,<br>The Awakener's final trumpet sound.<br>Turn ye the waters from their course,<br>Bid Nature yield to human force,<br>And hollow in the torrent's bed<br>A chamber for the mighty dead.<br>The work is done - the captive's hand<br>Hath well obeyed his lord's command.<br>Within that royal tomb are cast<br>The richest trophies of the past, <br>The wealth of many a stately dome,<br>The gold and gems of plundered Rome;<br>And when the midnight stars are beaming,<br>And ocean waves in stillness gleaming,<br>Stern in their grief, his warriors bear<br>The Chastener of the Nations there;<br>To rest, at length, from victory's toil, <br>Alone, with all an empire's spoil!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the freed current's rushing wave<br>Rolls o'er the secret of the grave; <br>Then streams the martyred captives' blood<br>To crimson that sepulchral flood,<br>Whose conscious tide alone shall keep<br>The mystery in its bosom deep.<br>Time hath passed on since then - and swept <br>From earth the urns where heroes slept.<br>Temples of gods and domes of kings,<br>Are mouldering with forgotten things;<br>Yet shall not ages e'er molest<br>The viewless home of Alaric's rest:<br>Still rolls, like them, the unfailing river, <br>The guardian of his dust for ever.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Felicia+Dorothea+Hemans">Felicia Dorothea Hemans</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=391508" data-title="Alaric In Italy de Felicia Dorothea Hemans" data-description="Heard ye the Gothic trumpet's blast?
The march of hosts as Alaric passed?
His steps have tracked that glorious clime,
The birth-place of heroic time;
But he, in northern deserts bred,
Spared not the living for the dad,
Nor heard the voice, whose p..."></div>
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