I TURN from ruins of imperial power, Tombs of corrupt delight, old walls the pride Of statesmen pleased for respite brief to hide Their laurelled foreheads in the Muses' bower, And seek Cornelia's home. At sunset's hour How oft her eyes, that wept no more, descried Yon purpling hills! How oft she heard that tide Fretting as now low cave or hollow tower! The mother of the Gracchi! Scipio's child! 'Twas virtue such as hers that built her Rome! Never towards it she gazed! Far off her home She made, like her great father self-exiled. Woe to the nations when the souls they bare, Their best and bravest, choose their rest elsewhere! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARNOLD [VON] WINKELRIED by JAMES MONTGOMERY TO A LADY: SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME by MATTHEW PRIOR AIR: 'CAPTAIN JINKS' by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS MARY QUAYLE; THE CURATE'S STORY by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN THE JOURNEY OF LIFE by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |