LXXIX.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;[nm] empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago; The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;[457] The very sepulchres lie tenantless[458] Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.[459]