II.

And was this Rome――this shrunken, shivering form, This beggared greatness sitting abject down; Her throne a broken shaft’s acanthus crown Whose crumbling beauty still outlived the storm? Where were her legions? eagles? where her pride? The conqueror’s laurel binding once her head?―― She, the world’s mistress, begging so her bread At her own gates, her empire’s wreck beside! Withered and old, craven in form and face, Yet keeping still some gift from out the past In the broad mantle o’er her shoulders cast, Where lingered yet her ancient, haughty grace―― Conscious each fold of that far-sounding name, Imperial still in spite of loss and shame.