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THE TEMPLE OF VESTA. 



THE dark pine waves on Tiber's classic steep, 

 From rock to rock the headlong waters leap, 

 Tossing their foam on high, till leaf and flower 

 Glitter like emeralds in the sparkling shower 

 Lovely, but lovelier from the charms that glow 

 Where Latium spreads her purple vales below ; 

 The olive, smiling on the sunny hill, 

 The golden orchard, and the ductile rill, 

 The spring, clear bubbling in its rocky font, 

 The moss-grown cave, the Naiads' fabled haunt ; 

 And far as eye can strain, yon shadowy dome, 

 The glory of the earth eternal Rome. 



This, this was Vesta's seat sublime, alone 

 The mountain crag uprear'd her virgin throne, 

 In all the majesty of goddess might, 

 Fann'd by pure gales, and bathed in cloudless light. 

 Her's was the dash of Anio's sacred tide, 

 The flame from Heav'n's ethereal fount supplied, 

 And the young forms that trod the marble shrine, 

 For earth too fair, for mortal too divine. 



And lo, where still ten circling columns rise, 

 High o'er the arching spray's prismatic dyes, 

 Touch'd but not marr'd as Time had paused to spare 

 The wreaths that bloom in lingering beauty there. 

 E'en where each prostrate wreck might seem to mourn 

 Her rifted shaft, her loved Acanthus torn, 

 Nature's wild flowers in silent sorrow wave 

 Their votive sweets o'er Art's neglected grave. 



But ye, who sleep the calm and dreamless sleep, 

 Where joy forgets to smile, and woe to weep, 

 For you, blest maids, a long and last repose 

 Has stilPd each pulse that throbs, each vein that glows. 

 For oft, too oft, the white and spotless vest 

 Conceal'd a bleeding heart, an aching breast, 

 Hope, that with cold despair held feeble strife, 

 And Love, that parted but with parting life. 

 Still would the cheek with human passion burn, 

 Still would the heart to fond remembrance turn, 

 Vow all itself to Heav'n, but vow in vain, 

 Sigh for its thoughts, yet sigh to think again. 



And thou, immortal bard ! whose sweetest lays 

 Were hymn'd in rapture to thy Tiber's praise, 

 What tho' no more the listening vales prolong 

 The playful echoes of thy Sabine song, 

 Weep not her olive grove's deserted shade, 

 Her princely halls, in silent ruin laid, 

 Her altars, mouldering on a nameless hill 

 There all is beauty, all is glory still. 

 Flowers yet more bright than Roman maiden wreathed, 

 Pray'rs yet more pure than virgin priestess breathed, 

 A fane more noble than the vestal trod 

 The Christan's temple, to the Christian's God, 



