TO AN OLD COIN OF JULIUS CÆSAR.

I.

Though faded are thy beauties, dark and dim,

By influence of Time, corroding slow,

Still thou dost bear an image clear of him
Who shook the world two thousand years ago!
The blasted glories of the CÆSAR's brow,
The laurels which are wither'd now and gone,

In living grandeur here before me glow,

As 'twere but yesterday the prize he'd won

From TULLY's words of fire-from STRABO's warlike son!

II.

Where are the centuries since then have sped

Into the darkness of the past-away?

Where are the twice ten thousand victories ?-fled,

Or but remember'd in the Minstrel's lay;

Gone like the summer clouds of yesterday!

Ah! could not manhood's might and thoughts of flame
Preserve the heroes from the dull decay

Which mingles deeds of worth with deeds of shame,

And yield them what they earn'd-the warrior's deathless name?

III.

Ah! no-the Hero's memory shall depart,

The Patriot's worth, and many a Minstrel's song,
Whilst thou, base Coin! art still what then thou wert,
When CESAR's car and his triumphal throng,
Flash'd the broad streets of regal Rome along!
While many a pennon bright and streamer gay
Floated the pillar'd palaces among,

And fair Italia's sun shot down his ray,

And noble Romans cheer'd the Conqueror on his way.

IV.

Since from the Roman artist's cunning mould The CESAR's features were on thee impress'd, With laurel'd forehead, stern and high and cold, Say, where has been thy hidden place of rest? Thou hast not always borne that haughty crest, Where first was coin'd thy dark unfashion'd ore? Thou hast not seen the mistress of the west Fall-nor the rough Prætorians shed the gore Which dyed the Tiber's stream from palac'd shore to shore.

V.

Was it upon old Albion's well-fought plain,
By some fierce Roman soldier in the haste
Of coming conflict-by the deep blue main,
Like a bride's girdle, all around her plac'd,
That thou wert lost? Or in the savage waste,
That spreads o'er Scandinavia's rugged rock?
Or dropp'd thou from some warrior's belt unlac'd
Upon the plains of pleasant Languedoc,

Amid the rushing charge, or sanguinary shock?

VI.

Haply with rites religious thou wert plac'd
'Neath the foundation stone of some proud shrine,

(Whose very memory Time hath now effac'd!)
By TRAJAN's hand, or pious ANTONINE,
Or others of that brief but glorious line.
Ah! since ev'n Virtue cannot aye remain,

Virtue! which o'er all human things doth shine

Pre-eminent, and pure without a stain,

How worthless are our cares, how fleeting, false and vain!

VII.

Is there, old Coin! that, gazing upon thee,
Remembering thy creation—and the things—
The hope the dark despair-the gloom-the glee-
The unrecorded Warriors, Poets, Kings,

Who since have pass'd on Time's impetuous wings!

Is there e'en one would struggle for a name,

Or strive to reach the soul's deep-hidden springs?

Ah, no!" methinks I hear him sad exclaim,

"How brief the world's applause! how vain the thirst of fame!"

VIII.

Uninjur'd image of the mighty dead!
Enduring record of the solemn past!

I thank thee, that my feelings thou hast led
Out from their fountain; that thou gently hast

A cloud of thought around my spirit cast

Would that such solemn thought its power could hold,

Still deepening in its influence till the last,

Upon a heart not cast in vulgar mould,

But penn'd by passions strong, in Evil's ample fold.

ST. MARY'S LAKE.

St. Mary's Lake! St. Mary's Lake!
Thy vision'd form comes o'er me,
As calm, as peaceful, and as pure,
As when I stood before thee.
I see thee as I saw thee first,
That holy Summer ev'n,

When thy fair face reflected back
The cloudless smile of Heaven!

Grey Borehope,* gazing on thee stood,
His shadows o'er thee placing,

As if it were an aged sire,

His daughter fair embracing!

And all his mountain kindred rear'd
Their foreheads, high and hoary,
Wearing, amid that Summer sky,
A venerable glory.

* A fine "old poetic mountain," which overhangs St. Mary's Lake.

The water fowl upon thee slept,

The murmur of the fountain,
Came, mingled with the curlew's song
Adown the heathy mountain:
And round the ruin'd chapel walls,
There breath'd a whisper holy,
That seem'd to consecrate the scene
To thoughtful melancholy!

Ah! might I have in thee remain'd,
My harmless fancies wreathing;
Or still could feel upon my heart,
Thy heavenly influence breathing.
How many bright and virtuous deeds,
By hope so fondly cherish'd,

Had realiz'd my dreams in thee,

Which in those dreams have perish'd!

It was the Sabbath of the soul,
And in that mountain temple
The heart gush'd o'er with holy love,
But was not taught to tremble!
For there was felt the kindred mind
To all created given-

The pure, undying soul diffus'd

Through all the works of Heaven.