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...BONNYBELL: THE GRAY SPHEX by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SHELL TO THE PEARL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN by WASHINGTON ALLSTON TEARS by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE A HOUSE by JOHN COLLINGS SQUIRE THE TENTH MUSE: THE FOUR AGES OF MAN by ANNE BRADSTREET FOUR EPISTLES: MIRACLE AT THE FEAST OF PENTECOST: 2 by JOHN BYROM |