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Type of the antique Rome — rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length at length after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie)
I stand, an altered and an humble man
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom and glory!
She comes not, and the spirit of the place
Oppresses me!
Vastness and Age and Memories of Eld
Silence and Desolation and dim Night
Gaunt vestibules, and phantom-peopled aisles
I feel ye now — I feel ye in your strength!
O spells more sure than e’er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane
O spells more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
She comes not and the moon is high in Heaven!
Here where a hero fell, a column falls
Here where the mimic eagle glared in gold
A secret vigil holds the swarthy bat
Here where the dames of Rome their yellow hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle:
Here where on ivory couch the Cæsar sate
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder:
Here where on golden throne the monarch lolled
Glides spectre-like unto his marble home
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon
The swift and silent lizard of the stones.
These crumbling walls — these tottering arcades
These mouldering plinths — these sad and blackened shafts
These vague entablatures: this broken frieze
These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones, alas! these grey stones are they all
All of the great and the colossal left
By the corrosive hours to Fate and me?
Not all the echoes answer me — not all:
Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever
From us and from all ruin unto the wise,
As from the granite Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men: we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not desolate we pallid stones,
Not all our power is gone — not all our Fame
Not all the magic of our high renown
Not all the wonder that encircles us
Not all the mysteries that in us lie
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment
Clothing its in a robe of more than glory.
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Notes:
This version of the poem was incorporated into his play “Politian,” written in 1835. Using the sequence assigned by T. O. Mabbott, it appears near the beginning of scene XI.
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[S:0 - MS, 1835] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - [The Coliseum] (Text-03)