ABSTRACT
These sculptors spoke their word And then they died; and Rome-imperial RomeThe mistress of the world-debauched by blood And foul with harlotries-fell prone at length Among the trophies of her crimes and slept. Down toppling one by one her helpless gods Fell to die earth, and hid their shattered forms Within the dust that bore them, and among The ruined shrines and crumbling masonry Of their old temples. Still this wondrous group, From its long home upon the Esquiline, Beheld the centuries of change, and stood, Impersonating in its conscious stone The unavailing struggle to crowd back The closing folds of doom. It paused to hear A strange New Name proclaimed among the streets, And catch the dying shrieks of martyred men, And see the light of hope and heroism Kindling in many eyes; and then it fell; And in the ashes of an empire swathed Its aching sense, and hid its tortured forms.
