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Text: Edgar Allan Poe, "The Coliseum" (F), The Poets and Poetry of America, April 18, 1842, p. 387-388

[page 387, continued, unnumbered, column 1:]


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 kneel, an alter'd and an humble man,
Within thy shadows — and so drink, within
My very soul, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.

Vastness, and age, and memories of eld!
Silence, and desolation, and dim night!
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, charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!  [column 2:]
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the CÆSAR sate,
On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder!
Here, where on ivory couch the monarch loll'd,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But hold! — these dark, these perishing arcades,
These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd shafts,
These vague entablatures, this broken frieze,
These shatter'd cornices, this wreck, this ruin,
These stones — alas! these gray stones, are they all,
All of the proud 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, to the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule,  [page 388:]
With a despotic sway, all giant minds.
We are not impotent, 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 us in a robe of more than glory."



[S:1 - PPA-1st, 1842] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Poems - The Coliseum (F)