Alaric at Rome

By Matthew Arnold

    Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep, for here     There is such matter for all feeling.     - Childe Harold.     I     Unwelcome shroud of the forgotten dead,     Oblivions dreary fountain, where art thou:     Why speedst thou not thy deathlike wave to shed     Oer humbled pride, and self-reproaching woe:     Or times stern hand, why blots it not away     The saddening tale that tells of sorrow and decay?     II     There are, whose glory passeth not away     Even in the grave their fragrance cannot fade:     Others there are as deathless full as they,     Who for themselves a monument have made     By their own cringesa lesson to all eyes     Of wonder to the foolof warning to the wise.     III     Yes, there are stories registered on high,     Yes, there are stains times fingers cannot blot,     Deeds that shall live when they who did them, die     Things that may cease, but never be forgot     Yet some there are, their very lives would give     To be remembered thus, and yet they cannot live.     IV     But thou, imperial City! that least stood     In greatness once, in sackcloth now and tears,     A mighty name, for evil or for good,     Even in the loneness of thy widowed years:     Thou that hast gazed, as the world hurried by,     Upon its headlong course with sad prophetic eye.     V     Is thine the laurel-crown that greatness wreathes     Round the wan temples of the hallowed dead     Is it the blighting taint dishonour breathes     In fires undying oer the guilty head,     Or the brief splendour of that meteor light     Chat for a moment gleams, and all again is night?     VI     Fain would we deem that thou hast risen so high     Thy dazzling light an eagles gaze should tire;     No meteor brightness to be seen and die,     No passing pageant, born but to expire,     But full and deathless as the deep dark hue     Of oceans sleeping face, or heavens unbroken blue.     VII     Yet stains there are to blot thy brightest page,     And wither half the laurels on thy tomb;     A glorious manhood, yet a dim old age,     And years of crime, and nothingness, and gloom:     And then that mightiest crash, that giant fall,     Ambitions boldest dream might sober and appal.     VIII     Thou wondrous chaos, where together dwell     Present and past, the living and the dead,     Thou shattered mass, whose glorious ruins tell     The vanisht might of that discrownd head:     Where all we see, or do, or hear, or say,     Seems strangely echoed back by tones of yesterday:     IX     Thou solemn grave, where every step we tread     Treads on the slumbering dust of other years;     The while there sleeps within thy precincts dread     What once had human passions, hopes, and fears;     And memorys gushing tide swells deep and full     And makes thy very ruin fresh and beautiful.     X     Alas, no common sepulchre art thou,     No habitation for the nameless dead,     Green turf above, and crumbling dust below,     Perchance some mute memorial at their head,     But one vast fane where all unconscious sleep     Earths old heroic forms in peaceful slumbers deep.     XI     Thy dead are kings, thy dust are palaces,     Relics of nations thy memorial-stones:     And the dim glories of departed days     Fold like a shroud around thy withered bones     And oer thy towers the winds half-uttered sigh     Whispers, in mournful tones, thy silent elegy.     XII     Yes, in such eloquent silence didst thou lie     When the Goth stooped upon his stricken prey,     And the deep hues of an Italian sky     Flasht on the rude barbarians wild array:     While full and ceaseless as the ocean roll,     Horde after horde streamed up thy frowning Capitol.     XIII     Twice, ere that day of shame, the embattled foe     Had gazed in wonder on that glorious sight;     Twice had the eternal city bowed her low     In sullen homage to the invaders might:     Twice had the pageant of that vast array     Swept, from thy walls, O Rome, on its triumphant way.     XIV     Twice, from without thy bulwarks, hath the din     Of Gothic clarion smote thy startled ear;     Anger, and strife, and sickness are within,     Famine and sorrow are no strangers here:     Twice hath the cloud hung oer thee, twice been stayed     Even in the act to burst, twice threatened, twice delayed.     XV     Yet once again, stern Chief, yet once again,     Pour forth the foaming vials of thy wrath:     There lies thy goal, to miss or to attain,     Gird thee, and on upon thy fateful path.     The world hath bowed to Rome, oh! cold were he     Who would not burst his bonds, and in his turn be free.     XVI     Therefore arise and arm thee! lo, the world     Looks on in fear! and when the seal is set,     The doom pronounced, the battle-flag unfurled,     Scourge of the nations, wouldst thou linger yet?     Arise and arm thee! spread thy banners forth,     Pour from a thousand hills thy warriors of the north!     XVII     Hast thou not marked on a wild autumn day     When the wind slumbereth in a sudden lull,     What deathlike stillness oer the landscape lay,     How calmly sad, how sadly beautiful;     How each bright tint of tree, and flower, and heath     Were mingling with the sere and withered hues of death?     XVIII     And thus, beneath the clear, calm vault of heaven     In mournful loveliness that city lay,     And thus, amid the glorious hues of even     That city told of languor and decay:     Till what at mornings hour lookt warm and bright     Was cold and sad beneath that breathless, voiceless night.     XIX     Soon was that stillness broken: like the cry     Of the hoarse onset of the surging wave,     Or louder rush of whirlwinds sweeping by     Was the wild shout those Gothic myriads gave,     As towered on high, above their moonlit road,     Scenes where a Caesar triumpht, or a Scipio trod.     XX     Think ye it strikes too slow, the sword of fate,     Think ye the avenger loiters on his way,     That your own hands must open wide the gate,     And your own voice(s) guide him to his prey;     Alas, it needs not; is it hard to know     Fates threatnings are not vain, the spoiler comes not slow?     XXI     And were there none, to stand and weep alone,     And as the pageant swept before their eyes     To hear a dins and long forgotten tone     Tell of old times, and holiest memories,     Till fanciful regret and dreamy woe     Peopled nights voiceless shades with forms of long Ago?     XXII     Oh yes! if fancy feels, beyond to-day,     Thoughts of the past and of the future time,     How should that mightiest city pass away     And not bethink her of her glorious prime,     Whilst every chord that thrills at thoughts of home     Jarrd with the bursting shout, they come, the Goth, they come!     XVIII     The trumpet swells yet louder: they are here!     Yea, on your fathers bones the avengers tread,     Not this the time to weep upon the bier     That holds the ashes of your hero-dead,     If wreaths may twine for you, or laurels wave,     They shall not deck your life, but sanctify your grave.     XXIV     Alas! no wreaths are here. Despair may teach     Cowards to conquer and the weak to die;     Nor tongue of man, nor fear, nor shame can preach     So stern a lesson as necessity,     Yet here it speaks not. Yea, though all around     Unhallowed feet are trampling on this haunted ground,     XXV     Though every holiest feeling, every tie     That binds the heart of man with mightiest power,     All natural love, all human sympathy     Be crusht, and outraged in this bitter hour,     Here is no echo to the sound of home,     No shame that suns should rise to light a conquerd Rome.     XXVI     That troublous night is over: on the brow     Of thy stern hill, thou mighty Capitol,     One form stands gazing: silently below     The morning mists from tower and temple roll,     And lo! the eternal city, as they rise,     Bursts, in majestic beauty, on her conquerors eyes.     XXVII     Yes, there he stood, upon that silent hill,     And there beneath his feet his conquest lay:     Unlike that ocean-city, gazing still     Smilingly forth upon her sunny bay,     But oer her vanisht might and humbled pride     Mourning, as widowed Venice oer her Adrian tide.     XXVIII     Breathe there not spirits on the peopled air?     Float there not voices on the murmuring wind?     Oh! sound there not some strains of sadness there,     To touch with sorrow even a victors mind,     And wrest one tear from joy! Oh! who shall pen     The thoughts that toucht thy breast, thou lonely conqueror, then?     XXIX     Perchance his wandering heart was far away,     Lost in dim memories of his early home,     And his young dreams of conquest; how to-day     Beheld him master of Imperial Rome,     Crowning his wildest hopes: perchance his eyes     As they looked sternly on, beheld new victories,     XXX     New dreams of wide dominion, mightier, higher,     Come floating up from the abyss of years;     Perchance that solemn sight might quench the fire     Even of that ardent spirit; hopes and fears     Might well be mingling at that murmured sigh,     Whispering from all around, All earthly things must die.     XXXI     Perchance that wondrous city was to him     But as one voiceless blank; a place of graves,     And recollections indistinct and dim.     Whose sons were conquerors once, and now were slaves:     It may be in that desolate sight his eye     Saw but another step to climb to victory!     XXXII     Alas! that fiery spirit little knew     The change of life, the nothingness of power,     How both were hastening, as they flowered and grew,     Nearer and nearer to their closing hour:     How every birth of times miraculous womb     Swept off the withered leaves that hide the naked tomb.     XXXIII     One little year; that restless soul shall rest,     That frame of vigour shall be crumbling clay,     And tranquilly, above that troubled breast,     The sunny waters hold their joyous way:     And gently shall the murmuring ripples flow,     Nor wake the weary soul that slumbers on below.     XXXIV     Alas! far other thoughts might well be ours     And dash our holiest raptures while we gaze:     Energies wasted, unimproved hours,     The saddening visions of departed days     And while they rise here might we stand alone,     And mingle with thy ruins somewhat of our own.     XXXV     Beautiful city! If departed things     Ever again put earthly likeness on,     Here should a thousand forms on fancys wings     Float up to tell of ages that are gone:     Yea, though hand touch thee not, nor eye should see,     Still should the spirit hold communion, Rome, with thee!     XXXVI     O! it is bitter, that each fairest dream     Should fleet before us but to melt away;     That wildest visions still should loveliest seem     And soonest fade in the broad glare of day:     That while we feel the world is dull and low,     Gazing on thee, we wake to find it is not so.     XXXVII     A little while, alas! a little while,     And the same world has tongue, and ear, and eye,     The careless glance, the cold unmeaning smile,     The thoughtless word, the lack of sympathy!     Who would not turn him from the barren sea     And rest his weary eyes on the green land and thee!     XXXVIII     So pass we on. But oh! to harp aright     The vanisht glories of thine early day,     There needs a minstrel of diviner might,     A holier incense than this feeble lay;     To chant thy requiem with more passionate breath,     And twine with bolder hand thy last memorial wreath

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Poem Details

Language: English
Keywords: Public Domain
Source: Public Domain Collection
Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Analysis & Notes:
This extensive poem is imbued heavily with themes of mortality, time, glory, and decay, using the metaphor of a fallen city to explore these ideas. The poet employs a melancholic, reflective tone to give the reader a sense of nostalgia and regret, creating a poignant lament for the city's loss of grandeur. The city is a symbol of human life and societal achievements, once resplendent with glory but now succumbing to the inevitable decay of time. This serves as a stark reminder of the transient nature of life and the fleetingness of human accomplishments.

The poem's structure, divided into stanzas or sections, reflects the various stages of the city’s life and downfall, mirroring the passage of human life from youth to old age. The poet's use of contrast is a notable literary device throughout the poem. The glory and grandeur of the city in its prime is juxtaposed against its current state of desolation and ruin, highlighting the inevitability of decline. The poet also employs vivid imagery and descriptive language, painting a picture of the city's former radiance and its present sorrowful state, making the reader feel the full weight of its loss. Metaphors of death are frequently used to reinforce the city's decay and our own mortality. The poem, while mournful, concludes with a call to remember the city’s past, a sentiment that extends to the importance of remembering our own histories and the lessons they teach. The analysis shows the poem's exploration of life's impermanence, the inevitability of decay, and the importance of memory and history.

Understanding Elegy

An elegy is a form of poetry that expresses sorrow or lamentation, often for someone who has died. This type of poetry serves as a tribute to the deceased, reflecting on their life and the grief left behind.


Elegies are deeply emotional and personal, exploring themes of loss, mourning, and remembrance. Here are some defining characteristics:

  • Mournful Tone: Elegies are characterized by a tone of sadness and reflection, as the poet grapples with the pain of loss.
  • Tribute to the Deceased: The subject of an elegy is often someone who has passed away, with the poem serving as a memorial that honors their life and legacy.
  • Personal Reflection: Elegies often include personal reflections on the impact of the deceased on the poet's life, as well as broader musings on mortality and the human condition.
  • Structure and Form: While elegies can vary in form, they often follow a traditional structure that includes an expression of grief, praise for the deceased, and a sense of consolation or acceptance.

From ancient times to the present, elegies have provided a way for poets to navigate the complexities of grief and loss, offering solace and a means of preserving the memory of those who have passed.