Writ in the wrinkled story of her face,
Where weariness and sad old age had place,
For earthly days no cheer, no light above!
All earthly greatness to this measure shrunk?
With burning heart I gazed. Was this the thought
The sculptor in the answering clay had wrought—
Cæsar’s proud impress in the beggar sunk
For men to mock at in her weak old age?
Was this a living Rome, or one, long dead,
That waked to life a modern Cæsar’s tread,