Oh Rome my country! city of the soul ! Yet Italy! Mother of Arts, as once of arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide Europe, repentant of her parricide. Shall yet redeem thee, and all backwards Roll the barbarian tide and (sue) to be forgiven Idem. History, at least in state of ideal perfection, is a compound of poetry and philosophy.-It impresses general truths on the mind by a vivid representation of particular characters and incidents. MACAULAY, Essays. г |