The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of
the fallen condition of modern Rome:
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now:
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Childe Harold, IV. 79.
This affecting story has been made the subject of a celebrated
statue in the imperial gallery of Florence. It is the principal
figure of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the
pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother clasped by the arm
of her terrified child is one of the most admired of the ancient
statues. It ranks with the Laocoon and the Apollo among the
masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek
epigram supposed to relate to this statue:
"To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."
Tragic as is the story of Niobe, we cannot forbear to smile at the
use Moore has made of it in "Rhymes on the Road":
"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long;
Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.
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