Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, | |
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot | |
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot | |
150 | Is shameful to the nations, – most of all, |
Albion! to thee: the Ocean queen should not | |
Abandon Ocean’s children; in the fall | |
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. | |
XVIII | |
I loved her from my boyhood – she to me | |
155 | Was as a fairy city of the heart, |
Rising like water-columns from the sea, | |
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; | |
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare’s art, | |
Had stam’d her imae in me and even so | |
160 | Although I found her thus, we did not part, |
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, | |
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. | |
XIX | |
I can repeople with the past – and of | |
The present there is still for eye and thought, | |
165 | And meditation chasten’d down, enough; |
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; | |
And of the happiest moments which were wrought | |
Within the web of my existence, some | |
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: | |
170 | There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, |
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. | |
XX | |
But from their nature will the tannen grow | |
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter’d rocks, | |
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below | |
175 | Of soil supports them ’gainst the Alpine shocks |
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks | |
The howling tempest, till its height and frame | |
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks | |
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, | |
180 | And grew a giant tree; – the mind may grow the same. |
XXI | |
Existence may be borne, and the deep root | |
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode | |
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute | |
The camel labours with the heaviest load, | |
185 | And the wolf dies in silence, – not bestow’d |
In vain should such example be; if they, | |
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, | |
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay | |
May temper it to bear, – it is but for a day. | |
XXII | |
190 | All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy’d, |
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, | |
Ends: – Some, with hope replenish’d and rebuoy’d, | |
Return to whence they came – with like intent, | |
And weave their web again; some, bow’d and bent, | |
195 | Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, |
And perish with the reed on which they leant; | |
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, | |
According as their souls were form’d to sink or climb: | |
XXIII | |
But ever and anon of griefs subdued | |
200 | There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting, |
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; | |
And slight withal may be the things which bring | |
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling | |
Aside for ever: it may be a sound – | |
205 | A tone of music – summers eve – or spring – |
A flower – the wind – the ocean – which shall wound, | |
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound; | |
XXIV | |
And how and why we know not, nor can trace | |
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, | |
210 | But feel the shock renew’d, nor can efface |
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, | |
Which out of things familiar, undesign’d, | |
When least we deem of such calls up to view | |
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, | |
215 | The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew, |
The mourn’d, the loved, the lost – too many! – yet how few! | |
Xxv | |
But my soul wanders; I demand it back | |
To meditate amongst decay, and stand | |
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track | |
220 | Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land |
Which | |
And | |
The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand, | |
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, | |
225 | The beautiful, the brave – the lords of earth and sea, |
XXVI | |
The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! | |
And even since, and now fair Italy! | |
Thou art the garden of the world, the home | |
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; | |
230 | Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? |
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste | |
More rich than other climes’ fertility; | |
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced | |
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. | |
XXVII | |
235 | The moon is up, and yet it is not night – |
Sunset divides the sky with her – a sea | |
Of glory streams along the Alpine height | |
Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free | |
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be | |
240 | Melted to one vast Iris of the West, |
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; | |
While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest | |
Floats through the azure air – an island of the blest! | |
XXVIII | |
A single star is at her side, and reigns | |
245 | With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still |
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains | |
Roll’d o’er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, | |
As Day and Night contending were, until | |
Nature reclaim’d her order: – gently flows | |
250 | The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil |
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, | |
Which streams upon her stream, and glass’d within it glows, | |
XXIX | |
Fill’d with the face of heaven, which, from afar, | |
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, | |
255 | From the rich sunset to the rising star, |
Their magical variety diffuse: | |
And now they change; a paler shadow strews | |
Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day | |
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues | |
260 | With a new colour as it gasps away, |
The last still loveliest, till - ’tis gone - and all is gray. | |
XXX | |
There is a tomb in Arqua; – rear’d in air, | |
Pillar’d in their sarcophagus, repose | |
The bones of Laura’s lover: here repair | |
265 | Many familiar with his well-sung woes, |
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose | |
To raise a language, and his land reclaim | |
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: | |
Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name | |
270 | With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. |
XXXI | |
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; | |
The mountain-village where his latter days | |
Went down the vale of years; and ’tis their pride – | |
An honest pride – and let it be their praise, | |
275 | To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze |
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain | |
And venerably simple, such as raise | |
A feeling more accordant with his strain | |
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane. | |
XXXII | |
280 | And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt |
Is one of that complexion which seems made | |
For those who their mortality have felt, | |
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay’d | |
In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade, | |
285 | Which shows a distant prospect far away |
Of busy cities, now in vain display’d, | |
For they can lure no further; and the ray | |
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. | |
XXXIII | |
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, | |
290 | And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, |
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours | |
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye |