Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, A populous solitude of bees and birds, Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, Fearless and full of life: the gush of springs, He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore, For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, He stands not still, but or decays, or grows Into a boundless blessing, which may vie With the immortal lights, in its eternity. 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the Rhone Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a thronę. ITALY. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 42-47.) ITALIA! oh Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty, which became Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe 1 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,1 1 Servius Sulpicius. See Middleton's Cicero, vol. ii. p. 371. Came Megara before me, and behind And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined Along the prow, and saw all these unite In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. That page is now before me, and on mine Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, Of then destruction is; and now, alas ! Rome Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 1 VENICE. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 1-4.) I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was ;-her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away— The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er For us repeopled were the solitary shore. THE SAME. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 11-13.) THE spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. |