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the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me,
“ Non movero mai corda
What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, “ Verily they will have their reward,” and at no very distant period.
Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state; and repeat once more how truly I am
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; (1)
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
(2) Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, 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, (3)
The pleasant place of all festivity,
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.