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XXXVI. There is a tomb in Arqua,-rear'd in air,

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose

Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell! The bones of Laura's lover; here repair

And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, Many familiar with his well-sung woes,

And where Alfouso bade his poet dwell: The pilgrims of his genius. He arose

The miserable despot could not quell To raise a language, and his land reclaim The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes:

With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 15 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. Scatter'd the clouds away-and on that name attend


XXXVII. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 16 The tears and praises of all time; while thine The mountain-village where his latter days Would rot in its oblivion-in the sink Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line An honest pride-and let it be their praise, Is shaken into nothing; but the link To offer to the passing stranger's gaze

Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scornAnd venerably simple, such as raise

Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink A feeling more accordant with his strain,

From thee! if in another station born,
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane. Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to


And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Thou! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die,
Is one of that complexion which seems made Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou
For those who their mortality have felt,

Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty: And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd He with a glory round his furrow'd brow, In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which emanated then, and dazzles now, Which shows a distant prospeet far away

In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, Of busy cities, now in vain display'd,

And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 18 [lyre, For they can lure no further; and the ray No strain which shamed his country's creaking Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,- That whetstone of the teeth-monotony in wire! XXXIII.

XXXIX. Developing the mountains, leaves and lowers,

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his And shining in the brawling brook, where-by,

In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours

Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, but to miss. With a calm languor, which, though to the eye

Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! dlesse it seem, hath its morality.

Each year brings forth its millions; but how long Af from society we learn to live,

The tide of generations shall roll on, "Tis solitude should teach us how to die;

And not the whole combined and countiess throng It liath no flatterers; vanity can give o hollow aid; alone-man with his God must strive: Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form

Compose a mind like thine, though all in one

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 17
Thestrength of better thoughts, and seek their prey

Great as thou art, yet paralell’d by those,
In melancholy bosoms, such as were

Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, Of moody texture from their earliest day,

The bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,

The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Then not unequal to the Florentine, Which is not of the pangs that pass away;

The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth Making the snn like blood, the earth a tomb,

A new creation with his magic line, The tomb a hell and hell itself a murkier gloom.

And, like the Ariosto of the North,

Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly XXXV.


XLI. l'errara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude,

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 19 There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood Nor was the ominous element unjust, Of Este, which for many an age made good For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 40 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood

And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; Of petty power impell’d, of those who wore Yet still if fondly Superstition grieves, The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn Know, that the lighning sanctifies below 2 beforo

Whate'er it strikes ;-yon head is doubly sacred now

a sun.


XLVIII. Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 22

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, The fatal gift of beauty, which became

Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A funeral dower of present woes and prst, A softer feeling for her fairy halls. On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shame, Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps And annals graved in characters of flame.

Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps Oh God! that thou wert in thy nakedness

To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps,

'Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press Was modern Luxury of Commerce born. To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn


XLIX. Then might'st thou more appal; or, less desired, There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored

The air around with beauty; we inhale For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd Part of its immortality; the veil Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po

We stand, and in that form and face behold Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's sword What mind can make, when Nature's self would Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,

And to the fond idolaters of old

[fail : Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foe. Envy the innate flesh which such a soul could mould:


L. Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 23 We gaze and turn away, and know not where, The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal mind, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim

Reels with its fulness; there-for erer there The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, Came Megara before me, and behind

We stand as captives, and would not depart. Ægina lay, Piræus on the right,

Away!-there need no words, nor terms preciso, And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined

The paltry jargon of the marble mart, Along the prow, and saw all these unite

Where Pedantry gulls Folly--we have eyes : In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; Blood-pulsemand breast, confirm the Dardan Shep

herd's prize.

For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd Appear'dst thou not in Paris in this guise ?
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site,

Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or,
Which only make more mourn'd and more endear'a In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War?
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd might. And gazing in thy face as toward a star,
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,
These sepulchres of cities, which excite

Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! 26 while thy lips are Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page

With lava kisses melting while they burn, The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from

an urn! XLVI.

LII. That page is now before me, and on mine

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, His country's ruin added to the mass

Their full divinity inadequate
Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, That feeling to express, or to improve,
And I in desolation: all that was

The gods become as mortals, and man's fate Of Then destruction is; and now, alas !

Has moments like their brightest; but the weight Rome-Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, Of earth recoils upon us :-let it go! In the same dust and blackness, and we pass We can recall such visions, and create, [grow The skeleton of her Titanic form, 24

From what has been, or might be, things which Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below.


LIII. Yet, Italy! through every other land

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; The artist and his ape, to teach and tell Mother of arts! as once of arms; thy hand How well his connoisseurship understands Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell; Parent of our Religion! whom the wide

Let these describe the undescribable: [stream Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! I would not their vile breath should crisp the Europe, repentant of her parricide,

Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. | That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam

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In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 27

What is her pyramid of precious stones : 34
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Of phorphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues
Even in itself an immortality.

Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews
The particle of those sublimities

Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse
Which have relapsed to chaos :-here repose Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead,
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 28

Whose names are the mausoleums of the muse,
The starry Galileo, with his woes ;

Are gently prest with far more reverent tread
Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose.29 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely


These are four minds, which, like the elements,

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes
Might furnish forth creation :-Italy ! [rents

In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand

Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; Of thine imperial garment, shall deny,

There be more marvels yet-but not for mind;
And hath denied, to every other sky,

For I have been accustom'd to entwine
Spirits which soar from ruin :—thy decay

My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields,
Is still impregnate with divinity,

Than Art in galleries: though a work arme
Which gilds it with revivifying ray;

Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day,

Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields


Is of another temper, and I roam
But where repose the all Etruscan three-

By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they,

Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home,
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he

For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles
Of the Hundred Tales of love.where did they lay

Come back before me, as his skitt beguiles
Their bones, distinguish'd from our common clay

The host between the mountains and the shore.
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust,

Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And have their country's marbles nought to say?

And torrents, swoln to rivers with their gore, Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust?

Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd Did they not to her breast their filial carth intrust?



Like to a forest fell’d by mountain winds;
Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 30

And such the storm of battle on this day,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 31

And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war,

To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore

An earthquake reel'd unheedingly away!
Their children's children would in vain adore

None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
With the remorse of ages; and the crown

And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore,

Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet;
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,

Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled not thine



The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 33 Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
His dust,-and lies it now her Great among, The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
With many a sweet and solemn reqniem breathed The motions of their vessel; Nature's law,
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe [birds
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the
The poetry of speech? No;-even his tomb Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw
Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot's wrong, From their down-toppling ncsts; and bellowing
No more amidst the meaner dead find room,

Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! Stumbling o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath

no words.

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust,

Far other scene is Thrasimene now;
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
The Cæsar's pagcant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore,

Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en -
Fortress of falling empire ! honor'd sleeps A little rill of scanty stream and bed-
The immortal exile ;-Arqua, too, her store A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain.

Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling watert







But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Horribly beautiful! but on the verge,
Of the most living crystal that was e'er

From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 33
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters !

By the distracted waters, bears serene And most serene of aspect, and most clear; Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn;

Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters- Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daugh- Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. ters! LXVII.

LXXIII. And on thy happy shore a temple still,

Once more upon the woody Apennine, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,

The infant Alps, which-had I not before Upon a mild declivity of hill,

Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps

Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps The thundering lauwine-might be worshipp'd The finny darter with the glittering scales,

more: Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear

While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails Her never trodden snow, and seen the hoar Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub Glaciers of bleak Mount-Blanc both far and near, bling tales.

And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, LXVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!

LXXIV. If through the air a zephyr more serene

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace

And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Along his margin a more eloquent green,

Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, If on the heart the freshness of the scene

For still they soar'd unutterably high; Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Of weary life a moment lave it clean

Athos, Olympus, Ætna, Atlas, made With Nature's baptism, --'tis to him ye must These hills seem things of lesser dignity, Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.

All, save the lone Soracte's heights display'd

Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid

The roar of waters ! from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;

For our remembrance, and from out the plain The fall of waters ! rapid as the ligné

Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, May he, who will, nis recollections rake
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat And quote in classic raptures, and awake
Of their great agony, wrung out from this The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake,
That girds the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word

In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record

LXXVI. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'a With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,

My sickening memory; and, though Time hath Is an eternal April to the ground,

My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, (taught Making it all one emerald :-how profound Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought The gulf! and how the giant element

By the impatience of my early thought, From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, That, with the freshness wearing cut before

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent My mind could relish what it might have sought, With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful If free to choose, I cannot now restore vent

Its health ; but what it then detested, stil abhor. LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows

LXXVII. More like the fountain of an infant sea

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse of a new world, than only thus to be

To understand, not feel thy lyric flow,
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, [back! To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
With many windings, through the vale :-Look Although no deeper moralist rehearse
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,

Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art,
As if to sweep down all things in its track, Nor livelier Satirist the conscience/pierce,
Charming the eye with dread.-a matchless cita Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart,

Yet fare thee well-upon Soracte's ridge we part.




Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!

The dictatorial wreath,-couldst thou divine
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, To what would one day dwindle that which made
Lone mother of dead empires! And control Thee more than mortal? and that so supine
In their shut breasts their petty misery.

By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid?
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see She who was named Eternal, and array'd
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way Her warriors but to conquer-she who veil'd
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,
Whose agonies are evils of a day-

Until the o'ercanopied horizon failid,
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. Her rushing wings-Oh! she who was Almighty


The Niobe of nations! there she stands

Sylla was first of victors; but our own
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo,

The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell; he
An empty urn, within her wither'd hands,

Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago;

Down to a block-immortal rebel! See
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now;

What crimes it costs to be a moment free
The very sepulchres lie tenantless

And famous through all ages! but beneath
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow,

His fate the moral lurks of destiny;
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

His day of double victory and death
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his


The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and The third of the same moon whose former course

Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;

Deposed him gently from his throne of force, She saw her glories star by star expire,

And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 44 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,

And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway
Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide

And all we deem delightful, and consume
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site :-

Our souls to compass through each arduous way,
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,

Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ?
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,

Were they but so in man's, how different were his
And say, “here was, or is,” where all is doubly



And thou, dread statue! yet exist in 45
The double night of ages, and of her,

The austerest form of naked majesty,
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap Thou who beheld'st 'mid the assassins' din,
All round us; we but feel our way to err:

At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie,
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map, Folding his robe in dying dignity,
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; An offering to thine altar from the queen
But Riome is as the desert, where we steer

Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die,
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap

And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been
Our hands, and cry “Eureka!" it is clear- Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene?
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.


And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome!
Alas! the lofty city! and alas !

She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart
The trebly hundred triumphs ! 42 and the day The milk of conquest yet within the dome
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass Where, as a monument of antique art,
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! Thou standest :-Mother of the mighty heart,
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,

Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat,
And Livy's pictuted page !-but these shall be

Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's etherial dart, Her resurrection; all beside-decay.

And thy limbs black with lightning-dost thou yet Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see

Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was



Thou dost;-but all thy foster babes are dead-
Oh, thou, whose chariot rollid on Fortune's wheel,13 The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd
Triumphant Sylla! Timu, who didst subdue Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel In imitation of the things they fear'd, [steerd
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due And fought and conquer'd, and the same course
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew At apish distance; but as yet none have,
O'er prostrate Asia ;-thou, who with thy frown Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd,
Annihilated senates-Roman, too,

Save one vain man, who is not in the grave,
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down But, vanquish'd by himself, to his own slaves a
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown-


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