At what? can he avouch-or answer what he Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst-his claim'd? second fall. CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shameThe friend of Petrarch-hope of ItalyRienzi! last of Romans! While the tree 55 Of freedom's withered trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it beThe forum's champion, and the people's chiefHer new-born Numa thou-with reign, alas! too brief CXV. Egeira! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal-resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert, a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled CXX. Alas! our young affections run to waste, Oh Love? no habitant of earth thou art- CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and And overpowers the page where it would bloom ivy creep CXVII. Fantastically tangled; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its skies. CXVIII. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy Love-the earliest oracle! CXIX. And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, Expel the venom and not blunt the dartThe dull satiety which all destroys Though accident, blind contact, and the strong And root from out the soul the deadly weed which Whose touch turns Hope to dust,-the dust we all Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne Good, and reserved my pride against the hate Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, This iron in my soul in vain-shall they not mourn? In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. |