But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects; such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 10) Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. XVI. When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, Starts from its belt-he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains. XVII. Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood-she to me Rising like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, 12) Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 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 From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: There are some feelings Time can not benumb, Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. xx. But from their nature will the tannen grow 15) The howling tempest, till its height and frame 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, 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. All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Return to whence they came-with like intent, 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 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 tone of music - summer's eve- or springA 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 anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost too many! yet how few! xxv. But my soul wanders; I demand it back Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, The beautiful, the brave-the lords of earth and sea, XXVI. The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. XXVII. The Moon is up, and yet it is not night- 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 With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still 14) 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 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, And now they change; a paler shadow strews 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 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 15) With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 16) A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII. 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, 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, Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 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 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live, |