XI.

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord:
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd,
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,
Neglected garment of her widowhood!
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power,

Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,
Her voice their only ransom from afar :
See! as they chaunt the tragic hymn, the car
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins
Fall from his hands-his idle scimitar
Starts from its belt-he rends his captive's
chains,

strains.

XVII.

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,-most of all, Albion to thee: the ocean queen should not Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery Abandon ocean's children; in the fall

wall.

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,
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event
Ends: some, with hope replenish'd and re-
buoy'd,

Return to whence they came-with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent

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 grief 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

A tone of music,-summer's eve-or spring, A flower-the wind-the ocean-which shall wound,

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are quickly bound;

XXIV.

And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves
behind,

Which out of things familiar, undesign'd,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,
The cold-the changed-perchance the dead-

anew

The mourn'd, the loved, the lost-too many! yet how few!

XXV.

But my soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which was the mightiest in its old command, And is the loveliest, and must ever be 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!

And even since, and now, fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all art yields, and nature can decree;

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility: Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be de faced.

XXVII.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night Sunset divides the sky with her a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the west, Where the day joins the past eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Diana'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 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian 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,

Comes down upon the waters: all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 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 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

XXXI.

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride

An honest pride-and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.

grow