THERE is a tomb in Arqua;-reared in air, Pillared 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.
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 't is 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 formed his monumental fame.
And the soft 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 decayed
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed,
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, whereby, 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,
"T is solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
hollow aid; alone man with his God must strive.
WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE
PETRARCH! I would that there might be
In this thy household sanctuary
No visible monument of thee:
The fount that whilom played before thee, The roof that rose in shelter o'er thee,
The low fair hills that still adore thee,
I would no more; thy memory
Must loathe all cold reality,
Thought-worship only is for thee.
They say thy tomb lies there below;
What want I with the marble show?
I am content,-I will not go:
For though by poesy's high grace
Thou saw'st, in thy calm resting-place,
God, love, and nature face to face;
Yet now that thou art wholly free,
How can it give delight to see
That sign of thy captivity?
LORD HOUGHTON.
ANTENOR, from the midst of Grecian hosts
Escaped, was able, safe, to penetrate
The Illyrian bay, and see the interior realms
Of the Liburni; and to pass beyond
The source of the Timavus, issuing whence,
With a vast mountain murmur from nine springs,
A bursting flood goes forth, and on the fields
Crowds with resounding waters. Yet he here
Founded the walls of Padua, and built
The Trojan seats, and to the people gave
A name, and there affixed the arms of Troy.
Now, laid at rest, he sleeps in placid peace.
PADUA, thou within whose walls
Those mute guests at festivals,
Son and Mother, Death and Sin,
Played at dice for Ezzelin,
Till Death cried, "I win, I win!"
And Sin cursed to lose the wager,
But Death promised, to assuage her,
That he would petition for
Her to be made Vice-Emperor,
When the destined years were o'er,
Over all between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow,
Under the mighty Austrian.
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,
And since that time, ay, long before,
Both have ruled from shore to shore,
That incestuous pair, who follow
Tyrants as the sun the swallow,
As repentance follows crime,
And as changes follow time.
In thine halls the lamp of learning,
Padua, now no more is burning;
Like a meteor, whose wild way
Is lost over the grave of day,
It gleams betrayed and to betray:
Once remotest nations came
To adore that sacred flame,
When it lit not many a hearth
On this cold and gloomy earth;
Now new fires from antique light
Spring beneath the wide world's might,
|