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George Gordon Byron - Childe Harold`s Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.
Work rating: Medium

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I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter`s wand: 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O`er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look`d to the winged Lion`s marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, thron`d on her hundred isles! 

II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers: 
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour`d in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she rob`d, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem`d their dignity increas`d. 

III.
In Venice Tasso`s echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone -- but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade -- but Nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV. 
But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city`s vanish`d sway; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -- 
The keystones of the arch! though all were o`er, 
For us repeopl`d were the solitary shore. 

V. 
The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more belov`d existence: that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

VI. 
Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, maybe, that which grows beneath mine eye: 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O`er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII. 
I saw or dream`d of such -- but let them go; 
They came like truth -- and disappear`d like dreams; 
And whatsoe`er they were -- are now but so: 
I could replace them if I would; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found; 
Let these too go -- for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening fantasies unsound, 
And other voices speak, and other sights surround. 

VIII. 
I`ve taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with -- ay, or without mankind; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be -- 
Not without cause; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX.
Perhaps I lov`d it well: and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it -- if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember`d in my line 
With my land`s language: if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

X.
My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honour`d by the nations -- let it be -- 
And light the laurels on a loftier head! 
And be the Spartan`s epitaph on me -- 
"Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap`d are of the tree 
I planted: they have torn me, and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. 

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, 
Over he proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gaz`d and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequall`d dower. 

XII. 
The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns -- 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities, nations melt 
From power`s high pinnacle, when they have felt 
The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like Lauwine loosen`d from the mountain`s belt; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
Th` octogenarian chief, Byzantium`s conquering foe! 

XIII. 
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; 
But is not Doria`s menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled? -- Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm`d beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction`s depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 
In youth she was all glory, a new Tyre, 
Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
The `Planter of the Lion,` which through fire 
And blood she bore o`er subject earth and sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And Europe`s bulwark `gainst the Ottomite; 
Witness Troy`s rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto`s fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 
Statues of glass -- all shiver`d -- the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declin`d to dust; 
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 enthralls, 
Have flung a desolate cloud o`er Venice` lovely walls. 

XVI.
When Athens` armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter`d thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar: 
See! as they chant 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, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 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 
Abandon Ocean`s children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 

XVIII. 
I loved her from my boyhood; she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare`s art, 
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 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten`d down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; 
And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colours caught: 
There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 
Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 

XX. 
But from their nature will the Tannen grow 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter`d rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them `gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, 
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 
The 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 rebuoy`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 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 -- 
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 darkly 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 
Fall`n 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 defaced. 

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 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 
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 at 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 train 
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, 

XXXIII 
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 mortality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
`Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
It hath no flatters; vanity can give 
No hollow aid; alone -- man with his God must strive: 

XXXIV 
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture, from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 

XXXV 
Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as `twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, ad was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell`d, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante`s brow alone had worn before. 

XXXVI 
And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell! 
And see how dearly earn`d Torquato`s fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scatter`d the clouds away; and on that name attend 

XXXVII 
The tears and praises of all time; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion -- in the sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing -- but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn: 
Alfonso! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee! if in another station born, 
Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou madest to mourn: 

XXXVIII 
Thou! form`d to eat, and be despised, and die, 
Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty: 
He! with a glory round his furrow`d brow, 
Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
No strain which shamed his country`s creaking lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth -- monotony in wire! 

XXXIX 
Peace to Torquato`s injured shade! twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim`d with her poison`d arrows, but to miss. 
O, victor unsurpass`d in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like thine? though all in one 
Condensed their scatter`d rays, they would not form a sun. 

XL 
Great as thou art, yet parallel`d by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose 
The Tuscan father`s Comedy Divine; 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call`d forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 

XLI 
The lightning rent from Ariosto`s bust 
The iron crown of laurel`s mimick`d leaves; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust 
For the true laurel-wreath which Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate`er it strikes; -- yon head is doubly sacred now. 

XLII 
Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough`d by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
Oh, God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress; 

XLIII 
Then might`st thou more appal; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms; then, still untired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour`d 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation`d spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger`s sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish`d, thou the slave of friend or foe. 

XLIV 
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
The Roman friend of Rome`s least-mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
Ægina lay, Piræus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight; 

XLV 
For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear`d 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter`d site, 
Which only make more mourn`d and more endear`d 
The few last rays of their far-scatter`d light, 
And the crush`d relics of their vanish`d might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 

XLVI 
That page is now before me, and on mine 
His country`s ruin added to the mass 
Of perish`d states he mourn`d in their decline, 
And I in desolation: all that was 
Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
Rome -- Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 

XLVII 
Yet, Italy! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; 
Mother of Arts! as once of arms; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; 
Parent of our religion! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentent of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XLVIII 
But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem`d to new morn. 

XLIX 
There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
The air around with beauty; we inhale 
The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What Mind can make, when Nature`s self would fail; 
And to the fond idolators of old 
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: 

L 
We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
Reels with its fulness; there -- for ever there -- 
Chain`d to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away! -- there needs no words nor terms precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly -- we have eyes: 
Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan Shepherd`s prize. 

LI 
Appear`dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect Goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish`d Lord of War? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower`d on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn? 

LII 
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man`s fate 
Has moments like their brightest; but the weight 
Of earth recoils upon us; -- let it go! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
Into thy statue`s form, and look like gods below. 

LIII 
I leave to learned fingers and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: 
Let these describe the undescribable: 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIV 
In Santa Croce`s holy precincts lie 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Though there were nothing save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: here repose 
Angelo`s, Alfieri`s bones, and his, 
The starry Galileo, with his woes; 
Here Machiavelli`s earth return`d to whence it rose. 

LV 
These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation: -- Italy! 
Time, which hath wrong`d thee with ten thousand rents 
Of thine imperal garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin: thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is today. 

LVI 
But where repose the all Etruscan three -- 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less thatn they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love -- where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish`d from our common clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country`s marbles nought to say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust? 

LVII 
Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore: 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name forevermore 
Their children`s children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages; and the crown 
Which Petrarch`s laureate brow supremely wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled -- not thine own. 

LVIII 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath`d 
His dust, -- and lies it not her great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O`er him who form`d the Tuscan`s siren tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech? No; -- even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot`s wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom! 

LIX 
And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Cæsar`s pageant, shorn of Brutus` bust, 
Did but of Rome`s best Son remind her more: 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire! honour`d sleeps 
The immortal exile; -- Arqua, too her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish`d dead and weeps. 

LX 
What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. 

LXI 
There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno`s dome of Art`s most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; 
There be more marvels yet -- but not for mine; 
For I have been accustom`d to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries; though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit`s homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 

LXII 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene`s lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian`s warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains the the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents swoll`n to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter`d o`er, 

LXIII 
Like to a forest fell`d by mountain winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel`d unheededly away! 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! 

LXIV 
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw 
The Ocean round, but had not time to mark 
The motions of their vessel; Nature`s law, 
In them suspended, reck`d not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds 
Stumble o`er heaving plains, and man`s dread hath no words. 

LXV 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta`en -- 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed -- 
A name of blood from that day`s sanguine rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn`d the unwilling waters red. 

LXVI 
But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e`er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear; 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty`s youngest daughters! 

LXVII 
And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps 
Thy current`s calmness; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; 
While, chance, some scatter`d waterlily sails 
Down were the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. 

LXVIII 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, `tis his; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature`s baptism, -- `tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX 
The roar of waters! -- from the headlong height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; 
The fall of waters! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That guard the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX 
And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald: -- how profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yields in chasms a fearful vent 

LXXI 
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which glow gushingly, 
With many windings, through the vale: -- Look back! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, -- a matchless cataract, 

LXXII 
Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 
By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: 
Resembling, `mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII 
Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which -- had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
The thundering Lauwine -- might be worshipp`d more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIV 
Th` Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as `twere for fame, 
For still they soared unutterably high: 
I`ve look`d on Ida with a Trojan`s eye; 
Athos, Olympus, Ætna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
All, save the lone Soracte`s height, display`d 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman`s aid 

LXXV 
For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he, who will, his recollections rake, 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr`d 
Too much, to conquer for the poet`s sake, 
The drill`d dull lesson, forced down word by word 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXVI 
Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn`d 
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn`d, 
Yet such the fix`d inveteracy, wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That with the freshness wearing out before 
My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXVII 
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse: 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch`d heart, 
Yet fare thee well -- upon Soracte`s ridge we part. 

LXXVIII 
Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O`er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! 
Whose agonies are evils of day -- 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX 
The Niobe of nations! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; 
An empty urn within her wither`d hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter`d long ago; 
The Scipios` tomb contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 

LXXX 
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill`d city`s pride; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb`d the Capitol; far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O`er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, `here was, or is,` where all is doubly night? 

LXXXI 
The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night`s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
All round us: we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath his chart, and stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o`er recollections; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry `Eureka!` it is clear -- 
When but some false mirage or ruin rises near. 

LXXXII 
Alas! the lofty city! and alas! 
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger`s edge surpass 
The conqueror`s sword in bearing fame away! 
Alas, for Tully`s voice, and Virgil`s lay, 
And Livy`s pictured page! -- but these shall be 
Her resurrection; all beside -- decay. 
Alas for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free! 

LXXXIII 
O thou, whose chariot roll`d on Fortune`s wheel, 
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country`s foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O`er prostrate Asia; -- thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates -- Roman, too. 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown -- 

LXXXIV 
The dictatorial wreath -- couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid? 
She who was named Eternal, and array`d 
Her warriors but to conquer -- she who veil`d 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display`d, 
Until the o`er-canopied horizon fail`d, 
Her rushing wings -- Oh! she who was Almighty hail`d! 

LXXXV 
Sylla was first of victors; but our own, 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell! -- he 
Too swept off senates while he hew`d the throne 
Down to a block -- immortal rebel! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free, 
And famous through all ages! but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breath. 

LXXXVI 
The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown`d him, on the selfsame day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth`s preceding clay. 
And show`d not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man`s how different were his doom! 

LXXXVII 
And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheldest, `mid the assassins` din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Cæsar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey? have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene? 

LXXXVIII 
And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome! 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest: -- Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck`d from thy wild teat, 
Scorch`d by the Roman Jove`s ethereal dart, 
And thy limbs black with lightning -- dost thou yet 
Guard thine immoral cubs, nor thy fond charge forget? 

LXXXIX 
Thou dost; but all thy foster-babes are dead -- 
The men of iron: and the world hath rear`d 
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear`d, 
And fought and conquer`d, and the same course steer`d, 
At apish distance; but as yet none have, 
Nor could the same supremacy have near`d, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish`d by himself, to his own slaves a slave -- 

XC 
The fool of false dominion -- and a kind 
Of bastard Cæsar, following him of old 
With steps unequal; for the Roman`s mind 
Was modell`d in a less terrestrial mould, 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem`d 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem`d 
At Cleopatra`s feet, -- and now himself he beam`d, 

XCI 
And came -- and saw -- and conquer`d ! But the man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
Like a train`d falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory 
With a deaf heart, which never seem`d to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed; 
With but one weakest weakness -- vanity, 
Coquettish in ambition, still he aim`d -- 
At what? can he avouch, or answer what he claim`d? 
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