Selected Poems (96 page)

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

150

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

155

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, Shakspeare’s art,
¹

Had stam’d her imae in me and even so

160

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,

165

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:

170

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
¹

Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter’d rocks,

Rooted in barrenness, where nought below

175

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,

180

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,

185

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

190

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,

195

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

200

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 –

205

A tone of music – summers 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,

210

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,

215

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

220

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,

225

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;

230

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

235

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

240

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!
¹

XXVIII

A single star is at her side, and reigns

245

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 Rhaetian hill,

As Day and Night contending were, until

Nature reclaim’d her order: – gently flows

250

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,

255

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

260

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

265

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

270

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,

275

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.

XXXII

280

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,

285

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,

290

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