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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, 24 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, repentant of her parricide, Shall yed 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 redụndant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern Luxury of Commerce horn, And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn.
XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fillo 25 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 idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould:
We gaze and turn away, and know not where,
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! 26 while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from
. LI. Glowing, and circumfused in specchless 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 recal 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 gracefull 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 beanı.
LIV. In Sancta Croce's holy precincts lie In 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 Whih have relaps’d to chaos: — here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 28
The starry Galileo, with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth, return'd to whence it rose. 29