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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 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 a 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 idolaters of old
Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould:

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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 need 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 bless'd 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!

LIL

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 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 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.

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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 imperial 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 to-day.

LVI.

But where repose the all Etruscan three-
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than 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 for evermore
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.

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