The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 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. THE SAME. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanza 18.) I LOVED her from my boyhood — she to me Rising like water-columns from the sea, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. AN AUGUST EVENING IN ITALY. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 27–29.) THE moon is up, and yet it is not night - a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest an island of the blest! A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, 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 "The last still loveliest, till — 't is gone and all is gray. THE AVE MARIA. (DON JUAN, Canto iii. Stanzas 102-109.) AVE Maria! blessed be the hour! The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer! Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh, that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 't is but a pictured image? — strike — That painting is no idol — 't is too like. Sweet hour of twilight! - in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover, - shadow'd my mind's eye. Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart When Nero perish'd by the justest doom Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, ARQUA. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 30-32.) THERE is a tomb in 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. 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 A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. |