But from their nature will the tannen grow (10) Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered 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, grey, 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 In bare and desolated bosoms : mute The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolfdies 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
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 kinds, 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 desart, 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 can not 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!
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still (11). 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,
glows, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it
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.
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 rose 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 (12) With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; (13) The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their prideAn 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 strain Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.
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,
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 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 Idlesse it seem, bath its morality.
If from society we learn to live,
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone-man with his God must strive: XXXIV.
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair(14)
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 predestin'd 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, and 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.
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 plung'd 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 mad'st to moura.
Thou! form'd to eat, and be despis'd, and die, Even as the beast 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 (15) No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyre, That whetstone of the teeth-monotony in wire!
Peace to Torquato's injur'd shade! 'twas his In life and death to be the mark where Wrong Aim'd with her poison'd arrows; but to miss. Oh, 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 combin'd and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? though all in one Condens'd their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun.
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