Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave !
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear
In every breeze some name to glory dear;
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain
Still throng as pilgrims to the holy fane,
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell
Where fought their fathers, and prevail'd, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame, From thee one song of echoing triumph claim. Land of the lyre! 'twas there th' avenging sword Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored; Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.

Yes, fair creations! to perfection wrought, Embodied visions of ascending thought! Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced In tints that vindicate adoring taste! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb.

Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasyNe'er was it yours to bid the soul expand With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand, As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone; Where midst the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, Een Desolation tells a haughty tale, And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends, But its proud name with song eternal blends!

Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From cach wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell;

Where heroes slumber on their battle plains,
Midst prostrate altars and deserted fanes,
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot;
There was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast;
And, as the wind's deep thrills and mystic sighs
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.

Fair Florence! queen of Arno's lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled, in retribution's hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourn'd o'er the domes they rear'd in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,

Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Reveal'd where Conquest's lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued,
Lonely they frown'd, a desert solitude.
Florence! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!

As one who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heighten'd by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe,
While heaven's own hues in radiance round thee
glow,

With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more prized, more precious, since
deplored

As loved lost relics, ne'er to be restored---
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o'er the dead.

Athens of Italy once more are thine Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine. For thee bright Genius darts his living beam, Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majestySo chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand.

Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance-Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break

Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose,
And snatch'd the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound
With power electric through the realms around;
O high in thought, magnificent in soul !
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th' enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined;
Still with ascendant power the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind! Love's radiant goddess, idol of mankind! Once the bright object of Devotion's vow, Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now. Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal'd to him alone, Made brighter beings, nobler worlds, his own; Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless, Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye

On forms instinct with bright divinity,
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart,
Embrace the full magnificence of Art;
From scenes by Raphael's gifted hand array'd,
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portray'd;
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime,
Seal'd with perfection, "sanctified by time;"
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel
His spirit burn with emulative zeal :
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise,
Imbued at once with nobler energies;
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinions soar,
And worlds of visionary grace explore,
Till his bold hand give glory's daydream birth,
And with new wonders charm admiring earth.

Venice exult! and o'er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze! What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey;

Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race,
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace;
Yet still shall Art her splendours round thee cast,
And gild the wreck of years for ever past.
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes,
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies,
And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume.
From thy rich dome again th' unrivall'd steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.

Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy's thought
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem-but form'd to bear
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of
air;

To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet,
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet;
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray,
The flame that wakes creations into day.
Creatures of fire and ether! wing'd with light,
To track the regions of the Infinite !
From purer elements whose life was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn
What years, on years in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone

Her own bright deity's resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestow'd
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo's voice-the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save
A few bright traces of the wise and brave;
How many a state, whose pillar'd strength sublime
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone,
Fortress of power-has flourish'd and is gone!
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne,
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn,
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun,
Consummate still in every grace remain,
As o'er their heads had ages roll'd in vain!
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight
O'er countless monuments of earthly might!
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain,
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign.
'Midst the blue deep, who rear'd her island throne,
And called th' infinitude of waves her own;

Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!

And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl'd Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day.

Lo! where thy sons, O Rome ! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again!

Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august

O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul,
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control;
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance,
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance,
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes,
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise.

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light!

Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o'er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die!

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay !

Oh what can realms in fame's full zenith boast
To match the relics of thy splendour lost!
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill,
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still;
For there has Art survived an empire's doom,
And rear'd her throne o'er Latium's trophied
tomb:

She from the dust recalls the brave and free,
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!

Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak ! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm!

Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame?

Lord of the daystar! how may words portray

Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray?

Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could

trace,

Of regal dignity and heavenly grace;
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright,
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight
Each bold idea, borrow'd from the sky,
To vest th' embodied form of Deity;
All, all in thee, ennobled and refined,
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined!
Son of Elysium! years and ages gone
Have bow'd in speechless homage at thy throne,
And days unborn, and nations yet to be,
Shall gaze, absorb'd in ecstasy, on thee!

And thou, triumphant wreck,' e'en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time: Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought! Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign'd; Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair?

1 The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists.

Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurl'd, Yet claiming still the homage of the world.

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced

The work of wonder, idolised by taste?
Oh! worthy still of some divine abode,
Mould of a Conqueror ! ruin of a God !1
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream,
"Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd, to dispense
From every part some ray of excellence!
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high,
Thine is no trace of frail mortality!
Within that frame a purer being glows,
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows;
Fill'd with immortal life each muscle swells,
In every line supernal grandeur dwells,

Consummate work! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past: 2 Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero's image to the world bequeathed; Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers-who never shall return!

And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a throe, Scal'd with the image of eternal woe: With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stern combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind.

1 "Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d'une manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chefd'œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mystères de l'art, se la représentent dans toute sa beauté. L'Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé un corps idéal audessus de la nature * ** Cet Hercule paroît donc ici tel qu'il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de l'humanité, il obtint l'immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux. Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles."-- WINCKELMANN, Histoire de l'Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 248.

"Le Torso d' Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que l'art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l'histoire ne fait mention d'aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain."— WINCKELMANN, ibid. tom. ii. p. 250.

Oh, mighty conflict though his pains intense
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense;
Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes
Implore the aid avenging fate denies;
Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife,
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life,
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd
Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold;
Yet the strong spirit lives-and not a cry
Shall own the might of Nature's agony !
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals,
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals,
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath,
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death! 3

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour.

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays : Landscapes, by colouring dress'd in richer dyes, More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven.

Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless'd your favour'd sight,

Severely grand, unutterably bright!

"It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued."-ALISON's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400.

"Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l'image d'un homme qui tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l'esprit. Tandis que l'excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s'élève avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également contrainte par le silence que la force de l'âme impose à la douleur qu'elle voudroit étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard."-WINCKELMANN, Histoire de l'Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 214.

Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye

Could meet the noontide of eternity,

Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale,

And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd,

On all that Fancy trembles to behold.

shed

As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled :
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare,
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair;
These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd,
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade,
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower,
And breathe and move, the records of your power.
Inspired of heaven! what heighten'd pomp ye cast
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome-
Round many a work that bids the world believe
What Grecian Art could image and achieve,
Again, creative minds, your visions throw
Life's chasten'd warmth and Beauty's mellowest
glow.

And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes

Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume with purple smile
The Parian altar and the pillar'd aisle,
Then, as the full or soften'd radiance falls
On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls,
Well may those temples, where your hand has shed
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance there,
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown,
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!

Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy's erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. To her 'twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent! O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,1 Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep;

1 Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea.

gale.

There dwelt her spirit-there her hand portray'd,
Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb'd in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest.
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul return'd to animate the dead;
Whom the waves own'd--and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;

To Him she gave her meditative hours,
Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers.
O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw,
As all around the Godhead's presence knew,
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien
In beaming mercy, majesty serene.

Oh! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head;2 Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude,

And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light!

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art,
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart!
To bid the soul exultingly possess,

Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness;
And, strong in hope, anticipate the day,
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray;
To realise, in some unclouded sphere,
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here!
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky,
Faint effluence of "the Dayspring from on high!

[This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:-"Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again. . . I shall take Felicia Hemans's Restoration, &c., with me-it is a good poem-very."]

2 The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave.