LIV. In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 1 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is -here repose Though there were nothing save the past, and this, Here Machiavelli's earth return'd to whence it rose. 3 LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation : — Italy! [rents Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin :- thy decay Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. I wrote thus to a friend :-" I know nothing of painting. Depend upon it, of all the arts, it is the most artificial and unnatural, and that by which the nonsense of mankind is most imposed upon. never yet saw the picture or the statue which came a league within my conception or expectation; but I have seen many mountains, and seas, and rivers, and views, and two or three women, who went as far beyond it."- Byron Letters.] 1, 2, 3 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. XV. XVI. XVII.— "The church of Santa Croce contains much illustrious nothing. The tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, Galileo, and Alfieri, make it the Westminster Abbey of Italy. I did not admire any of these tombs beyond their contents. That of Alfieri is heavy; and all of them seem to me overloaded. What is necessary but a bust and name? and perhaps a date? the last for the unchronological, of whom I am one. But all your allegory and eulogy is infernal, and worse than the long wigs of English numskulls upon Roman bodies, in the statuary of the reigns of Charles the Second, William, and Anne."- Byron Letters, 1817.] LVI. But where repose the all Etruscan three Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 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, 1 -not thine His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled own. LVIII. - Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd4 His dust, and lies it not her Great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No; - even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom! 1, 2, 3, 4 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," Nos. XVIII. XIX. XX. and XXI. IX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; LX. weeps. What is her pyramid of precious stones? 1 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies; There be more marvels yet-but not for mine; For I have been accustom'd to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Than Art in galleries: though a work divine Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 1 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. XXII. LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er LXIII. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV. The Earth to them was as a rolling bark From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. 1 See Appendix, "Historical Notes," No. XXIII.-[An earth LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en — A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. 1 LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 2 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughtersA mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! quake which shook all Italy occurred during the battle, and was unfelt by any of the combatants.] ["The lovely peaceful mirror reflected the mountains of Monte Pulciana, and the wild fowl skimming its ample surface, touched the waters with their rapid wings, leaving circles and trains of light to glitter in gray repose. As we moved along, one set of interesting features yielded to another, and every change excited new delight. Yet, was it not among these tranquil scenes that Hannibal and Flaminius met? Was not the blush of blood upon the silver lake of Thrasimene ?"-H. W. WILLIAMS.] 2 No book of travels has omitted to expatiate on the temple of the Clitumnus, between Foligno and Spoleto; and no site, or scenery, even in Italy, is more worthy a description. For an account of the dilapidation of this temple, the reader is referred to "Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold," p. 35. |
