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CV. And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, Built me a little bark of hope, once more To battle with the ocean and the shocks Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar Which rushes on the solitary shore Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: But could I gather from the wave-worn store Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer? There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here,
GV. Then let the winds howl on! their harmony Shall henceforth be my music, and the night The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, As I now hear them, in the fading light Dim o'er the bird of darkness native site, Answering each other on the Palatine, With their large eyes,all glistening gray and bright,
And sailing pinions. Upon such a shrine What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number
Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown
wallsBehold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 51)
CVIII. There is the moral of all human tales; 52) 'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory — when that fails. Wealth, vice, corruption, - barbarism at last. And history, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page, - 'tis better written here, Where gorgeous Tyranny had thus amass'd
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask
Away with words! draw near,
Till the sun's rays with added flame were fillid!
to build ?
Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb
With household blood and wine, serenely wore His sovereign virtues – still we Trajan's name adore. 54)
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow,
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood:
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes.
CXIV. Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, Redeemer of dark centuries of shame The friend of Petrarch — hope of ItalyRienzi! last of Romans! While the tree 55) Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, Even for thy tomb a garland let it be —
The forum’s champion, and the people's chiefHer new. born Numa thou - with reign, alas! too brief.
Cxv. Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 56) Which found no mortal resting - place so fair As thine ideal breast; whate'er thou art Or wert, -- a young Aurora of the air, The nympholepsy of some fond despair; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.
CXVI. The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water drops; the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's work's; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and
Fantastically tangled; the green ills
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by
Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell
The dull satiety which all destroys — And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?
O’er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants
CXXI. Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art An unseen seraph, we believe in thee. A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be; The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, Even with its own desiring phantasy,
And to a thought such shape and image given, As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch’d-weariedwrung - and riven.
CXXII. Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, And fevers into false creation :- where, Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Where are the charms and virtues which we dare Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, The unreach'd Paradise of our despair,
Which o'er - informs the pencil and the pen, And overpowers the page where it would bloom again?
CXXIII. Who loves,raves—'tis youth's frenzy—but the cure Is bitterer still; as charm, by charm unwinds Which robed our idols, and we see too sure Nor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's Ideal shape of such; yet still it binds The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, Reaping the whirlwind from the oft - sown winds;
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, Seems ever near the prize. wealthiest when most undone.
CXXIV. We wither from our youth, we gasp awaySick-sick; unfound the boon—unslaked the thirst, Though to the last, in verge of our decay, Some phantom lures, such as we sought at firstBut all too late, - so are we doubly curst. Love, fame, ambition, avarice —'tis the same, Each idle - and all ill - and none the worst
For all are meteors with a different name, And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the