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But yet reject them not as such;
For í have cherished them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping

nigh, And know'st them gathered by the

And offered from my heart to thine !

And such she was; - her daughten

had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the ex

haustless East Pour'd in her lap. all gems in spark;

ling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her

feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their

dignity increased.

The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might

Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,
Could thy dear eyes in following mine
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

In Venice Tasso's echoes are

more, And silent rows the songless gondo

lier: Her palaces are crumbling to the

shore, And music meets not always now the


Those days are gone - but Beauty still

is here. States fall, arts fade - but Nature

doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was

dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of

Italy !

VENICE. [Childe Harold, Canto iv.] I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of

Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her struc

tures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's

wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings

expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times when many a sub

ject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble

piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on

her hundred isles !

But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long

array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms

despond Above the dogeless city's vanish'd

sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the

And Pierre, cannot be swept or wom

away The keystones of the arch! though

all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary


She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from

ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic mo

tion, A ruler of the waters and their

powers :

The beings of the mind are not of

clay; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray

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And more beloved existence: that Filled with the face of heaven, which, which Fate

from afar, Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Comes down upon the waters; all Of mortal bondage, by these spirits its hues, supplied,

From the rich sunset to the rising First exiles, then replaces what we star, bate;

Their magical variety diffuse : Watering the heart whose early And now they change; a paler flowers have died,

shadow strews And with a fresher growth replenishing Its mantle o'er the mountains; partthe void.

ing day Dies like the dolphin, whom each

pang imbues

With a new color as it gasps away A MOONLIGHT NIGHT AT

The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone VENICE.

and all is gray. (Childe Harold, Canto iv.] THE moon is up, and yet it is not

night Sunset divides the sky with her - a


(Childe Harold, Canto iv.] Of glory streams along the Alpine height

On Rome! my country! city of the Of blue Friuli's mountain; Heaven

soul! is free

The orphans of the heart must turn From clouds, but of all colors seems

to thee, to be,

Lone mother of dead empires! and Melted to one vast Iris of the West, –

control Where the Day joins the past Eter- In their shut breasts their petty misery. nity

What are our woes and sufferance? While, on the other hand, meek

Come and see
Dian's crest

The cypress, hear the owl, and plod Floats through the azure air

your way and of the blest!

O'er steps of broken thrones and

temples, Ye! A single star is at her side, and reigns Whose agonies are evils of a day With her o'er half the lovely heaven; A world is at our feet as fragile as our but still

clay. Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains

The Niobe of nations ! there she Rolled o'er the peak of the fair Rhae

stands, tian hill,

Childless and crownless, in her voice. As Day and Night contending were, until

An empty urn within her withered Nature reclaimed her order; -gently hands, Aows

Whose holy dust was scattered long The deep-dyed Brenta, where their ago; hues instil

The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes The odorous purple of a new-born

now; rose,

The very sepulchres lie tenantless Which streams upon her stream, and Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou glassed within it glows.


-an isl

less woe;

Old Tiber! through a marble wilder

ness? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle

her distress.

Her resurrection; all beside - decay.

Alas for Earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore

when Rome was free!


The Goth, the Christian, Time, War,

Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled

city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs

ride, Where the car climbed the Capitol;

far and wide Temple and tower went down, nor

left a site : Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the

void, O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar

light, And say, “ here was, or is,” where all is

doubly night?


(Childe Harold, Canto iv.] Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered And Freedom find no champion and

no child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and un

defled? Or must such minds be nourished in

the wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, ’midst

the roar Of cataracts, where nursing Nature

smiled On infant Washington? Hath Earth

no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe

no such shore? But France got drunk with blood to

vomit crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's cause, in every age and

clime; Because the deadly days which we

have seen, And vile Ambition, that built up be

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Alas! the lofty city! and alas !
The trebly hundred triumphs! and

the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge

surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing

fame away! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's

lay, And Livy's pictured page ! - but

these shall be

Man and his hopes an adamantine

wall, And the base pageant last upon the

scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal

thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's

worst -- his second fall. Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn,

but flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against

the wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken

now and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves


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