Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Part 19

Appearedst thou not to Paris in this guise?

Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, In all thy perfect G.o.ddess-s.h.i.+p, when lies Before thee thy own vanquished Lord of War?

And gazing in thy face as toward a star, Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips are With lava kisses melting while they burn, Showered on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn!

LII.

Glowing, and circ.u.mfused in speechless love, Their full divinity inadequate That feeling to express, or to improve, The G.o.ds become as mortals, and man's fate Has moments like their brightest! but the weight Of earth recoils upon us;--let it go!

We can recall such visions, and create From what has been, or might be, things which grow, Into thy statue's form, and look like G.o.ds below.

LIII.

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, The artist and his ape, to teach and tell How well his connoisseurs.h.i.+p understands The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: Let these describe the undescribable: I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.

LIV.

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is E'en in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particle of those sublimities Which have relapsed to chaos:--here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, The starry Galileo, with his woes; Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose.

LV.

These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation:--Italy!

Time, which hath wronged thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, And hath denied, to every other sky, Spirits which soar from ruin:--thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity, Which gilds it with revivifying ray; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day.

LVI.

But where repose the all Etruscan three-- Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he Of the Hundred Tales of love--where did they lay Their bones, distinguished 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, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding sh.o.r.e; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages; and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled--not thine own.

LVIII.

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed His dust,--and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who formed 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 hyaena bigots' wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a pa.s.sing sigh, because it told for WHOM?

LIX.

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best son remind her more: Happier Ravenna! on thy h.o.a.ry sh.o.r.e, Fortress of falling empire! honoured sleeps The immortal exile;--Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps.

LX.

What is her pyramid of precious stones?

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 accustomed 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

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 sh.o.r.e, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er,

LXIII.

Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reeled unheededly away!

None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.

LXIV.

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark Which bore them to Eternity; they saw The Ocean round, but had no time to mark The motions of their vessel: Nature's law, In them suspended, recked not of the awe Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.

LXV.

Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en-- A little rill of scanty stream and bed-- A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.

LXVI.

But thou, c.l.i.tumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy gra.s.sy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest G.o.d of gentle waters!

And most serene of aspect, and most clear: Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters!

LXVII.

And on thy happy sh.o.r.e a temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy gla.s.sy deeps; While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.

LXVIII.

Pa.s.s not unblest the genius of the place!

If through the air a zephyr more serene Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace Along his margin a more eloquent green, If on the heart the freshness of the scene Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust Of weary life a moment lave it clean With Nature's baptism,--'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.

LXIX.

The roar of waters!--from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flas.h.i.+ng ma.s.s foams shaking the abyss; The h.e.l.l of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture; while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

LXX.

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald. How profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crus.h.i.+ng the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent

LXXI.

To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gus.h.i.+ngly, With many windings through the vale:--Look back!

Lo! where it comes like an eternity, As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,--a matchless cataract,

LXXII.

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: Resembling, mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.

LXXIII.