XXVI, The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste . More rich than other climes' fertility! Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which can not be defaced. XXVII. The Moon is up, and yet it is not night a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Floats through the azure air- an island of the blest! XXVIII. A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still ♦ Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order: gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows, XXIX. Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray, XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua; -rear'd in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his lady's name 15 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 16 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt XXXIII. Developing the mountains; leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. If from society we learn to live, "Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone -man with his God must strive: XXXIV. Or it may be, with demons, who impair 17 Of moody texture from their earliest day, XXXV. Ferrara in thy wide and grass-grown streets, Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before. |