LVII. Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, (30) His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled-not thine own. LVIII. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd (33) 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! LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Cæsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile;-Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones? (34) 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 LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 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. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 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. LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave (36) The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god 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 shore a temple still, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails [tales. Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling LXVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! LXIX. The roar of waters!-from the headlong height The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 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, Crushing 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 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes With many windings, through the vale:-Look back! As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract, (37) |