The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy.

Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared.
And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior-
might,

"BUT the joy of discovery was short, and the triumph of taste transitory. The French, who in every invasion have been the scourge of Italy, and have rivalled or rather surpassed the rapacity of the Goths and Vandals, laid their sacrilegious hands on the unparalleled collection of the Vatican, tore its masterpieces from their pedestals, and drag- Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight; ging them from their temples of marble, transport- Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, ed them to Paris, and consigned them to the dull Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured. sullen halls, or rather stables, of the Louvre."-Sing of that leader, whose ascendant mind EUSTACE'S Classical Tour through Italy, vol. ii. Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind, p. 60. Whose banners tracked the vanquished Eagle's

LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains;
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birth-place and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory's faded smile
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanished power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!

Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!

flight

O'er many a plain, and dark Sierra's height;
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day;
Who,through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine huntsman, chased the fear-struck foe,
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And 'mid those scenes renewed th' achievements
high,

Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry.

Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the conflict past,

One strife remained-the mightiest and the last!

Lost, lovely realm! once more 't is thine to gaze Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour,

On the rich relics of sublimer days.

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades;

Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom,
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave,
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave,
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high,
Those magic strains of love and chivalry;
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel-grove;

Untamed Ambition summoned all his power;
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood.
Sunbeam of Battle, then thy spirit shone,
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with life alone
Oh hearts devoted! whose illustrious doon,
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb,
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified,

Shrined, not entombed, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valor's race was run,
A prouder sepulchre-the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name,
Shall live a watch-word blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown,

That ask no urn to blazon their renown.
There shall the bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead;
Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave;
Pause o'er each warrior's grass-grown bed, and hear,
In every breeze, some name to glory dear,
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain,
Shall throng, as pilgrims to some holy fane,
While as they trace each spot, whose records tell
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair,
To learn the hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame,
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.
Land of the lyre! 'twas there th' avenging sword
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored;
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy wo,
And bid the stranger for awhile forget
How deep thy fall, and deem thec glorious yet.
Yes! fair creations, to perfection wrought,
Embodied visions of ascending thought!
Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced,
In tints that vindicate adoring taste;
Wnose bright originals, to earth unknown,
Live in the spheres encircling Glory's throne;
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned,
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind;
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore
One beam of splendour to your native shure,
And her sad scenes of lost renown illume,
As the bright sunset gilds some hero's toml

Where every marble deeds of fame records,
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords;
And the deep tones of inspiration swell,
From each wild olive-wood and Alpine dell;
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains,
'Mid prostrate altars, and deserted fanes,
And Fancy conmuncs, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot;
There was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast;
And as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs,
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.

Fair Florence! Queen of Arno's lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,
Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Revealed where conquest's lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter life imbued,
Lonely they frowned, a desert solitude.

Florence! th' Oppressors noon of pride is o'er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!
As one, who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heightened by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E'en thus awakening from thy dreams of wo,
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thee

glow,

With warmer ecstacy 't is thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;

More bright, more prized, more precious, since
deplored

As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored,
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o'er the dead.

Athens of Italy! once more are thine
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine.
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,

Oh! ne'er in other climes, though many an eye And forms august as natives of the sky,

Dwelt on your charms in beaming ecstacy;
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand,
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone;
Where 'mid the ruined shrines of many a vale,
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale,
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends,
But its proud name with song eternal blends!
Yes! in those scenes, where every ancient stream,
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme;

Rise round each fane in faultless majesty,
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.

Ye, at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendor from her death-like trance;
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake,
And daring Intellect his bondage break;
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose,
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound,

With power electric, through the realms around:

Oh! high in thought, magnificent in soul!
Born to inspire, enlighten, and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined;
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.
There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow,
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight,
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling How many a state, whose pillared strength subeye

Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien au- Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky,

Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast,