POEMS.

THE

RESTORATION

OF THE

WORKS OF ART TO ITALY.

LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains Have proudly echo'd to immortal strains; Whose hallow'd soil hath given the great and brave,

Daystars of life, a birth, place, and a grave; Home of the Arts! where glory's faded smile, Sheds ling'ring light o'er many a mould'ring pile; Proud wreck of vanish'd power, of splendor fled, Majestic temple of the mighty dead!

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

Lost, lovely realm! once more 'tis thine to gaze 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, Swell'd the deep echoes of the fountain's cave

Or thrill'd 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;
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
Hallow'd by time, by absence more endear'd.

And breathe to Those the strain, whose warrior-might

Each danger stemm'd, prevail'd in every fight; Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured, Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured.

Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant, mind Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind: Whose banners track'd the vanquish'd Eagle's

flight

O'er many a plain, and dark siera'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 'midst those scenes renew'd th' achievements high

Bequeath'd to fame by England's ancestry:

Yet, when the storm seem'd hush'd, the conflict past,

One strife remain'd-the mightiest and the last!

Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour
Untamed Ambition summon'd 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,
Glow'd in each breast, and sunk with life alone.

Oh hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb, Ye, firm and faithful, in the ordeal tried Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified; Shrined, not entomb'd, ye rest in sacred earth, Hallow'd 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 watchword 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 tho
dead;

Revere each tree whose shel'tring 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;