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Like the last sunny step of ASTRA, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!

That scene-I have view'd it this evening again,
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then-
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms-

MONT BLANC in his awfullest pomp-and the whole
A bright picture of Beauty, reclin❜d in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?

Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity-where are they gone?
Clouds-clouds-they were nothing but clouds, after all!*
That chain of MONT BLANCS, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,

Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.
What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night,
Drop thy curtain, at once, and hide all from my sight.

EXTRACT IV.

Milar.

EXTRACT V.

Padua

Fancy and Reality-Rain-drops and Lakes.-Plan of a Story-Where
to place the Scene of it.-In some unknown Region.—Psalmanaser's
Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.

Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single hue unborrow'd from the sun-
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on Peris' wings!

And such, I deem, the diff'rence between real,
Existing Beauty and that form ideal,
Which she assumes, when seen by poets' eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop-with all those dyes,
Which Fancy's variegating prism supplies.

The Picture Gallery Albano's Rape of Proserpine.-Reflections.- || I have a story of two lovers, fill'd
Universal Salvation-Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino ·
Genius.

WENT to the Brera-saw a Dance of Loves

By smooth ALBANO ;t him, whose pencil teems With Cupids, numerous as in summer groves

The leaflets are, or motes in summer beams.

'Tis for the theft of Enna's flow'r from earth,
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath-
Those, that are nearest, link'd in order bright,
Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath;
And those, more distant, showing from beneath
The others' wings their little eyes of light.
While see, among the clouds, their eldest brother,
But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother

Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!

Well might the Loves rejoice-and well did they,
Who wove these fables, picture, in their weaving,
That blessed truth, (which, in a darker day,

ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,)-§
That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray
Nor time, nor death, nor sin can overcast,
Ev'n to the depths of hell will find his way,
And soothe, and heal, and triumph there at last!
GUERCINO'S Agar-where the bond-maid hears
From Abram's lips that he and she must part;
And looks at him with eyes half full of tears,

That seem the very last drops from her heart.
Exquisite picture!-let me not be told

Of minor faults, of colouring tame and cold-
If thus to conjure up a face so fair,||

So full of sorrow; with the story there

Of all that woman suffers, when the stay

Her trusting heart hath lean'd on falls away-
If thus to touch the bosom's tend'rest spring,
By calling into life such eyes, as bring
Back to our sad remembrance some of those
We've smil'd and wept with, in their joys and woes,
Thrs filling them with tears, like tears we've known,
Tili all the pictur'd grief becomes our own—
If this be deem'd the victory of Art-
If thus, by pen or pencil, to lay bare
The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart
Before all eyes, be Genius-it is there!

It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon as to deceive me into an kea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subse quent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.

This picture, the Agar of Guercino, and the Apostles of Guido. (the two latter of which are now the chief ornaments of the Brera,) were formerly in the Palazzo Zampieri, at Bologna.

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madnem.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world-what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian

For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he,
The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea,
By nothing, but its name of Beauty, known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her (wn,
Her fairy kingdom-take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!

EXTRACT VI.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.-Former Glory-Expedition
against Constantinople. — Giustinianis.— Republic.-Characteristics
of the old Government.-Golden Book.-Brazen Mouths.-Spres-
Dungeons.-Present Desolation.

MOURN not for VENICE-let her rest
In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No-let us keep our tears for them,

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,

Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause

Of human Rights-the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.
Mourn not for VENICE; though her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
Swept o'er her, she deserves it all,
And justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish ev'ry King and State,
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill, and only great
By outrage against God and man:
True, her high spirit is at rest,

And all those days of glory gone
When the world's waters, east and west,
Beneath her white-wing'd commerce shone;

that fair field

Of Enna, where Proserprine, gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis was gather'd

The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.

It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Camus. cini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.

When, with her countless barks she went

To meet the Orient Empire's might,* And her Giustinianis sent

Their hundred heroes to that fight.

Vanish'd are all her pomps, 'tis true,
But mourn them not-for vanish'd, too,
(Thanks to that Pow'r, who, soon or late,
Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,

The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad,
Where the Republic's standard stood.
Desolate VENICE! when I track

Thy haughty course through cent'ries back; Thy ruthless pow'r, obey'd but curst

The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chill'd ev'n hate;
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing SARPI taught ;-
Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath

Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death;-
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,

Clos'd against humble Virtue's name,
But open'd wide for slaves who sold

Their native land to thee and shame;Thy all-pervading host of spies,

Watching o'er every glance and breath, Till men look'd in each others' eyes,

To read their chance of life or death ;Thy laws, that made a mart of blood, And legaliz'd the assassin's knife;† Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,

And racks, and Leads, that burnt out life;

When I review all this, and see
The doom that now hath fall'n on thee;
Thy nobles, tow'ring once so proud,
Themselves beneath the yoke now bow'd,-
A yoke, by no one grace redeem'd,
Such as, of old, around thee beam'd,
But mean and base as e'er yet gall'd,
Earth's tyrants, when, themselves, enthrall'd, ·
I feel the moral vengeance sweet,
And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat,
"Thus perish ev'ry King and State,

"That tread the steps which VENICE trod, "Strong but in ill, and only great,

"By outrage against man and God!"

EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them.

LET me, a moment,-ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-
As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key

Of some enchanter's secret halls is giv'n,
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heav'n-
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know-and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like PSAPHON's birds, speaking their master's name,
In ev'ry language, syllabled by Fame?-

How all, who've felt the various spells combin'd
Within the circle of that master-mind,-
Like spells, deriv'd from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,-

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Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul,-and if the gleans that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, rais'd

Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blaz'd;
Would love to trace the unfolding of that pow'r,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, ev'ry hour;
And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,

As did the Egyptian traveller,‡ when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance
The fast small fountains of that mighty flood.

They, too, who, 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,

As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell

On earth of old,§ had touch'd them with its beams, →
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
And which, ev'n now, struck as it is with blight,
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light;-
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;

Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Of scene and clime-the adventures, bold and strange-
The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told-
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd;
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,

In those who serv'd him, young, and serve him still;
Of gen'rous aid, giv'n with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart,
Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught

Of the bright features of his life be sought.
While they, who court the world, like MILTON's cicud,|||
"Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd,
This gifted Being wraps himself in aight,

And, keeping all that softens, and adorns,
And gilds his social nature hid from sight,
Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

EXTRACT VIII.

Venice

Female Beauty at Venice.-No longer what it was in the Time of Th tian.-His Mistress.-Various Forms in which he has painted her Venus.- Dirine and profane Love.- La Fragilita d'Amore-Pr Veronese. His Women.-Marriage of Cana-Character of Italian Beauty.-Raphael Fornarina.—Modesty.

THY brave, thy learn'd have pass'd away:

Thy beautiful!-ah, where are they?
The forms, the faces, that once shone,
Models of grace in Titian's eye,

Where are they now? while flowers live on
In ruin'd places, why, oh why
Must Beauty thus with Glory die?
That maid, whose lips would still have mor'd,
Could art have breath'd a spirit through them;
Whose varying charms her artist lov'd

More fondly ev'ry time he drew them,
(So oft beneath his touch they pass'd,
Each semblance fairer than the last;)
Wearing each shape that Fancy's range

Offers to Love-yet still the one Fair idol, seen through every change,

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Like facets of some orient stone,-
Ir each the same bright image shown
Sometimes a Venus, unarray'd

But in her heauty-sometimes deck'd
In costly raiment, as a maid

That kings might for a throne select.† Now high and proud, like one who thought The world should at her feet be brought; Now, with a look reproachful, sac,-‡ Unwonted look from brow so glad;And telling of a pain too deep For tongue to speak or eyes to weep. Sometimes, through allegory's veil,

In double semblance seem to shine,
Telling a strange and mystic tale

Of Love Profane and Love Divine-§
Akin in features, but in heart
As far as earth and heaven apart.
Or else (by quaint device to prove
The frailty of all worldly love)
Holding a globe of glass, as thin

As air-blown bubbles, in her hand,
With a young Love contin'd therein,
Whose wings seem waiting to expand-
And telling, by her anxious eyes,
That, if that frail orb breaks, he flies! ||

Thou, too, with touch magnificent,

PAUL of VERONA !-where are they,
The oriental forms,¶ that lent

Thy canvass such a bright array ?
Noble and gorgeous dames, whose dress
Seems part of their own loveliness;
Like the sun's drapery, which, at eve,
The floating clouds around him weave
Of light they from himself receive!
Where is there now the living face

Like those that, in thy nuptial throng,**
By their superb, voluptuous grace,
Make us forget the time, the place,

The holy guests they smile among,Till, in that feast of heaven-sent wine, We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream,

There bloom'd such beauty here, 'tis gone,Gone, like the face that in the stream Of Ocean for an instant shone, When Venus at that mirror gave A last look, ere she left the wave. And though, among the crowded ways, We oft are startled by the blaze Of eyes that pass, with fitful light, Like fire-flies on the wing at night,tt 'Tis not that nobler beauty, giv'n To show how angels look in heav'n. Ev'n in its shape most pure and fair, 'Tis Beauty, with but half her zone, All that can warm the Sense is there, But the Soul's deeper charm is flown:'Tis RAPHAEL'S Fornarina,-warm,

Luxuriant, arch, but unrefin'd;

A flower, round which the noontide swarm
Of young Desires may buzz and wind,
But where true Love no treasure meets,
Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.

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We must go back to our own Isles.
Where Modesty, which here but gives
A rare and transient grace to smiles.
In the heart's holy centre lives:
And thence, as from her throne diffuses
O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,
That not a thought or feeling loses

Its freshness in that gentle chain

EXTRACT IX.

Venice

The English to be met with every where.-Alps and Threadneedle Street. -The Simplon and the Stocks.-Rage for travelling-Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.-Parasols and Pyramids.-Mrs. Hopkin; and the Wall of China.

AND is there then no earthly place,

Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some curst, round English face.
Popping up near, to break the vision?
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines

Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As-"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-
"The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill)-
"Are low'ring fast-(what, higher still?)-
"And-(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven.)
"Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may-rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-
And scarce a pin's head difference which—
Mixes, though ev'n to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon !
And, if this rage for travelling lasts,
If Cockney's, of all sects and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires.
To gape at things in foreign lands,
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees:
If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,

To glide among the pyramids-‡‡
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot, that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home"
Among the Blacks of Carolina.
Or, flying to the Eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China'

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Ales, alas, how diff'rent flows,

With thee and me the time away. Nor that I wish thee sad, heaven knowsStill, if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know that without thee Tsun himself is dark for me.

Do put on the jewels rare

Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all the assembled world to see,-
All but the one, the absent one,

Worth more than present worlds to me.
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart-
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours

And days, before thy pictur'd form—
That dream of thee, which Raphael's pow'rs
Have made with all but life-breath warm!
And as I smile to it, and say

The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,

Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me-till I weep!
Our little boy, too, knows it well,
For there I lead him every day,
And teach his lisping lips to tell

The name of one that's far away.
Forgive me, love, but thus alone
My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No 'tis not the region where Love's to be found-
They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
When she warbled her best-but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want,

Which Heav'n for the mild and the tranquil hath madeCalm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,

Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade; That feeling, which, after long years have gone by, Remains, like a portrait we've sat for in youth, Where, ev'n though the flush of the colours may fly, The features still live, in their first smiling truth;

That union, where all that in Woman is kind,

With all that in Man most ennoblingly tow'rs,
Grow wreath'd into one-like the column, combin'd
Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flow'rs

Of this-bear ye witness, ye wives, ev'ry where,
By the ARNO, the Po, by all ITALY's streams-
Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,
Not a husband hath ev'n one glimpse in his dreams.

But it is not this, only;-born full of the light

Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright,

That, beside him, our suns of the north are but moons,—

We night fancy, at least, like their climate they burn'd; And that Love, though unus'd, in this region of spring, To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd,

Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing.

And there may be, there are, those explosions of heart, Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame : Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,

Where Love is a sun-stroke, that maddens the frame
But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul;
Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source

Of some small mountain rivulet, destin'd to roll
As a torrrent, ere long, losing peace in its course-

Bergamo-the birth-place, it is said, of Harlequin.
The Lego di Garde.

A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends
A more headlong descent, without chance of recall;
But which Modesty ev'n to the last edge attends,
And, then, throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion-ay, exquisite, even

Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made,
As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven,
That heaven of Virtue from which it has stray'd--

This entireness of love, which can only be found,
Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd ove
And fenc'd, from her childhood, with purity round,
Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presser,
Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move;

And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses,

Can only be reach'd through the temple of Love!

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found,
Where the mystery nature hath hung round the tie
By which souls are together attracted and bound,

Is laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye;—

Where nought of that innocent doubt can exist,

That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native light;

Where Experience leave's nothing for Love to reveal,
Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought;
But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal
From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh,

Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region, to fix or to stray

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross,

Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, What have they, a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they, a lover can prize as: gir

EXTRACT XII.

Florence

Music in Italy.-Disappointed by it.-Recollect ms of other Times d Friends.- Dalton.-Sir John Stevenson.- His Daughter-Muncel Evenings together.

Ir it be true that Music reigns,

Supreme, in ITALY's soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony, so famous,
Among the spheres, which, He of SAMOS
Declar'd had such transcendent merit,
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come-from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Through MILAN, and that land, which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest—*
By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave,†
Which made VERONA's bard so blest-
Places, that (like the Attic shore,

Which rung back music, when the sea
Struck on its marge) should be, all o'er,
Thrilling alive with melody-
I've heard no music-not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float,
In my own land, among the throng,
And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, ev'n in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes
The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend -long, truly dear-
Thine, and thy lov'd OLIVIA's lays.

Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Streami daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

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How happy once the hours we past,
Singing or list'ning all day long,
Till time itself seem'd chang'd, at last,
To music, and we liv'd in song!
Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er,

As quick, beneath her master hand,
They open'd all their brilliant store,

Like chambers, touch'd by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending,

Now by his airy warblings cheer'd,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
Voices, through which the heart was heard.

And still, to lead our ev'ning choir,
Was He invok'd, thy lov'd-one's Sire-t
He, who, if aught of grace there be

In the wild notes I write or sing,
First smooth'd their links of harmony,

And lent them charms they did not bring ;-
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employ'd in his sweet art,
(That art, which gives this world of ours

A notion how they speak in heaven,)
Ive pass'd more bright and charmed hours
Than all earth's wisdom could have giv'n.
Oh happy days, oh early friends,

How Life, since then, hath lost its flow'rs!
But yet-though Time some foliage rends,
The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;
And long may it endure, as green,
And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wander'd from my theme!
But where is he, that could return

To such cold subjects from a dream,
Through which these best of feelings burn?-
Not all the works of Science, Art,

Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh, that from the heart
Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

heflections on reading Du Cerceau's Accint of the Conspiracy of Renzi in 1347-The meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.-Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.-Rien2's Speech.

Twas a proud moment-ev'n to hear the words

Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breath'd,
And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords,
In the Republic's sacred name unsheath'd—
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day,
For his dear RoME, must to a Roman be,
Short as it was, worth ages pass'd away
In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'I'was on a night of May, beneath that moon,

Which had, through many an age, seem Time untune
The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell
From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell-

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The sound of the church clock, near ADRIAN'S Tomb,
Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for ROME,
To meet unarm'd,-with none to watch them there,
But God's own eye,-and pass the night in pray'r.
Holy beginning of a holy cause,

When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause
Before high Heav'n, and, humble in their might,
Call down its blessing on that coming fight.
At dawn, in arms, went forth the patriot band;
And, as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fann'd
Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see

The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heav'n.. Types of the justice, peace, and liberty,

That were to bless them, when their chains were riv'n On to the Capitol the pageant mov'd,

While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing rov'd,

Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill, And heard its mournful echoes, as the last High-minded heirs of the Republic pass'd.

'Twas then that thou, their Tribune, (name, which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,)

Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek

To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:

"ROMANS, look round you-on this sacred place

"There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike men. "What see you now? what solitary trace

"Is left of all, that made ROME's glory then? "The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft "Ev'n of its name-and nothing now remains "But the deep mem'ry of that glory, left

"To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!
"But shall this be?-our sun and sky the same,-
"Treading the very soil our fathers trode,-
"What with'ring curse hath fall'n on soul and frame,
"What visitation hath there come from God,

"To blast our strength, and rot us into slaves,
"Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves?
"It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty Dead,-

"If we, the living, are too weak to crush
"These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread,,
"Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush'

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes,
"Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;
"And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes

"For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! "Thrice happy both, that your extinguish'd race "Have left no embers-no half-living trace"No slaves, to crawl around the once proud spot, "Till past renown in present shame's forgot. "While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, "If lone and lifeless through a desert hurl'd, "Would wear more true magnificence than decks "The assembled thrones of all the existing world"ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stain'd and curst,

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Through every spot her princely TIBER laves, "By living human things-the deadliest, worst, "This earth engenders-tyrants and their slaves! "And we-oh shame!-we, who have ponder'd o'er "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;|| "Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, Tracking our country's glories all the way"Ev'n we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground "Before that Papal Power,-that Ghost of Her, "The World's Imperial mistress-sitting, crown'd "And ghastly, on her mould'ring sepulchre !¶

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asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriots hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, appears from one of his letters, quoted by Du Cerceau, where he says," Pour tout dire, en un mot, Patteste, non comme lecteur, mais comme temoin ocu laire, qu'il nous a ramene la justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la securite, et tous les autres vestiges de l'age d'or."

This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:-"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"

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