Revere each tree whose sheltering branches wave 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 woe, And bid the stranger for awhile forget How deep thy fall, and deem thee 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! Whose bright originals, to earth unknown, Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne; Models of art, to deathless fame consign'd, Stamp'd with the high-born majesty of mind; Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore One beam of splendour to your native shore, And her sad scenes of lost renown illume, As the bright sunset gilds some hero's tomb. Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasyNe'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 midst the ruin'd shrines of many a vale, Een 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; Where every marble deeds of fame records, Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords; And the deep tones of inspiration swell From cach wild olive-wood, and Alpine dell; Where heroes slumber on their battle plains, Fair Florence! queen of Arno's lovely vale! Too long, with sad and desolated mien, As one who, starting at the dawn of day With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace As loved lost relics, ne'er to be restored--- 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, And forms august as natives of the sky Rise round each fane in faultless majestySo chastely perfect, so serenely grand, They seem creations of no mortal hand. Ye at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance, Burst in full splendour from her deathlike trance-Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake, And daring Intellect his bondage break Beneath whose eye the lords of song arose, 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 Flash'd o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight, How many a glimpse, reveal'd 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 eye On forms instinct with bright divinity, Venice exult! and o'er thy moonlight seas Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze! What though long fled those years of martial fame That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name; Though to the winds thy streamers idly play, And the wild waves another Queen obey; Though quench'd the spirit of thine ancient race, Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy's thought To range uncurb'd the pathless fields of space, Her own bright deity's resplendent throne, Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea, Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free! And thou, whose Eagle towering plume unfurl'd Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world, Eternal city! round whose Curule throne The lords of nations knelt in ages flown; Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time Immortal records of their glorious prime; When deathless bards, thine olive-shades among, Swell'd the high raptures of heroic song; Fair, fallen Empress ! raise thy languid head From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead, And once again with fond delight survey The proud memorials of thy noblest day. Lo! where thy sons, O Rome ! a godlike train, In imaged majesty return again! Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust. Souls of the lofty! whose undying names Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims; Oh! with your images could fate restore Your own high spirit to your sons once more; Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn; Then from the sacred ashes of the first, Might a new Rome in phoenix grandeur burst! With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom, With one loud call wake empire from the tomb; Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown, Lift her dread ægis with majestic frown, Unchain her eagle's wing, and guide his flight To bathe his plumage in the fount of light! Vain dream! Degraded Rome! thy noon is o'er; Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more. It sleeps with those, the sons of other days, Who fix'd on thee the world's adoring gaze; Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high, More blest, ere darkness quench'd its beam, to die! Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers, Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way, Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay ! Oh what can realms in fame's full zenith boast She from the dust recalls the brave and free, Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning-stroke, Rend its last honours from the shatter'd oak ! Long be those works, revered by ages, thine, To lend one triumph to thy dim decline. Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire. In all the grandeur of celestial ire, Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form Sheds radiance round, with more than Being warm! Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame A living temple of ethereal flame? Lord of the daystar! how may words portray Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray? Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace, Of regal dignity and heavenly grace; And thou, triumphant wreck,' e'en yet sublime, Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and time: Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught From thee its fervours of diviner thought! Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind Lived in some sphere to him alone assign'd; Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen Could call up forms of more than earthly mien : Unrivall'd Angelo on thee would gaze, Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? 1 The Belvidere Torso, the favourite study of Michael Angelo, and of many other distinguished artists. Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurl'd, Yet claiming still the homage of the world. What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced The work of wonder, idolised by taste? Consummate work! the noblest and the last Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past: 2 Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still, Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill, Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed, A hero's image to the world bequeathed; Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway, And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn, What lofty dreams were hers-who never shall return! And mark yon group, transfix'd with many a throe, Scal'd with the image of eternal woe: With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest, Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonise the breast, And the stern combat picture to mankind Of suffering nature and enduring mind. 1 "Quoique cette statue d'Hercule ait été maltraitée et mutilée d'une manière étrange, se trouvant sans tête, sans bras, et sans jambes, elle est cependant encore un chefd'œuvre aux yeux des connoisseurs; et ceux qui savent percer dans les mystères de l'art, se la représentent dans toute sa beauté. L'Artiste, en voulant représenter Hercule, a formé un corps idéal audessus de la nature * ** Cet Hercule paroît donc ici tel qu'il put être lorsque, purifié par le feu des foiblesses de l'humanité, il obtint l'immortalité et prit place auprès des Dieux. Il est représenté sans aucun besoin de nourriture et de réparation de forces. Les veines y sont tout invisibles."-- WINCKELMANN, Histoire de l'Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 248. "Le Torso d' Hercule paroît un des derniers ouvrages parfaits que l'art ait produit en Grèce, avant la perte de sa libérté. Car après que la Grèce fut réduite en province Romaine, l'histoire ne fait mention d'aucun artiste célèbre de cette nation, jusqu'aux temps du Triumvirat Romain."— WINCKELMANN, ibid. tom. ii. p. 250. Oh, mighty conflict though his pains intense Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art! With speechless horror to congeal the heart, To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain; Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour. Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where painting all her skill displays : Landscapes, by colouring dress'd in richer dyes, More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, Or dreams of bliss to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs robed in beams of heaven. Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, Its depths of shadow and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought, disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone And unapproach'd, midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless'd your favour'd sight, Severely grand, unutterably bright! "It is not, in the same manner, in the agonised limbs, or in the convulsed muscles of the Laocoon, that the secret grace of its composition resides; it is in the majestic air of the head, which has not yielded to suffering, and in the deep serenity of the forehead, which seems to be still superior to all its afflictions, and significant of a mind that cannot be subdued."-ALISON's Essays, vol. ii. p. 400. "Laocoon nous offre le spectacle de la nature humaine dans la plus grande douleur dont elle soit susceptible, sous l'image d'un homme qui tâche de rassembler contre elle toute la force de l'esprit. Tandis que l'excès de la souffrance enfle les muscles, et tire violemment les nerfs, le courage se montre sur le front gonflé: la poitrine s'élève avec peine par la nécessité de la respiration, qui est également contrainte par le silence que la force de l'âme impose à la douleur qu'elle voudroit étouffer * * * * Son air est plaintif, et non criard."-WINCKELMANN, Histoire de l'Art chez les Anciens, tom. ii. p. 214. Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye Could meet the noontide of eternity, Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell! Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd, Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd, Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale, And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd, On all that Fancy trembles to behold. Bright on your view such forms their splendour "Breathed still small" whispers on the midnight shed As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled : And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies, Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy's erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind! From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd, With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd. To her 'twas given in fancy to explore The land of miracles, the holiest shore; That realm where first the Light of Life was sent, The loved, the punish'd, of th' Omnipotent! O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray, Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,1 Chain'd in dead silence, and unbroken sleep; 1 Almotana. The name given by the Arabs to the Dead Sea. gale. There dwelt her spirit-there her hand portray'd, To Him she gave her meditative hours, Oh! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect line Portrays that form ineffably divine! Where with transcendant skill his hand has shed Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head;2 Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued With all the fulness of beatitude, And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light! Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art, Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness; [This poem is thus alluded to by Lord Byron, in one of his published letters to Mr Murray, dated from Diodati, Sept. 30th, 1818:-"Italy or Dalmatia and another summer may, or may not, set me off again. . . I shall take Felicia Hemans's Restoration, &c., with me-it is a good poem-very."] 2 The Transfiguration, thought to be so perfect a specimen of art, that, in honour of Raphael, it was carried before his body to the grave. |