The Works of Lord Byron Volume II Part 59

Thus, Venice! if no stronger claim were thine, Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot-- Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, Thy love of Ta.s.so, should have cut the knot[lt]

Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot Is shameful to the nations,--most of all, Albion! to thee:[400] the Ocean queen should not Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall.[lu]

XVIII.

I loved her from my boyhood--she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water-columns from the sea-- Of Joy the sojourn, and of Wealth the mart; And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeare's art,[lv][401]

Had stamped her image in me, and even so, Although I found her thus, we did not part;[lw]

Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.

XIX.

I can repeople with the past--and of The present there is still for eye and thought, And meditation chastened down, enough; And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; And of the happiest moments which were wrought Within the web of my existence, some From thee, fair Venice![402] have their colours caught: There are some feelings Time can not benumb,[lx]

Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.

XX.

But from their nature will the Tannen[403] grow[ly]

Loftiest on loftiest and least sheltered rocks, Rooted in barrenness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, and mocks The howling tempest, till its height and frame Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks Of bleak, gray granite into life it came,[lz]

And grew a giant tree;--the Mind may grow the same.

XXI.

Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolated bosoms: mute[ma]

The camel labours with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence--not bestowed In vain should such example be; if they, Things of ign.o.ble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of n.o.bler clay May temper it to bear,--it is but for a day.

XXII.

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed,[404]

Even by the sufferer--and, in each event, Ends:--Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Return to whence they came--with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion--toil--war--good or crime, According as their souls were formed to sink or climb.

XXIII.

But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a Scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound--[405]

A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring--[mb]

A flower--the wind--the Ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound;

XXIV.

And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The Spectres whom no exorcism can bind,-- The cold--the changed--perchance the dead, anew-- The mourned--the loved--the lost--too many! yet how few![406]

XXV.

But my Soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which _was_ the mightiest in its old command, And _is_ the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand; Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,-- The beautiful--the brave--the Lords of earth and sea,

XXVI.

The Commonwealth of Kings--the Men of Rome!

And even since, and now, fair Italy!

Thou art the Garden of the World, the Home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?

Thy very weeds are beautiful--thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility; Thy wreck a glory--and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

XXVII.

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night-- Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains;[407] Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be,-- Melted to one vast Iris of the West,-- Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest![408]

XXVIII.

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny Sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order:--gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta,[409] where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and gla.s.sed within it glows,

XXIX.

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters! all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change--a paler Shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting Day Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away-- The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray.

x.x.x.

There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air, Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The Pilgrims of his Genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his Lady's name[410][8.H.]

With his melodious tears, he gave himself to Fame.

x.x.xI.

They keep his dust in Arqua,[411] where he died--[9.H.]

The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride-- An honest pride--and let it be their praise, To offer to the pa.s.sing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre--both plain[mc]

And venerably simple--such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a Pyramid formed his monumental fane.[md]

x.x.xII.

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality[412] have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, For they can lure no further; and the ray[413]

Of a bright Sun can make sufficient holiday,

x.x.xIII.

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality-- If from society we learn to live,[me]

'Tis Solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers--Vanity can give No hollow aid; alone--man with his G.o.d must strive:[mf]

x.x.xIV.

Or, it may be, with Demons,[414] who impair The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey In melancholy bosoms--such as were Of moody texture from their earliest day, And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay Deeming themselves predestined to a doom Which is not of the pangs that pa.s.s away;[mg]

Making the Sun like blood, the Earth a tomb, The tomb a h.e.l.l--and h.e.l.l itself a murkier gloom.[mh]

x.x.xV.

Ferrara![415] in thy wide and gra.s.s-grown streets, Whose symmetry was not for solitude, There seems as 'twere a curse upon the Seats Of former Sovereigns, and the antique brood Of Este,[416] which for many an age made good Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore Patron or Tyrant, as the changing mood Of petty power impelled, of those who wore The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before.

x.x.xVI.

And Ta.s.so is their glory and their shame-- Hark to his strain! and then survey his cell![417]

And see how dearly earned Torquato's fame, And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell: The miserable Despot could not quell The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend With the surrounding maniacs, in the h.e.l.l Where he had plunged it. Glory without end Scattered the clouds away--and on that name attend

x.x.xVII.