From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen. Now is come a darker day; And thou soon must be his prey, If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be when the sea-mew Foes, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate, And all is in its ancient state; Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own, Toppies o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death
O'er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering through aerial gold, As I now behold them here, Would imagine not they were Sepulchres where human forms, Like pollution-nourished worms, To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered and now mouldering. But, if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time
With new virtues more sublime. If not, perish thou and they,- Clouds which stain truth'srising day, By her sun consumed away!
Earth can spare ye; while, like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming.
Perish! Let there only be, Floating o'er thy hearthless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time Which scarce hides thy visage wan: That a tempest-cleaving swan Of the songs of Albion,
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit,
Chastening terror. What though yet
Poesy's unfailing river,
Which through Albion winds for ever,
Lashing with melodious wave
Many a sacred poet's grave,
Mourn its latest nursling fled?
What though thou with all thy dead Scarce canst for this fame repay Aught thine own,-oh! rather say, Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs; As divinest Shakspeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light, Like Omniscient Power, which he Imaged 'mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch's urn
Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp by which the heart
Sees things unearthly ;-so thou art, Mighty spirit! so shall be
The city that did refuge thee!
Lo, the sun floats up the sky, Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light
Seems to level plain and height. From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago.
By the skirts of that grey cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude 'Mid the harvest-shining plain; Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe,
And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will. And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home. Men must reap the things they sow; Force from force must ever flow, Or worse but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.
Padua ! (thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin,
Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager; But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian :- Sin smiled so as Sin only can;
And, since that time, ay long before,
Both have ruled from shore to shore,
That incestuous pair who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As repentance follows crime, And as changes follow time :)-- In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning. Like a meteor whose wild way
Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray. Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth; Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might,-- But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by Tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born ;- The spark beneath his feet is dead; He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With myriad tongues victoriously, And sinks down in fear;-so thou, O Tyranny! beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest. Grovel on the earth! ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now. 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow; When a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound Fills the overflowing sky. And the plains that silent lie Underneath; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant Frost has trodden
With his morning-winged feet Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded; And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one; And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift stream of song,— Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky : Be it love, light, harmony,
Odour, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends; and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon, And that one star which to her Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs. And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne, To that silent isle which lies 'Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing; And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be In the sea of Life and Agony: Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf. Even now perhaps On some rock the wild wave wraps. With folded wings, they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove; Where for me and those I love May a windless bower be built, Far from passion, pain, and guilt, In a dell 'mid lawny hills Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine. We may live so happy there That the Spirits of the Air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude. But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm,
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