CLXIV. But where is he, the pilgrim of my song, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame These fardels of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, CLXX. Of sackloth was thy wedding garment made; Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— CLXXII. These might have been her destiny; but no, The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi! 7o navell'd in the woody hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears CLXXIV. And near Albano's scarce-divided waves Shine from a sister valley;--and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the epic war, « Arms and the man,» whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire;-but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;-and where yon Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.7' CLXXV. bar But I forget.--My pilgrim's shrine is won, Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades: long yearsLong, though not very many, since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward-and it is here; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. CLXXVII. Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, That I might all forget the human race, In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. CLXXVIII. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. |