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In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.
Peasants bring forth in safety.-—Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored!
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed!
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherd's eyes:-'twas but a meteor beam'd.
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well:
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,-
These might have been her destiny; but no,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.
Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears
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 bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.
But I forget,-My Pilgrim's shrine is won,
The midland ocean breaks on him and me,
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd.
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years—. Long, 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.
Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
And dashest him again to earth :—there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme
The spell should break of this protracted dream.
Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low