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Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en
A little rill of scanty stream and bed— A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red.
But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 33
And on thy happy shore a temple still,
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along his margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness , and from the dry dust
Of weary life a moment lave it clean
With Nature's baptism,—'tis to him ye must
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.
The roar of waters !—from the headlong height
And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemplied cloud of gentle- rairi, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald :—how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
"With many windings, through the vale :—Look back I
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,
As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract, 34
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.
LXXIII. Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which—had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents , where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering Lauwise—might be worsbipp'd more; 36
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear
Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old tiamo
For our remembrance, and from ou t the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break , And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain May he, who will, his recollections rake And quote in classic raptures, and awake The bills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd Too much , to conquer for the poet's sake , The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word 37 In my repugnant youth , with pleasure to record
Aught that recals the daily drug which turn'd
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught My mind to meditate what then it learn'd , Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought By the impatience of my early thought, That, with the freshness wealing out before My mind could relish what it might have sought, If free to choose , I cannot now restore Its healthj but what it then detested, still abhor.
LXXVII, Then farewell, Horace , whom I hated so., Not for thy faults , but mine ; it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse , Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, Awakening without wounding the touch'd hearty Yet fare thee well—upon Soracte's ridge we part.
Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul t The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and controul In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day— A world is at our feet, as fragile as our clay.