LVII. Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,36 His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled-not thine own. LVIII. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 39 His dust,—and lies it not her great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No;-even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! LIX. 40 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Cæsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more:* Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire! honour'd sleeps The immortal exile ;-Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weeps. LX. What is her pyramid of precious stones ?11 Are gently prest with far more reverent tread LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd o'er LXIII. Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV. The Earth to them was as a rolling bark From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words. LXV. Far other scene is Thrasimene now; Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'en- A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain; Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling water red. |