« ForrigeFortsett »
Wi. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :
I saw or dream'd of such,--but let them go.-
And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
I’ve taught me other tongues, and in strange eyes
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind
Perhaps I loved it well; and should I lay
My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour’d by the nations—let it be— And light the laurels on a loftier head And be the Spartan's epitaph on me— “Sparta hath many a worthier son than he.”" Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renew’d, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood | St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood" Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower.
Her very by-word sprung from victory,