Rooted in barreness, where nought below Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shoo Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, a mocks

The howling tempest, till its height and fra Are worthy of the mountains from who blocks

Of bleak, gray granite, into life it came, And grew a giant tree; the mind may gr

the same.

XXI.

Existence may be borne, and the deep root Of life and sufferance make its firm abode In bare and desolate bosoms: mute

The camel labors with the heaviest load, And the wolf dies in silence. Not bestow'd In vain should such examples be; if they, Things of ignoble or of savage mood, Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay May temper it to bear, - it is but for a day.

XXII.

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, Ends: Some, with hope replenish'd a

rebuoy'd,

Return to whence they came - with like inte

And weave their web again; some, bow'd and bent,

Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb.

XXIII.

But ever and anon of griefs subdued

There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring

Back on the heart the weight which it would fling

Aside for ever: it may be a sound

A tone of music - summer's eve - or springA flower the wind - the ocean - which

shall wound,

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound:

XXIV.

And how and why we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind,
But feel the shock renew'd, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves
behind,

Which out of things familiar, undesign'd,
When least we deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind,
the changed — perchance the dead

The cold

anew,

The mourn'd, the loved, the lost - yet how few!

takere.

XXV.

But my soul wanders; I demand it back
To meditate amongst decay, and stand
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a land
Which was the mightiest in its old command,
And is the loveliest, and must ever be

The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, The beautiful, the brave the lords of earth

and sea.

XXVI.

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome,
And even since, and now, fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes' fertility;

Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

XXVII.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night -
Sunset divides the sky with her

- a sea

Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be-
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,

Where the Day joins the past Eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air

an island of the

blest!

XXVIII.

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order: - gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows.

XXIX.

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :

And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone - and all

is gray.

XXX.

There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear’d in air, Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

XXXI.

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; The mountain-village where his latter days