All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land, Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime. If not, perish thou and they! — Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away -
Earth can spare ye; while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours, From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming.
Perish! let there only be Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally, One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan; That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the songs of Albion,
Driven from his ancestral streams
By the might of evil dreams, Found a nest in thee; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit,
Chastening terror. What though yet
165 From thy dust shall, Locker-Lampson MS. 175 songs || sons, Forman conj.
Poesy's unfailing River,
Which through Albion winds forever Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred poet's grave, Mourn its latest nursling fled?
What though thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own? oh, rather say Though thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sun-like soul? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs : As divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imaged 'mid mortality;
As the love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn,
A quenchless lamp, by which the heart Sees things unearthly;
Mighty spirit! so shall be
The City that did refuge thee!
Lo, the sun floats up the sky, Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light
Seems to level plain and height. From the sea a mist has spread, And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now, Like its glory long ago.
By the skirts of that gray cloud
Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude, Mid the harvest-shining plain, Where the peasant heaps his grain In the garner of his foe,
And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will; And the sickle to the sword
Lies unchanged, though many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison, Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home. Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow, Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.
Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals, Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin,
Till Death cried, "I win, I win!" And Sin cursed to lose the wager, But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for
Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er, Over all between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow, Under the mighty Austrian. Sin smiled so as Sin only can, And since that time, ay, long before, Both have ruled from shore to shore - That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As Repentance follows Crime, And as changes follow Time.
In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning; Like a meteor whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray. Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame, When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth; Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells, One light flame among the brakes, While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born;- The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling through the darkened sky With myriad tongues victoriously,
O Tyranny! beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest. Grovel on the earth! ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now. 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound Fills the overflowing sky. And the plains that silent lie
Underneath; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-wingèd feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines, Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; The dun and bladed grass no less, Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air; the flower Glimmering at my feet; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun; And of living things each one;
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