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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-domèd 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.

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 a myriad tongues victoriously,
And sinks down in fear : so thou,
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 !

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.

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-winged 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

In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning ;

Of the olive-sandalled Apennine Envying us, may even entice
In the south dimly islanded ;

To our healing paradise
And the Alps, whose snows are spread The polluting multitude ;
High between the clouds and sun ; But their rage would be subdued
And of living things each one ;

By that clime divine and calm,
And my spirit which so long

And the winds whose wings rain balm Darkened this swift stream of song, On the uplifted soul, and leaves Interpenetrated lie

Under which the bright sea heaves ; By the glory of the sky :

While each breathless interval Be it love, light, harmony,

In their whisperings musical
Odour, or the soul of all

The inspired soul supplies
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, With its own deep melodies,
Or the mind which feeds this verse And the love which heals all strife
Peopling the lone universe.

Circling, like the breath of life,
Noon descends, and after noon

All things in that sweet abode Autumn's evening meets me soon, With its own mild brotherhood : Leading the infantine moon,

They, not it would change ; and soon And that one star, which to her

Every sprite beneath the moon Almost seems to minister

Would repent its envy vain,
Half the crimson light she brings

And the earth grow young again.
From the sunset's radiant springs :
And the soft dreams of the morn

(Which like wingèd winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies

Maddalo, a Courtier. PIGNA, a Minister. 'Mid remembered agonies,

MALPIGLIO, a Poet. ALBANO, an Usher. The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,

Maddalo. No access to the Duke ! And its ancient pilot, Pain,

You have not said Sits beside the helm again.

That the Count Maddalo would speak

with him? Other flowering isles must be

Pigna. Did you inform his Grace In the sea of life and agony :

that Signor Pigna Other spirits float and fee

Waits with state papers for his signature? O'er that gulph: even now, perhaps, Malpiglio. The Lady Leonora canOn some rock the wild wave wraps,

not know With folded wings they waiting sit That I have written a sonnet to her For my bark, to pilot it

fame, To some calm and blooming cove, In which I

Venus and Adonis. Where for me, and those I love, You should not take my gold and serve May a windless bower be built,

me not. Far from passion, pain, and guilt,

Albano. In truth I told her, and she In a dell 'mid lawny hills,

smiled and said, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, “If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy And soft sunshine, and the sound Art the Adonis whom I love, and he Of old forests echoing round,

The Erymanthian boar that wounded And the light and smell divine

him." Of all flowers that breathe and shine : O trust to me, Signor Malpiglio, We may live so happy there,

Those nods and smiles were favours That the spirits of the air,

worth the zechin.

on me.


Malpiglio. The words are twisted in O Leonora, and I sit some double sense

still watching it, That I reach not : the smiles fell not Till by the grated casement's ledge

It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge Pigna. How are the Duke and Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge.

Duchess occupied ?
Albano. Buried in some strange talk.

The Duke was leaning,
His finger on his brow, his lips unclosed.

The Princess sate within the window.

seat, And so her face was hid ; but on her

Come, be happy!--sit near me, knee

Shadow-vested Misery : Her hands were clasped, veined, and

Coy, unwilling, silent bride, pale as snow,

Mourning in thy robe of pride,

Desolation-deified ! And quivering-young Tasso, too, was

there. Maddalo. Thou seest on whom from

thine own worshipped heaven Come, be happy !--sit near me: Thou drawest down smiles- they did

Sad as I may seem to thee, not rain on thee.

I am happier far than thou, Malpiglio. Would they were parch- Lady, whose imperial brow ing lightnings for his sake

Is endiademed with woe. On whom they fell !

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Sometimes I see before me flee
A silver spirit's form, like thee,

There our tent shall be the willow,
And thine arm shall be my pillow;
Sounds and odours sorrowful

Because they once were sweet, shall lull What but mockery can they mean, Us to slumber, deep and dull.

Where I am--where thou hast been?




Ha! thy frozen pulses flutter
With a love thou darest not uiter.
Thou art murmuring-thou art weep-

ingIs thine icy bosom leaping While my burning heart lies sleeping?



Kiss me ;-oh! thy lips are cold:
Round my neck thine arms enfold-
They are soft, but chill and dead;
And thy tears upon my head
Burn like points of frozen lead.

IX lasten to the bridal bed Underneath the grave 'tis spread : In darkness may our love be hid, Oblivion be our coverlid-We may rest, and none forbid.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and

bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent

The breath of the moist earth is

Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

II I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds

strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers,

thrown: I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noontide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, llow sweet! did any heart now share in

my emotion.

X Clasp me till our hearts be grown Like two shadows into one; Till this dreadful transport may Like a vapour fade away, In the sleep that lasts alway.

XI We may dream, in that long sleep, That we are not those who weep; E'en as Pleasure dreams of thee, Life-deserting Misery, Thou mayst dream of her with me.



Let us laugh, and make our mirth,
At the shadows of the earth,
As dogs bay the moonlight clouds,
Which, like spectres wrapt in shrouds,
l'ass o'er night in multitudes.

All the wide world, beside us
Show like multitudinous
l'uppets passing from a scene;

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth

The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor

leisure. Others I see whom these surroundSmiling they live, and call lise plea

sure;To me that cup has been dealt in another







Of evening till the star of dawn may Yet now despair itself is mild,

fail, Even as the winds and waters are;

Was intersused upon the silentness ; I could lie down like a tired child,

The folded roses and the violets pale And weep away the life of care

Ileard her within their slumbers, the Which I have borne and yet must

abyss bear,

Of heaven with all its planets ; the dull Till death like sleep might steal on And I might feel in the warm air

Of the night-cradled earth; the loneliness My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea of the circumfluous waters, - every Breathe o'er my dying brain its last

sphere monotony.

And every flower and beam and cloud

and wave, Some might lament that I were cold, And every wind of the mute atmosphere,

As I, when this sweet day is gone, And every beast stretched in its rugged Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

cave, Insults with this untimely moan;

And every bird lulled on its mossy bough, They might lament-for I am one

And every silver moth fresh from the Whom men love not, -and yet regret,

grave, Unlike this day, which, when the Which is its cradle-ever from below

Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too Shall on its stainless glory set,

far, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in To be consumed within the purest glow memory yet.

Of one serene and unapproached star,

As if it were a lamp of earthly light, THE WOODMAN AND THE

Unconscious, as some human lovers are, NIGHTINGALE A WOODMAN whose rough heart was

Itself how low, how high beyond all

height out of tune

The heaven where it would perish ! (I think such hearts yet never came to good)

and every form Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,

That worshipped in the temple of the

night One nightingale in an interfluous wood

Was awed into delight, and by the charm Satiate the hungry dark with melody ;

Girt as with an interminable zone, And as a vale is watered by a flood,

Whilst that sweet bird, whose music Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Struggling with darkness—as a tuberose Peoples some. Indian dell with scents Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion which lie

Out of their dreams ; harmony became

love Like clouds above the flower from which In every soul but one.

they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden And so this man returned with axe and


was a storm

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