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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-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 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!

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

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;
And my spirit which so long
Darkened this swift stream of song,
Interpenetrated lie

By the glory of the sky :
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odour, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Or the mind which feeds this verse
Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon,
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs:
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like winged winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
'Mid remembered agonies,

The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.

Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony :
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulph: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it

To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell 'mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine:
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,

Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,
And the love which heals all strife
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood:
They, not it would change; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.

SCENE FROM "TASSO"

MADDALO, a Courtier. PIGNA, a Minister. MALPIGLIO, a Poet. ALBANO, an Usher. Maddalo. No access to the Duke! You have not said

That the Count Maddalo would speak with him?

Pigna. Did you inform his Grace that Signor Pigna

Waits with state papers for his signature? Malpiglio. The Lady Leonora cannot know

That I have written a sonnet to her fame,

In which I
Venus and Adonis.
You should not take my gold and serve

me not.

Albano. In truth I told her, and she smiled and said,

"If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy Art the Adonis whom I love, and he The Erymanthian boar that wounded him."

O trust to me, Signor Malpiglio, Those nods and smiles were favours worth the zechin.

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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?

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THE WOODMAN AND THE
NIGHTINGALE

A WOODMAN whose rough heart was
out of tune

(I think such hearts yet never came to good)

Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,

One nightingale in an interfluous wood
Satiate the hungry dark with melody ;-
And as a vale is watered by a flood,

-――――――

Of evening till the star of dawn may
fail,

Was interfused upon the silentness;
The folded roses and the violets pale
Heard her within their slumbers, the
abyss
Of heaven with all its planets; the dull

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky
Struggling with darkness—as a tuberose
Peoples some. Indian dell with scents
which lie

ear

Of the night-cradled earth; the loneliness
Of the circumfluous waters, -every
sphere

And every flower and beam and cloud
and wave,

sun

Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in To be consumed within the purest glow memory yet.

And every wind of the mute atmosphere,
And every beast stretched in its rugged

cave,

And every bird lulled on its mossy bough,
And every silver moth fresh from the
grave,

Which is its cradle-ever from below
Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too
far,

Of one serene and unapproached star,
As if it were a lamp of earthly light,
Unconscious, as some human lovers are,

Itself how low, how high beyond all
height

The heaven where it would perish!—
and every form

That worshipped in the temple of the
night

Was awed into delight, and by the charm
Girt as with an interminable zone,
Whilst that sweet bird, whose music
was a storm

Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion
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

close

saw

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