227
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.
Bowii the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile 'horde
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po
Quaff bloed and water; nor the stranger’ssword
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so,
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend orfoe.
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him,The Roman friend of Rome ’s least-mortal mind,The friend of Tully : as my bark did skimThe bright blue waters with a fanning windCame Megara before me, and behind■ffigina lay, Piraeus on the rightsAnd Corinth on the left; I lay reclinedAlong the prow, and saw all these uniteruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight;
XLV.
For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'dBarbaric dwellings on their shatter’d site,
Which only make more mourn’d and moreendear'd
The few last rays of their far-scatter’d lightAnd the crush’d relics of their vanish’d might.The Roman saw these tombs in his own age,These sepulchres of cities, which excite^ Sad wonder, and hi-s yet surviving page•be moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil-grimage.
That page is now before me, and on minecountry’s ruin added to the massCf perish’d states he mourn’d in their decline,And I in desolation: all that wasCf then destruction is; and now, alas lRome-cRome imperial, bows her to the storm,
J-n the same dust and blackness, and we pass-The skeleton of her Titanic form,*
Wrecks of another wor^d, whose ashes still arewarm.
XLVII.
Yet, Italy ! through every other landJ-hy wrongs should wring, and shall, from sideto side;
•Mother of Arts! as once of arms; thy handW as then our guardian, and is still our guide;Parent of our Religion! whom the wideRations have knelt to for the keys of heaven!««urope, repentant of her parricide,fchall yet redeem thee, and, all backwardr» driven,
A °U the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.
XLVIII.
Arno winB ns to tbe fair white walls,Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keepsA softer feeling for her fairy halls.
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reapsGer corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leapsAo laughing life, with her redundant horn.Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps^ Was modern Luxury of Commerce bom,
buried Learning rose, redeem’d to a nemorn.
XLIX.
There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fillsThe air around with beauty; we inhaleThe ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instilsPart #f its immortality; the veilOf heaven is half undrawn ; within the paleWe stand, and in that form and face beholdWhat Mind can make, when Nature's self wouldfail;
And to the fond idolaters of oldEnvy the innate flash which such a soul couldmould:
We gaze and turn away, and know not where,Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart'Reels with its fulness; there—for ever there—Chain'd to the chariot of triumphal Art,
We stand as captives, and would not depart.Away!—there need no words nor terms precise,The paltry jargon of the marble mart,
Where Pedantry gulls Folly—we have eyes:
Blood—pulse—and breast, confirm the Dardanshepherd’s prize.
Appear’dst thou not to Paris in this guise ?
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or,
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when liesBefore thee thy own vanquish’d Lord of War?And gazing in thy face as toward a star,
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn,
Feeding on thy sweet cheek! while thy lips areWith lava kisses melting while they bum,Shower ’d on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as froman urn ?
lit.
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love,
Their full divinity inadequate
That feeling to express, or to improve.
The gods become as mortals, and man's fateHas moments like their brightest; but the weightOf earth recoils upon us;—let it go!
We can recall such visions, and create,
From what has been, or might be, things whichgrow
Into thy statue’s form, and look like gods below.Lin.
I leave to learned fingers and wise hands,
The artist and his ape, to teach and tellHow well his connoisseurship understandsThe graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell:
Let these describe the undescribable :
I would not their vile breath should crisp thestream
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell;
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dreamThat ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam.
LIV.
In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lieAshes which make it holier, dust which isEven in itself an immortality,
Though there were nothing save the past andthis,