Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold, Defies the power which crushed thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. XCI. Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; b A thousand hearts beat happily; and when b Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell. XXII. Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance; let joy be unconfined; · No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm, arm! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar ! XXIV. Ah, then and there was hurrying to and fro, XXV. And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come, they come!" XXVII. And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, Over the unreturning brave,—alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. XXVIII. Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay. The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, - in one red burial blent. Rider and horse, — friend, foe, GREAT SOULS LONELY. CANTO III. XLV. He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find Must look down on the hate of those below. And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. A STORM IN THE ALPS. XCII. THE sky is changed! and such a change! O night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue; And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! VENICE. CANTO IV. I. I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times when many a subject land Looked to the wingéd Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles. II. She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, And such she was: her daughters had their dowers III. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, IV. But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. THE OCEAN. CANTO IV. CLXXVIII. THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, CLXXIX. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. CLXXX. His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him, thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay. CLXXXI. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls |