CX.

Italia! too, Italia! looking on thee,

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages,
Since the fierce Carthagenian almost won thee,
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages,
Who glorify thy consecrated pages;

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still
The fount at which the panting mind assuages
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill,
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill.

CXI.

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme
Renew'd with no kind auspices :-to feel
We are not what we have been, and to deem
We are not what we should be,-and to steel
The heart against itself; and to conceal,
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,—
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,-
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought,

Is a stern task of soul:-No matter,-it is taught.

CXII.

And for these words, thus woven into song,

It
may be that they are a harmless wile,-
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile
My breast, or that of others, for a while.
Fame is the thirst of youth,-but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone,-remember'd or forgot.

CXIII.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee-

Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud
In worship of an echo; in the crowd

They could not deem me one of such; I stood

Among them, but not of them; in a shroud

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could,
Had I not filed* my mind, which thus itself subdued.

CXIV.

I have not loved the world, nor the world me,

But let us part fair foes; I do believe,

Though I have found them not, that there may be

Words which arehthings, hopes which will not deceive,

And virtues whic are merciful, nor weave

Snares for the failing; I would also deem

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve;†

"If it be thus,

*For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind."-MACBETH.-B.

TIt is said by Rochefoucault, that there is always something in the misfortunes of men's best friends not displeasing to them."-B,

That two, or one, are almost what they seem.-
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

CXV.

My daughter! with thy name this song begun-
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end-
I see thee not,-I hear thee not,-but none
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend
To whom the shadows of far years extend:
Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold,
My voice shall with thy future visions blend,
And reach into thy heart,-when mine is cold,-
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.

CXVI.

To aid thy mind's development, to watch
Thy dawn of little joys,-to sit and see
Almost thy very growth,-to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects,-wonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,

And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me;
Yet this was in my nature :-as it is,

I know not what is there, yet something like to this.

CXVII.

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
I know that thou wilt love me; though my name
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught
With desolation,-and a broken claim :

Though the grave closed between us,-'twere the same,
I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

My blood from out thy being were an aim,

And an attainment,-all would be in vain,—

Still thou would'st love me, still that more than life retain

CXVIII.

The child of love,-though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements,-and thine no less.
As yet such are around thee,-but thy fire
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers; O'er the sea,
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me

ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

"Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo

Invenies ?"

JUVENAL, Sat. x.

"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity.

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till- "-GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p., 220.

"TIS done-but yesterday a King!
And arm'd with Kings to strive-
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject-yet alive!

Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?

Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.

With might unquestion'd,-power to save,-
Thine only gift hath been the grave

To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
To after warriors more

Than high philosophy can preach,
And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore

Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife*_
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!

The victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate
A suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope,

That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,t
Dream'd not of the rebound;

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Alone-how look'd he round?

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Romant when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home,-
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!

His only glory was that hour

Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,

A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well;§

Yet better had he neither known

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-

"Certaminis gaudia,"-the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons given in Cassiodorus.-B.

† Milo,

Sylla,-B.

§ Charles V., Emperor of Germany.

Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,

It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean!

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him.
Who thus can hoard his own!

And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne!
Fair Freedon! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Ör deepen every stain:

If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,
To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weighed in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;

Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away:

But yet methought the living great

Some higher sparks should animate,

To dazzle and dismay :

Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth

Of these the Conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,*

Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem;
"Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,t
And gaze upon the sea;

That element may meet thy smile-
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!

Maria Louisa.

The island of Elba, in the Mediterranean,