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In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas II-13.)
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ;
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo !
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanza 18.)
I LOVED her from my boyhood-she to me
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe,
AN AUGUST EVENING IN ITALY.
(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 27-29.) The moon is up, and yet it is not nightSunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest !
A single star is at her side, and reigns
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
With a new colour as it gasps away,
THE AVE MARIA.
(DON JUAN, Canto iii. Stanzas 102-109.)
Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour !
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! Ave Maria ! oh, that face so fair !
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image ?—strikeThat painting is no idol—'tis too like.
Sweet hour of twilight !—in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee !
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover,-shadow'd my mind's eye.
Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ;
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.
Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ;
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void