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ARQUA.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 30-32.)

There is a tomb in Arqua ;-rear'd in air,
Pillard in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes :

Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride-
An honest pride—and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise

A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form’d his monumental fane.

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd,

For they can lure no further ; and the ray
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday.

CLITUMNUS.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 66, 67.)

But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave
Of the most living crystal that was e'er
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters !

;
And most serene of aspect, and most clear;

Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughtersA mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters !

And on thy happy shore a Temple still,
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,
Upon a mild declivity of hill,
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ;

While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales.

TERNI.

(Childe HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 69-72.)
THE roar of waters !—from the headlong height
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald :-how profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent

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To the broad column which rolls on, and shows
More like the fountain of an infant sea
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes
Of a new world, than only thus to be
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly,
With many windings, through the vale :-Look back!
Lo! where it comes like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track,
Charming the eye with dread, a matchless cataract,

Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge,
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn,
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn
By the distracted waters, bears serene
Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn :

Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene,
Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.

ROME,

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 78, 79.)

On Rome! my country ! city of the soul !
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye !

Whose agonies are evils of a day-
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow,

Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

THE COLISEUM.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto iv. Stanzas 139-145.)

And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause,
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughter'd? wherefore, but because
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure. —Wherefore not ?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws

Of worms—on battle-plains or listed spot ?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

I see before me the Gladiator lie :
He leans upon his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now

The arena swims around him—he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch

who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not—his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away :
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,

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