XXVII.

Where Mind to Marble gives a living grace—
Where Music's inspiration's fully felt-
Where Poetry all passions doth embrace

In language form'd to rouse the soul or melt—
Where too the Muse of Painting long has dwelt ;-
Can there be wanting courage-wakening men
Who have not to imperial tyrants knelt ?

Be what ye were in ages past again,

Brave Milanese, the spoilers must re-seek their den.

XXVIII.

And he who mid dark cypresses and urns
Mourns o'er the buried mighty ones, in verse
Plaintive as nightingale's sweet song-he burns
To avert from Lombardy's fair plains the curse
Of foreign slavery; what plague is worse?
In vain Bologna boasts her learned youth;
In vain Firenze is of arts the nurse;

The prisoner hates the light; and lovely truth,

When seen and not embraced, heightens our woes in sooth.

XXIX.

But Leopold's kind genius yet presides
O'er rich Etruria's gardens: there is man

Comparatively happy; there resides

Smiling Content. Though short may be the span

Of life, when princes do what good they can
They live for ever, not in marble busts,

While the poor subject's looks are pale and wan Not in some courtly verse that lauds their lusts, But in that general wealth the stranger ne'er distrusts.

XXX,

The exuberant produce Ceres here brings forth,
(For here if husbanded she cannot fail,)

Shows him at once the patriot monarch's worth.
The numerous houses, studding hill and dale,
The fattening olive with its foliage pale,
The cheerful peasantry, (for years must pass
Ere laws that tend to improve mankind can fail
In doing good, though scarce observed, alas!)
Honour his memory more than monuments of brass.

XXXI.

I dream not of Utopias, nor a race

Of patriot kings; men may be better'd yet : If power be but administer'd with grace, Let monarchs shine in robes all gorgeous; let The statesman boast his star and coronet : But as for those who first insult and scorn, Then catch within their Machiavelian net The freeborn mind, though diadems adorn Their brows, they hardly rank o'er knaves ignobly born.

Oh ITALY! rich in thy wood-cover'd mountains, Thy rainbow-crown'd falls, and their ever-green fountains; Thy skies in the thunder-storms, even, are bright, With the rapid effulgence of rose-colour'd light; Thy shores do embrace, with their vast arms, the deep, On whose blue tranquil bosom the sun loves to sleep; While silvery mists round its islets are gleaming, And gauze-clouds along the horizon are streaming; And Horace yet lives near his favourite hill; (The delicate air breathes his poetry still ;) Thy temples decay; still their ruins are seen, Half grey through old time, or with ivy half green; The fig-tree, pomegranate, pinastre, and vine, The blossoming almond-tree's blushes, are thine: But thy heroes are dust, and thy spirit is fled, And the last of thy warriors, the White-Plumed, is dead!

XXXII.

Amid rich orange-trees, whose beauteous fruit Glows like the western sun with deepen'd hue; Where carelessly the southern plants up shoot, Their green contrasting with the sky's deep blueThink ye to find Arcadian fables true?

Vain hope! pale misery sallows every face, Yet still to Nature's works full praise is due : Oft in the peasant's wretched looks ye trace Some lineaments unspoil'd as yet of manly grace.

XXXIII.

Such were my thoughts when fast from Ischia's isle
The little vessel bore me; as the glare
Of noon-day soften'd down itself awhile,
A passing breeze o'er Baia's bay so fair
Gave a delicious fragrance to the air.
Sunny Neapolis! thy loveliness

Of clime, thy fruitage, thy luxurious fare,
Pamper thy sons with sensual excess;

And warm thy daughters fair with dreams of wanton

ness!

XXXIV.

Here all is strenuous idleness! the hum
Of men, like children bustling about nought;
The bawling mountebank, and frequent drum,
Are glorious substitutes for troublous thought;
While business is unheeded and unsought.
Here to the last they whirl around; the bier
Bears to the grave some noisy trifler, caught
By death; the world's epitome is here;

The sight provokes a smile, commingled with a tear !

XXXV.

Give Italy one Master, she would thrive

Again, and triumph in her boundless stores:

But bigots with their deadening influence drive

Wealth from her lands and commerce from her shores,

While Heaven its choicest gifts in vain out pours. When Monks, in locust-swarms, oppress the soil, When the vile spy of Government explores

The people's wealth-the industrious will not toil To enrich their puny Masters with a greater spoil.

XXXVI.

Nor splendid portraitures, nor beds of state, Nor the rich ceiling's gay magnificence; Nor sumptuousness of feasts, nor massy plate, Nor all the vain adornments of expense; Nor marble statues, though Canova's, whence Beauty an almost breathing charm puts forth; Nor heads of bronze, that seem inform'd with sense, Can give to sorrowing hearts a moment's mirth, Or soften down the pangs of care-worn sons of earth!

XXXVII.

"Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow,"
Thought doth pervade the universe; we seem
More than this world can circumscribe to know;
Yet is our life but one protracted dream—
For moralizing fools an endless theme.

He, whom gaunt evil smites-whose days, though few,
In thought are numberless, he well may deem
That under Heaven there is nought that's new,

His sole delight at length fair Nature's scenes to view.