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Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and
the brave,
Native to thee as summer to thy skies,
Conquerors on foreign shores and the far


Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;

For thee alone they have no arm to save,
And all thy recompense is in their fame,
A noble one to them, but not to thee -
Shall they be glorious, and thou still
the same?

Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be
The being-and even yet he may be born-
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free,
And see thy diadem, so changed and worn
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced;
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn,
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds


Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to
Flattery's trebles,

He toils through all, still trembling to
be wrong:

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels,

Should rise up in high treason to his brain,
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with
In's mouth, lest truth should stammer
through his strain.
But out of the long file of sonneteers
There shall be some who will not sing
in vain,

And he, their prince, shall rank among my
And love shall be his torment; but his
Shall make an immortality of tears,
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief
Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green
a leaf.

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen,
Such as all they must breathe who are | But in a farther age shall rise along
The banks of Po two greater still than he;
The world which smiled on him shall do
them wrong

By servitude, and have the mind in prison.
Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe
Some voices shall be heard, and earth
shall listen;

Poets shall follow in the path I show,
And make it broader;the same brilliant sky
Which cheers the birds to song shall bid
them glow,
And raise their notes as natural and high;
Tuneful shall be their numbers: they
shall sing

Many of love, and some of liberty,
But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing,
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze
All free and fearless as the feather'd king,
But fly more near the earth; how many a

Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small

In all the prodigality of praise!
And language, eloquently false, evince
The harlotry of genius, which,like beauty,
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence,
And looks on prostitution as a duty.

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall
As guest is slave, his thoughts become
a booty,
And the first day which sees the chain enthral
A captive, sees his half of manhood gone-
The soul's emasculation saddens all
His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne
Quails from his inspiration, bound to

How servile is the task to please alone!
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's


And royal leisure, nor too much prolong
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and
Or force, or forge fit argument of song!

Till they are ashes and repose with me."
The first will make an epoch with his lyre,
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry:
His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire,
Like that of heaven, immortal, and his

Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire;
Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme,
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought
By the transparency of his bright dream. —
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood,
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem;
He, too, shall sing of arms, and christian

Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp

Conflict, and final triumph of the brave
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp
Their hearts from their great purpose,
until wave

The red-cross banners where the first
red Cross
Was crimson'd from his veins who died
to save,

Shall be his sacred argument; the loss
Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame
Contested for a time, while the smooth


Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name,
And call captivity a kindness, meant

To shield him from insanity or shame,
Such shall be his meet guerdon! who was


To be Christ's Laureate they reward him well!

Florence dooms me but death or banishment,

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell, Harder to bear and less deserved, for I Had stung the factions which I strove to quell; But this meek man, who with a lover's eye Will look on earth and heaven, and who will deign

To embalm with his celestial flattery As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, What will he do to merit such a doom? Perhaps he'll love,- and is not love in vain Torture enough without a living tomb?

Yet it will be so- he and his compeer, The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume In penury and pain too many a year,

And, dying in despondency, bequeath To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear,

A heritage enriching all who breathe With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, And to their country a redoubled wreath, Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unrol Through her Olympiads two such names, though one

Of hers be mighty ;-and is this the whole Of such men's destiny beneath the sun? Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling

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Earth's mist with their pure pinions not

And die, or are degraded, for the mind
Succumbs to long infection, and despair,
And vulture-passions flying close behind,
Await the moment to assail and tear;
And when at length the winged wander-
ers stoop,

Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell Swoop.

Yet some have been untouch'd, who learn'd to bear, Some whom no power could ever force to droop, Who could resist themselves even, hardest


And task most hopeless! but some such have been,

And if my name amongst the number were, That destiny austere, and yet serene,

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest;

The Alp's snow-summit nearer heaven is


Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest, Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung,

While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning breast

A temporary torturing flame is wrung,
Shines for a night of terror, then repels
Its fire back to the hell from whence it
The hell which in its entrails ever dwells.


MANY are poets who have never penn'd Their inspiration, and perchance the best: They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd them, and rejoin'd the


The god within Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest Than those who are degraded by the jars Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame,

Conquerors of high renown, but full of


Many are poets but without the name,
For what is poesy but to create
From overfeeling good or ill; and aim
At an external life beyond our fate,

And be the new Prometheus of new men,
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then
too late,
Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,

And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who,having lavish'd his high gift in vain, Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the seashore?

So be it: we can bear.—But thus all they, Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power Which still recoils from its encumbering clay

Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er The form which their creations may essay, Are bards; the kindled marble's bust may


More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, Or deify the canvas till it shine With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated: and the line Of poesy which peoples but the air

With thought and beings of our thought reflected,

Can do no more: then let the artist share The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected Faints o'er the labour unapproved — Alas! Despair and Genius are too oft connected. Within the ages which before me pass,

Art shall resume and equal even the sway Which with Apelles and old Phidias She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.

Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive The Grecian forms at least from their decay, And Roman souls at last again shall live In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, And temples, loftier than the old temples, give

New wonders to the world; and while still

stands The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall


A dome, its image, while the base expands Into a fane surpassing all before, Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in: ne'er

Such sight hath been unfolded by a door As this, to which all nations shall repair And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven.

And the bold architect unto whose care The daring charge to raise it shall be given, Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord,

Whether into the marble-chaos driven His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, Or hues of hell be by his pencil pour'd Over the damn'd before theJudgment-throne, Such as I saw them, such as all shall see, Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, The stream of his great thoughts shall spring

from me, The Ghibelline, who traversed the three realms

Which form the empire of eternity. Amidst the clash of swords and clang of helms,

The age which I anticipate, no less Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms

Calamity the nations with distress,

The genius of my country shall arise, A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, Lovely in all its branches to all eyes, Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, Wafting its native incense through the skies. Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn

and gaze On canvas or on stone; and they who mar All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise, Shall feel the power of that which they destroy;

And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise To tyrants, who but take her for a toy, Emblems and monuments, and prostitute Her charms to pontiffs proud, who but employ

The man of genius as the meanest brute To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, To sell his labours, and his soul to boot : Who toils for nations may be poor indeed But free; who sweats for monarchs is no


Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and fee'd,

Stands sleek and slavish bowing at his door. Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, Least like to thee in attributes divine, Tread on the universal necks that bow, And then assure us that their rights are thine?

And how is it that they, the sons of fame, Whose inspiration seems to them to shine From high, they whom the nations oftest


Must pass their days in penury or pain, Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame,

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain?
Or if their destiny be born aloof
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain,
In their own souls sustain a harder proof,
The inner war of passions deep and fierce?
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed
my roof,

I loved thee, but the vengeance of my verse,
The hate of injuries, which every year
Makes greater and accumulates my curse,
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear,
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom,
and even that,

The most infernal of all evils here, The sway of petty tyrants in a state; For such sway is not limited to kings, And demagogues yield to them but in


As swept off sooner; in all deadly things Which make men hate themselves, and one another, In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother,

In rank oppression in its rudest shape, The faction-Chief is but the Sultan's brother, And the worst despot's far less human ape: Florence! when this lone spirit, which so long

Yearn'd as the captive toiling at escape, To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, An exile, saddest of all prisoners, Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge | Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass.

for bars,

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The limits of man's common malice, for
All that a citizen could be I was;
Raised by thy will,all thine in peace or war,
And for this thou hast warr'd with me.——
"T'is done:

I may not overleap the eternal bar
Built up between us, and will die alone,
Beholding, with the dark eye of a seer,
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown,
Foretelling them to those who will not hear,
As in the old time, till the hour be come
When Truth shall strike their eyes
through many a tear,
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.


OUR life is twofold; Sleep hath Its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own

And a wide realm of wild reality;
And dreams in their development have

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking

They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,-they


But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes
of men
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing-the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful :
And both were young - yet not alike in

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Like sibyls of the future; they have power-Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not— what | they will,

There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look’d
Upon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers,
She was his voice; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words; she was his

And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creation of the mind ?—The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
With beings brighter than have been, and | Which colour'd all his objects:-he had


A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recal a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of mild declivity, the last
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,


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To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and

And his cheek change tempestuously—his


Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share :
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother but no more; 'twas much,
| For brotherless she was, save in the name

Her infant-friendship had bestow'd on him; | Reposing from the noon-tide sultriness, Herself the solitary scion left

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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake;- he was alone And pale, and pacing to and fro; anon He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced

Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere

With a convulsion-then arose again,
And with his teeth and quivering hands
did tear

What he had written, but he shed no tears,
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow
Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,
The Lady of his love re-entered there;
She was serene and smiling then, and yet
She knew she was by him beloved,-she

For quickly comes such knowledge, that
his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched, but she saw not all.
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with
slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles: he

From out the massy gate of that old Hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds

Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt

With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay

Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names
Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly


Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with One Who did not love her better:-in her home A thousand leagues from his,- her native home,

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,
Daughters and sons of Beauty, but behold!
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
What could her grief be?-she had all she

And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,
Or ill-repress'd affliction,her pure thoughts.
What could her grief be?-she had loved
him not,

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd Upon her mind—a spectre of the past.

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