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With the remorse of ages; and the crown
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore,

Upon a far and foreign soil had grown,

His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled not thine own.1

LVIII

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Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd
His dust; and lies it not her Great among,
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue?
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech? No; - even his tomb
Uptorn must bear the hyæna bigot's wrong,
No more amidst the meaner dead find room,
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom ! 2

LIX

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And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust, Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Cæsar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more. Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling empire, honour'd sleeps The immortal exile; Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and weeps.

1 Petrarch was crowned with the laurel wreath at Rome in 1341. His grave was rifled in 1630.

2 Boccaccio's tombstone was torn up and ejected from the church at Certaldo, where he was buried.

LX

What is her pyramid of precious stones, Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes? The momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head.

LXI

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine,
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;
There be more marvels yet but not for mine;
For I have been accustom'd to entwine

My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields,
Than Art in galleries: though a work divine
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields

Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields

LXII

Is of another temper, and I roam
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home;
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles

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"Far other scene is Trasimene now;

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough."
Childe Harold, Canto IV, stanza lxv, p. 75.

The host between the mountains and the shore,
Where Courage falls in her despairing files,

And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore,

Reek through the sultry plain with legions scatter'd o'er,

LXIII

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds;
And such the storm of battle on this day,
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away!
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet;

Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet!

LXIV

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
The motions of their vessel; Nature's law,
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw

From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no words.

LXV

Far other scene is Thrasimene now;

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain

Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ;

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