With the remorse of ages; and the crown Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled not thine own.1 LVIII Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd LIX 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 My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII Is of another temper, and I roam "Far other scene is Trasimene now; Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain The host between the mountains and the shore, 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; Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 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 ; |