XLVI. That page is now before me, and on mine Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline; Of then destruction is; and now, alas! Rome Rome imperial, bows her to the storm; In the same dust and blackness, and we pass The skeleton of her Titanic form, 24 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. XLVII. Yet, Italy! through every other land Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side; Mother of Arts! as once of arms; thy hand Was then our guardian, and is still our guide; Parent of our Religion! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yed redeem thee, and, all backward driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. XLVIII. But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps XLIX. There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 25 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould: L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, LI. Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an urn! LII. Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, That feeling to express, or to improve, The gods become as mortals, and man's fate We can recal such visions, and create, From what has been, or might be, things which grow Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. LIII. I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, I would not their vile breath should crisp the stream LIV. In Sancta Croce's holy precincts lie 7 Even in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this, Which have relaps'd to chaos: here repose The starry Galileo, with his woes; HereMachiavelli's earth, return'd to whence it rose.29 LV. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation: - Italy! Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, |