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And partly that bright names will hallow song;
And his was of the bravest; and when shower'd
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along,

Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine-young,

gallant Howard !

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,
And mine were nothing, had I such to give;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which, living, waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wide field revive
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive

With all her reckless birds upon the wing,
I turn’d from all she brought to those she could not

bring.

BYRON.

ITALIAN SUN-SET.

THE moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli’s mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be,
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,
Where the Day joins the past Eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest
Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest.

A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Roll’d o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order: gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it

glows.

Fillid with the face of heaven, which, from afar,
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new colour, as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone, and all is gray.

BYRON.

THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS.

Now slain is King Amulius,

Of the great Sylvian line,
Who reigned in Alba Longa,

On the throne of Aventine.
Slain is the Pontiff Camers,

Who spake the words of doom :

“ The Children to the Tiber, The mother to the tomb."

In Alba's lake no fisher

His net to-day is flinging :
On the dark rind of Alba's oaks

To-day no axe is ringing :
The yoke hangs o'er the manger :

The scythe lies in the hay :
Through all the Alban villages
No work is done to-day.

And every Alban burgher

Hath donned his whitest gown ; And every head in Alba

Weareth a poplar crown; And every Alban door-post

With boughs and flowers is gay ; For to-day the dead are living;

The lost are found to-day.

They were doomed by a bloody king:

They were doomed by a lying priest: They were cast on the raging flood :

They were tracked by the raging beast. Raging beast and raging flood

Alike have spared the prey; And to-day the dead are living:

The lost are found to-day.

The troubled river knew them,

And smoothed his yellow foam,
And gently rocked the cradle

That bore the fate of Rome.
The ravening she-wolf knew them,

And licked them o'er and o’er,

And gave them of her own fierce milk,

Rich with raw flesh and gore. Twenty winters, twenty springs,

Since then have rolled away ; And to-day the dead are living:

The lost are found to-day.

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So they marched along the lake ;

They marched by fold and stall, By corn-field and by vineyard,

Unto the old man's hall.

In the hall-gate sate Capys,

Capys the sightless seer;
From head to foot he trembled,

As Romulus drew near.
And up stood stiff his thin white hair,

And his blind eyes flashed fire : “Hail! foster child of the wondrous nurse!

Hail! son of the wondrous sire !

“But thou-what dost thou here

In the old man's peaceful hall ? What doth the eagle in the coop,

The bison in the stall ?

Our corn fills many a garner;

Our vines clasp many a tree; Our flocks are white on many a hill;

But these are not for thee.

“From sunrise until sunset

All earth shall hear thy fame:
A glorious city thou shalt build,

And name it by thy name:
And there unquenched through ages,

Like Vesta's sacred fire,
Shall live the spirit of thy nurse,

The spirit of thy sire.

“ The ox toils through the furrow,

Obedient to the goad;
The patient ass, up flinty paths,

Plods with his weary load :
With whine and bound the spaniel

His master's whistle hears ;
And the sheep yields her patiently

To the loud clashing shears.

“But thy nurse will hear no master,

Thy nurse will bear no load; And woe to them that shear her,

And woe to them that goad ! When all the pack, loud baying,

Her bloody lair surrounds, She dies in silence, biting hard,

Amidst the dying hounds.

“ Pomona loves the orchard;

And Liber loves the wine;

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