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LXXV.

From Sorrow's hopeless breast: and, as in Vision,

Scenes of our youth are pictured on our sleep,
So in that Stream, whose quiet is elysian,
The olives their reflected shadows keep;

On the rich bank the wild flowers seem to steep
Themselves in their own fragrance! and to woo
Memory our youth's closed portals to o'erleap,
When life was fresh as here, as bright, and new,

When fancy hued the world, and love believed her true !

LXXVI.

But lo, how like a silent exhalation,

O'er yon green bank, CLITUMNUS rears his shrine!

Is that all delicate Temple the creation

Of human hands? As clasps the elm the vine,

So sculptured leaves round those fair columns twine;

The Roman felt the genius of the place,

And offered thus his gratitude; divine

Was their dark faith; yea, an eternal grace

Lingers around it, for they left on earth no trace,

LXXVII.

Where they embodied not in living forms
The Beautiful and Good we see around,

How beautifully true! man's, nature's storms,
Have hurled those graceful fabrics to the ground;
A holier faith their shrines and spires have crowned,
Yet life shows nothing worthier than to haste,
And pour the worship of our hearts profound
Above their spoils; and, o'er the desolate waste,
To feel the faith of Nature scarce in us effaced.

LXXVIII.

Again the Mountains opening gates unfold:
Lo-where the shadows darkening o'er her head,

Chaos of crags beneath her footstool rolled,
Sits Desolation! and beneath ye spread,

The Beautiful is sleeping in her bed;
While, like a paradise, expands behind,

The infinite of landscape; hill and mead,

Woods, towers, and streams which through the dis

tance wind,

Till lost 'midst azure hills which seem in heaven en

shrined.

I

LXXIX.

The breasting road hewn round the giant hill,

With nodding cliff, and precipice o'erhung;

The imminent brink which, gazing o'er, doth thrill:
The heart-the pines against the ledges clung:
The muleteer, who, midway down, seems swung
On air! hark-rising on the torrent's roar,

His broken song, like witch-notes upward flung!
Oh! how that sound wakes on a foreign shore,

Our home, our Father-land whose memories slept be

fore!

LXXX.

A gorge cleft through the mountain's mighty heart:

Is't her volcanic breathings that we hear?

Or pent up winds, or earth's spasmodic start?
No! 'tis the TERNI'S waters falls are near!
On-on-for in the distance now appear

Clouds rising thick as from the abyss of hell;
While louder bursts upon the startled ear

The sounds which their eternal conflict tell,

Loud as o'er distant storms the Thunder's sinking knell.

LXXXI.

Lo!-wildly hurrying-wreathed in mist and foam,

Flashing like sheeted lightning on the sight,

Velino rushes from his Mountain home,

All beautiful but terrible in might!

One desperate bound from yonder cloud-capped height,
And then he falls in thunder from that throne
Whence shot he like an Angel of the Light!

High o'er the din and wreck his crown is shown
Of rain-bow glories-halo of his greatness flown,

LXXXII.

Still hovering o'er him in his ruin! there,
Writhing in that engulphing chasm he lies,
Yet in the very madness of despair,

Robed in the hues and light of his lost skies!

Behold in eddying wreaths how o'er him rise

The sweat-the smoke-the steam of his wild breath

Wrung from the efforts of his agonies:

How lend they, darkening 'gainst the mountain

heath,

A horror to the scene-this strife of life and death!

LXXXIII.

Ah! yet, even on yon very brink of strife,

How Beauty in her heavenliest sleep is lying:

Talk'st thou of death? behold the Source of Life!

See, how the flowers their sweetest breath are sighing, Mosses, and leaves, and trees to them replying, Nourished by this eternal cloud, which makes

Oasis in the desert! nought is dying,

Or sad in nature: 'tis our spirit takes

Its gloom or light from scenes whose feeling it awakes.

LXXXIV.

Voice of the Desert! echo of the truth

Which every leaf doth answer-fare thee well!

Lo, how like Time in his immortal youth,
Thou sweep'st resistless down the craggy dell,
Conquering or crushing every obstacle;

Until, like settling age, with brow o'ercast,

Thou glidest toward the Deep; stern Oracle!

Well dost thou show our course of manhood past:

Our race began like thine-be thine our rest at last!

END OF CANTO II.

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