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Tegrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar. 5) Like Scipio, buried by the uploraiding shore; ) Thy factions. in their worse than cisil war, Proscribed the bard whose same for evermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages, and the crown 57) Which Petrarch's laoreate brow supremely wore,

Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, bis fame, his grase, though ridled- not thine own.

LVIIL. Boccaccio to his pareat earth bequeath'd 55) His dust, - and lies it not her Great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed Oʻer him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue? That mosie in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No:- even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong,

No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom!

LIX And Santa Croce wants their mighty dast; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Caesar'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.

Lx. What is her pyramid of precious stones ? 34) Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hnes 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 feeis, 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 Carthagioian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files, and

And torrents, swoln 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 phrensy, whose convulsion blinds To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 35) 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 (birds Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the 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; Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta'enA little rill of scanty stream and bed A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain;

And Sanguinetto tells ve where the dead Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red.

LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wav Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear;

Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughtersA mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters!

LXVII.
And on thy happy shore a temple still,
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,
Upon a mild declivity of hill,
Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps
Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps
The finny darter with the glittering scales,
Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps:

While, chance, some scatter'd water - lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its

bubbling tales.

LXVIII.
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place!
If through the air a zephyr more serene
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace
Along his margin a more eloquent green,
If on the heart the freshness of the scene
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust
of weary life a moment lave it clean

With Nature's baptism, - 'tis to him ye must Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust.

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LXIX. The roar of waters !- from the headlong height Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, And boil in endless torture, while the sweat Of their great agony, wrung out from this

Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,

LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald: - how profound The gulf! and how the giant element From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,

Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent

LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows More like the fountain of an infant sea Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes Of a new world, than only thus to be Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, With many windings, through the vale : - Look

back! Lo! where it comes like an eternity,

As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread, - a matchless ca. taract, 37)

LXXII. Horribly beautifull but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 38) Like Hope upon a death - bed, and, unworn Its steady dyes, while all around is torn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn :

Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, Love watching Madness with unalterable mien.

Julia Alpinula

Hic jaceo
Lafelicis patris, infelix proles

Deae Aventiae Sacerdos
Exorare patris necem non por
Male mori in fatis ille erke

Vixi annos xxut. I know of no human compositions as this, nor a history of deeper intese are the names and actions which out perish, and to which we turn with healthy tenderness, from the wretehed and detail of a confused mass of conquests an with which the mind is roused for a tiny and feverish sympathy, from whence Tk. leagth with all the nausea consequente toxication,

Ire the sun's face, like yonder Alpine

Stanza avit. th This is written in the eye of Hont Blan 3d, isto), which even at this distance dan

July ith) ( this day observed for en the disciuet retieetion of Mont Blade

Argentiere ia the calm of the lake, wlalt eussing in my boat, the distance of the taius from their mirror is c0 miles

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