XXV.

   But my soul wanders; I demand it back
   To meditate amongst decay, and stand
   A ruin amidst ruins; there to track
   Fall’n states and buried greatness, o’er a land
   Which was the mightiest in its old command,
   And is the loveliest, and must ever be
   The master-mould of Nature’s heavenly hand,
   Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,
The beautiful, the brave—­the lords of earth and sea.

XXVI.

   The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome! 
   And even since, and now, fair Italy! 
   Thou art the garden of the world, the home
   Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;
   Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
   Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
   More rich than other climes’ fertility;
   Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

XXVII.

   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!

XXVIII.

   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
   Rolled o’er the peak of the far Rhaetian hill,
   As Day and Night contending were, until
   Nature reclaimed 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 glassed within it glows,

XXIX.

   Filled 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 grey.

XXX.

   There is a tomb in Arqua;—­reared in air,
   Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose
   The bones of Laura’s lover:  here repair
   Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
   The pilgrims of his genius.  He arose
   To raise a language, and his land reclaim
   From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 
   Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.