LXXIII.

   Once more upon the woody Apennine,
   The infant Alps, which—­had I not before
   Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine
   Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar
   The thundering lauwine—­might be worshipped more;
   But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear
   Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar
   Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near,
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,

LXXIV.

   The Acroceraunian mountains of old name;
   And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly
   Like spirits of the spot, as ’twere for fame,
   For still they soared unutterably high: 
   I’ve looked on Ida with a Trojan’s eye;
   Athos, Olympus, AEtna, Atlas, made
   These hills seem things of lesser dignity,
   All, save the lone Soracte’s height displayed,
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Roman’s aid

LXXV.

   For our remembrance, and from out the plain
   Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,
   And on the curl hangs pausing:  not in vain
   May he who will his recollections rake,
   And quote in classic raptures, and awake
   The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorred
   Too much, to conquer for the poet’s sake,
   The drilled dull lesson, forced down word by word
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record

LXXVI.

   Aught that recalls the daily drug which turned
   My sickening memory; and, though Time hath taught
   My mind to meditate what then it learned,
   Yet such the fixed inveteracy wrought
   By the impatience of my early thought,
   That, with the freshness wearing out before
   My mind could relish what it might have sought,
   If free to choose, I cannot now restore
Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor.

LXXVII.

   Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
   Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse
   To understand, not feel, thy lyric flow,
   To comprehend, but never love thy verse,
   Although no deeper moralist rehearse
   Our little life, nor bard prescribe his art,
   Nor livelier satirist the conscience pierce,
   Awakening without wounding the touched heart,
Yet fare thee well—­upon Soracte’s ridge we part.

LXXVIII.

   O Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
   The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
   Lone mother of dead empires! and control
   In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
   What are our woes and sufferance?  Come and see
   The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
   O’er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye! 
   Whose agonies are evils of a day—­
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.