Then turn we to our latest tribune’s name,
   From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee,
   Redeemer of dark centuries of shame —
   The friend of Petrarch—­hope of Italy —
   Rienzi! last of Romans!  While the tree
   Of freedom’s withered trunk puts forth a leaf,
   Even for thy tomb a garland let it be—­
   The forum’s champion, and the people’s chief —
Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! too brief.

CXV.

   Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
   Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
   As thine ideal breast; whate’er thou art
   Or wert,—­a young Aurora of the air,
   The nympholepsy of some fond despair;
   Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth,
   Who found a more than common votary there
   Too much adoring; whatsoe’er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

CXVI.

   The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled
   With thine Elysian water-drops; the face
   Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkled,
   Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place,
   Whose green wild margin now no more erase
   Art’s works; nor must the delicate waters sleep,
   Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base
   Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap
The rill runs o’er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep,

CXVII.

   Fantastically tangled; the green hills
   Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
   The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
   Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass;
   Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class,
   Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
   Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;
   The sweetness of the violet’s deep blue eyes,
Kissed by the breath of heaven, seems coloured by its skies.

CXVIII.

   Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
   Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating
   For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
   The purple Midnight veiled that mystic meeting
   With her most starry canopy, and seating
   Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? 
   This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting
   Of an enamoured Goddess, and the cell
Haunted by holy Love—­the earliest oracle!

CXIX.

   And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying,
   Blend a celestial with a human heart;
   And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing,
   Share with immortal transports? could thine art
   Make them indeed immortal, and impart
   The purity of heaven to earthly joys,
   Expel the venom and not blunt the dart —
   The dull satiety which all destroys—­
And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloys?