第35章

Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep, Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, Mourning some day of glory, for the sun Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face, And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

Yet wake not from thy slumbers, - rest thee well, Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel, Thy lily-sprinkled meadows, - rest thee there, To mock all human greatness: who would dare To vent the paltry sorrows of his life Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife Of kings' ambition, and the barren pride Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea!

The Queen of double Empires! and to thee Were not the nations given as thy prey!

And now - thy gates lie open night and day, The grass grows green on every tower and hall, The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;And where thy mailed warriors stood at rest The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.

O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate, O city trammelled in the toils of Fate, Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days, But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!

Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears, From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring, Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?

Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose To crimson splendour from its grave of snows;As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter's cold;As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!

O much-loved city! I have wandered far From the wave-circled islands of my home;Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way, Clothed in the royal purple of the day:

I from the city of the violet crown Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down, And marked the 'myriad laughter' of the sea From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady;Yet back to thee returns my perfect love, As to its forest-nest the evening dove.

O poet's city! one who scarce has seen Some twenty summers cast their doublets green For Autumn's livery, would seek in vain To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, Or tell thy days of glory; - poor indeed Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed, Where the loud clarion's blast should shake the sky, And flame across the heavens! and to try Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know That never felt my heart a nobler glow Than when I woke the silence of thy street With clamorous trampling of my horse's feet, And saw the city which now I try to sing, After long days of weary travelling.

VII.

Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago, I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:

The sky was as a shield that caught the stain Of blood and battle from the dying sun, And in the west the circling clouds had spun A royal robe, which some great God might wear, While into ocean-seas of purple air Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.

Yet here the gentle stillness of the night Brings back the swelling tide of memory, And wakes again my passionate love for thee:

Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly bloom;And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow, And send up lilies for some boy to mow.

Then before long the Summer's conqueror, Rich Autumn-time, the season's usurer, Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees, And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;And after that the Winter cold and drear.

So runs the perfect cycle of the year.

And so from youth to manhood do we go, And fall to weary days and locks of snow.

Love only knows no winter; never dies:

Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies And mine for thee shall never pass away, Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star, The night's ambassador, doth gleam afar, And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.

Perchance before our inland seas of gold Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves, Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves, I may behold thy city; and lay down Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon, Which turns our midnight into perfect noon, Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.

End