The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to

heaven Pray, - albeit but in thought, - but die

Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.

not thus.

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Man. 'Tis over

my dull eyes can fix thee not; But all things swim around me, and the

earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee

well Give me thy hand. Abbot. Cold — cold

to the heartBut yet one prayer

Alas! how fares it with thee?

410 Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die.

[MANFRED expires. Abbot. He's gone

- his soul hath ta'en its earthless Aight; Whither? I dread to think — but he is


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A single star is at her side, and reigns The Niobe of nations! there she stands, With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but Childless and crownless, in her voiceless still

woe; Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and re

An empty

within her withered mains


705 Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhætian Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;

The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; As Day and Night contending were, until The very sepulchres lie tenantless Nature reclaimed her order: gently flows Of their heroic dwellers; — dost thou The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues

flow, instil

Old Tiber, through a marble wilderThe odorous purple of a new-born rose,

ness? Which streams upon her stream, and Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle glassed within it glows,

her distress!



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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, 255
Their magical variety diffuse.
And now they change: a paler shadow

Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting

day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang

imbues With a new color as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, — till — 'tis gone

and all is gray.


The Goth, the Christian, Time, War,

Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's

She saw her glories star by star expire
And, up the steep, barbarian monarchs

ride Where the car climbed the Capitol; far

and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a

site: -
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, “here was, or is," where all is

doubly night?



Rome and Freedom




and wrap

and see

Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul! The double night of ages, and of her,
The orphans of the heart must turn to Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt

Lone mother of dead empires, and control All round us; we but feel our way to err:
In their shut breasts their petty misery. The Ocean hath his chart, the stars their
What are our woes and sufferance? Come


And Knowledge spreads them on her ample The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your


725 way

But Rome is as the desert, where we steer O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap Ye!

Our hands, and cry “Eureka! it is Whose agonies are evils of a day

clear!” A world is at our feet as fragile as our When but some false mirage of ruin rises







Alas, the lofty city! and alas,
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge sur-

pass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame

away! Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, And Livy's pictured page! — but these

shall be Her resurrection; all beside -- decay. Alas for Earth! for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when

Rome was free!


XCVIII Yet, Freedom, yet thy banner, torn but

flying, Streams like the thunder-storm against the

wind; Thy trumpet voice, though broken now

and dying, The loudest still the tempest leaves be

hind: Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the

rind, Chopped by the axe, looks rough and little

worth, But the sap lasts, – and still the seed we

find Sown deep, even in the bosom of the

North; So shall a better spring less bitter fruit

bring forth.



Desire and Disillusion

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be, And Freedom find no champion and no

child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, armed and unde

filed ? Or must such minds be nourished in the

wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the




Of cataracts, where nursing Nature

smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no



Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no

such shore?

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert; whence arise
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of

haste, Rank at the core, though tempting to the

eyes, Flowers whose wild odors breathe but

agonies, And trees whose gums are poison; such

the plants Which spring beneath her steps as Passion

Aies O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly

pants For some celestial fruit forbidden to our






But France got drunk with blood to vomit

crime, And fatal have her Saturnalia been To Freedom's



every age and clime; Because the deadly days which we have

seen, And vile Ambition, that built up between Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 870 And the base pageant last upon the scene, Are grown the pretext for the eternal

thrall Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's

worst - his second fall.

Oh Love! no habitant of earth thou art -
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, –
A faith whose martyrs are the broken

heart; But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see The naked eye, thy form, as it should be.


The mind hath made thee, as it peopled But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. heaven,

Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the Even with its own desiring phantasy,

same, And to a thought such shape and image Each idle, and all ill, and none the worstgiven,

For all are meteors with a different name, As haunts the unquenched soul — parched And Death the sable smoke where vanishes wearied wrung — and riven.

the flame.




Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 1090

Few — none find what they love or And fevers into false creation: — where,

could have loved ; Where are the forms the sculptor's soul | Though accident, blind contact, and the hath seized ?

strong In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? Necessity of loving, have removed Where are the charms and virtues which Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 1120 we dare

Envenomed with irrevocable wrong; Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men,

And Circumstance, that unspiritual god The unreached Paradise of our despair,

And miscreator, makes and helps along Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen,

Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, And overpowers the page where it would Whose touch turns Hope to dust, — the bloom again?

dust we all have trod.



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