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All that I would have sought, and all I seek,

Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one word, 870 And that one word were Lightning, I would speak; But as it is, I live and die unheard,

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

CANTO IV.
(1818)

LXXVIII.

Oh 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

695

O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day-

700

A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

LXXIX.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe,
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago;
The Scipio's tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

705

710

Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

LXXX.

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and

Fire,

Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep, barbarian monarchs ride,

715

Where the car climb'd 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?

LXXXI.

The double night of ages, and of her.

721

Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap
All round us; we but feel our way to err:
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map,

And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap; 725
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap
Our hands, and cry 66 Eureka! it is clear-
Where but some false mirage of ruin rises near.

LXXXII.

Alas! the lofty city! and alas!

The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,

730

And Livy's pictured page!—but these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside-decay.

735

Alas for earth, for never shall we see

That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was

free!

CLXXV.

But I forget.-My Pilgrim's shrine is won,
And he and I must part,— -so let it be,-
His task and mine alike are nearly done;
Yet once more let us look upon the sea;

1570

All that I would have sought, and all I see
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe into one
And that one word were Lightning, I w
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing

CANTO IV.

(1818)

LXXVIII.

Oh Rome! my country! city of
The orphans of the heart mus
Lone mother of dead empire
In their shut breasts their
What are our woes and suf
The cypress, hear the owl,
O'er steps of broken thr
Whose agonies are evil-
A world is at our feet a-

The Niobe of natio
Childless and crow
An empty urn wit
Whose holy dust
The Scipio's tor
The very sepu!
Of their heroi
Old Tiber! th
Rise, with thy

The Goth,

Find

Have deal

She saw

And up

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niverse, and feel

yet cannot all conceal.

XXIX.

d dark blue Ocean-roll!

sweep over thee in vain; wth with ruin-his control hore;-upon the watery plain are all thy deed, nor doth remain of man's ravage, save his own,

r a moment, like a drop of rain,

1605

As into thy depths with bubbling groan, 1610 it a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

CLXXX.

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields

Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise

1615

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,

And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay.

CLXXXI.

1625

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 1621 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafa

The midland ocean breaks on him and me,

And from the Alban Mount we now behold

Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold

Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd

CLXXVI.

Upon the blue Symplegades: long years

1576

1580

Long, though not very many, since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward-and it is here; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear.

CLXXVII.

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Elements!-in whose ennobling stir

1585

1590

I feel myself exalted-Can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?

Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

CLXXVIII.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,

1595

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,

1600

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