LXVI. But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect, and most clear; LXVII. And on thy happy shore a Temple still, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. LXVIII. Pass not unblest the Genius of the place! LXIX. The roar of waters!—from the headlong height The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; LXX. And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, Is an eternal April to the ground, Making it all one emerald:-how profound From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent LXXI. To the broad column which rolls on, and shows Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes With many windings through the vale :-Look back! As if to sweep down all things in its track, Charming the eye with dread,—a matchless cataract, LXXII. Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn By the distracted waters, bears serene Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn: 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 worshipp'd 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. Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; All, save the lone Soracte's height display'd, LXXV. For our remembrance, and from out the plain Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by word In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record LXXVI. Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd Its health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII. Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Although no deeper Moralist rehearse Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart, LXXVIII. O Rome! my country! city of the soul! What are our woes and sufferance? Come and sce A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX. The Niobe of nations! there she stands, Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 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, 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? I |