Part II

Hast thou a scene that is not spreadWith records of thy glory fled?A monument that doth not tellThe tale of liberty’s farewell?Italia! thou art but a graveWhere flowers luxuriate o’er the brave,And nature gives her treasures birthO’er all that hath been great on earth.Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiledWhen thou wert freedom’s favour’d child:Though fane and tomb alike are low,Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow;And, robed in that exulting ray,Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay--Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent,In nature’s pomp magnificent!What marvel if, when all was lost,Still on thy bright enchanted coast,Though many an omen warn’d him thence,Linger’d the lord of eloquence.Still gazing on the lovely sky,Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die?Like him, who would not linger there,Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair?Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell,Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell?Hath not thy pure and genial airBalm for all sadness but despair?No! there are pangs whose deep-worn traceNot all thy magic can efface!Hearts by unkindness wrung may learnThe world and all its gifts to spurn;Time may steal on with silent tread,And dry the tear that mourns the dead,May change fond love, subdue regret,And teach e’en vengeance to forget:But thou, Remorse! there is no charmThy sting, avenger, to disarm!Vain are bright suns and laughing skiesTo soothe thy victim’s agonies:The heart once made thy burning throne,Still, while it beats, is thine alone.

In vain for Otho’s joyless eyeSmile the fair scenes of Italy,As through her landscapes’ rich arrayTh’ imperial pilgrim bends his way.Thy form, Crescentius! on his sightRises when nature laughs in light,Glides round him at the midnight hour,Is present in his festal bower,With awful voice and frowning mien,By all but him unheard, unseen.Oh! thus to shadows of the graveBe every tyrant still a slave!

Where, through Gargano’s woody dells,O’er bending oaks the north wind swells,A sainted hermit’s lowly tombIs bosom’d in umbrageous gloom,In shades that saw him live and dieBeneath their waving canopy.’Twas his, as legends tell, to shareThe converse of immortals there;Around that dweller of the wildThere “bright appearances” have smiled,And angel-wings at eve have beenGleaming the shadowy boughs between.And oft from that secluded bowerHath breathed, at midnight’s calmer hour,A swell of viewless harps, a soundOf warbled anthems pealing round.Oh, none but voices of the skyMight wake that thrilling harmony,Whose tones, whose very echoes madeAn Eden of the lonely shade!Years have gone by; the hermit sleepsAmidst Gargano’s woods and steeps;Ivy and flowers have half o’ergrownAnd veil’d his low sepulchral stone:Yet still the spot is holy, stillCelestial footsteps haunt the hill;And oft the awe-struck mountaineerAërial vesper-hymns may hearAround those forest-precincts float,Soft, solemn, clear, but still remote.Oft will Affliction breathe her plaintTo that rude shrine’s departed saint,And deem that spirits of the blestThere shed sweet influence o’er her breast.

And thither Otho now repairs,To soothe his soul with vows and prayers;And if for him, on holy ground,The lost one, Peace, may yet be found,Midst rocks and forests, by the bedWhere calmly sleep the sainted dead,She dwells, remote from heedless eye,With nature’s lonely majesty.

Vain, vain the search!--his troubled breastNor vow nor penance lulls to rest:The weary pilgrimage is o’er,The hopes that cheer’d it are no more.Then sinks his soul, and day by dayYouth’s buoyant energies decay.The light of health his eye hath flown,The glow that tinged his cheek is gone.Joyless as one on whom is laidSome baleful spell that bids him fade,Extending its mysterious powerO’er every scene, o’er every hour:E’en thus he withers; and to himItalia’s brilliant skies are dim.He withers--in that glorious climeWhere Nature laughs in scorn of Time;And suns, that shed on all belowTheir full and vivifying glow,From him alone their power withhold,And leave his heart in darkness cold.Earth blooms around him, heaven is fair--He only seems to perish there.

Yet sometimes will a transient smilePlay o’er his faded cheek awhile,When breathes his minstrel boy a strainOf power to lull all earthly pain--So wildly sweet, its notes might seemTh’ ethereal music of a dream,A spirit’s voice from worlds unknown,Deep thrilling power in every tone!Sweet is that lay! and yet its flowHath language only given to woe;And if at times its wakening swellSome tale of glory seems to tell,Soon the proud notes of triumph die,Lost in a dirge’s harmony.Oh! many a pang the heart hath proved,Hath deeply suffer’d, fondly loved,Ere the sad strain could catch from thenceSuch deep impassion’d eloquence!Yes! gaze on him, that minstrel boy--He is no child of hope and joy!Though few his years, yet have they beenSuch as leave traces on the mien,And o’er the roses of our primeBreathe other blights than those of time.

Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d.Oh! there are sorrows which impartA sternness foreign to the heart,And, rushing with an earthquake’s power,That makes a desert in an hour,Rouse the dread passions in their course,As tempests wake the billows’ force!--’Tis sad, on youthful Guido’s face,The stamp of woes like these to trace.Oh! where can ruins awe mankindDark as the ruins of the mind?

His mien is lofty, but his gazeToo well a wandering soul betrays:His full dark eye at times is brightWith strange and momentary light,Whose quick uncertain flashes throwO’er his pale cheek a hectic glow:And oft his features and his airA shade of troubled mystery wear,A glance of hurried wildness, fraughtWith some unfathomable thought.Whate’er that thought, still unexpress’dDwells the sad secret in his breast;The pride his haughty brow revealsAll other passion well conceals--He breathes each wounded feeling’s toneIn music’s eloquence alone;His soul’s deep voice is only pour’dThrough his full song and swelling chord.

He seeks no friend, but shuns the trainOf courtiers with a proud disdain;And, save when Otho bids his layIts half unearthly power essayIn hall or bower the heart to thrill,His haunts are wild and lonely still.Far distant from the heedless throng,He roves old Tiber’s banks along,Where Empire’s desolate remainsLie scatter’d o’er the silent plains;Or, lingering midst each ruin’d shrineThat strews the desert Palatine,With mournful yet commanding mien,Like the sad genius of the scene,Entranced in awful thought appearsTo commune with departed years.Or at the dead of night, when RomeSeems of heroic shades the home;When Tiber’s murmuring voice recallsThe mighty to their ancient halls;When hush’d is every meaner sound,And the deep moonlight-calm aroundLeaves to the solemn scene aloneThe majesty of ages flown--A pilgrim to each hero’s tomb,He wanders through the sacred gloom;And midst those dwellings of decayAt times will breathe so sad a lay,So wild a grandeur in each tone,’Tis like a dirge for empires gone!

Awake thy pealing harp again,But breathe a more exulting strain,Young Guido! for awhile forgotBe the dark secrets of thy lot,And rouse th’ inspiring soul of songTo speed the banquet’s hour along!--The feast is spread, and music’s callIs echoing through the royal hall,And banners wave and trophies shineO’er stately guests in glittering line;And Otho seeks awhile to chaseThe thoughts he never can erase,And bid the voice, whose murmurs deepRise like a spirit on his sleep--The still small voice of conscience--die,Lost in the din of revelry.On his pale brow dejection lowers,But that shall yield to festal hours;A gloom is in his faded eye,But that from music’s power shall fly;His wasted cheek is wan with care,But mirth shall spread fresh crimson there.Wake, Guido! wake thy numbers high,Strike the bold chord exultingly!And pour upon the enraptured earSuch strains as warriors love to hear!Let the rich mantling goblet flow,And banish aught resembling woe;And if a thought intrude, of powerTo mar the bright convivial hour,Still must its influence lurk unseen,And cloud the heart--but not the mien!

Away, vain dream!--on Otho’s brow,Still darker lower the shadows now;Changed are his features, now o’erspreadWith the cold paleness of the dead;Now crimson’d with a hectic dye,The burning flush of agony!His lip is quivering, and his breastHeaves with convulsive pangs oppress’d;Now his dim eye seems fix’d and glazed,And now to heaven in anguish raised;And as, with unavailing aid,Around him throng his guests dismay’d,He sinks--while scarce his struggling breathHath power to falter--“This is death!”

Then rush’d that haughty child of song,Dark Guido, through the awe-struck throng.Fill’d with a strange delirious light,His kindling eye shone wildly bright;And on the sufferer’s mien awhileGazing with stem vindictive smile,A feverish glow of triumph dyedHis burning cheek, while thus he cried:--“Yes! these are death-pangs--on thy browIs set the seal of vengeance now!Oh! well was mix’d the deadly draught,And long and deeply hast thou quaff’d;And bitter as thy pangs may be,They are but guerdons meet from me!Yet these are but a moment’s throes--Howe’er intense, they soon shall close.Soon shalt thou yield thy fleeting breath--My life hath been a lingering death,Since one dark hour of woe and crime,A blood-spot on the page of time!

“Deem’st thou my mind of reason void?It is not frenzied--but destroy’d!Ay! view the wreck with shuddering thought--That work of ruin thou hast wrought!The secret of thy doom to tell,My name alone suffices well!Stephania!--once a hero’s bride!Otho! thou know’st the rest--he died.Yes! trusting to a monarch’s word,The Roman fell, untried, unheard!And thou, whose every pledge was vain,How couldst thou trust in aught again?

“He died, and I was changed--my soul,A lonely wanderer, spurn’d control.From peace, and light, and glory hurl’d,The outcast of a purer world,I saw each brighter hope o’erthrown,And lived for one dread task alone.The task is closed, fulfill’d the vow--The hand of death is on thee now.Betrayer! in thy turn betray’d,The debt of blood shall soon be paid!Thine hour is come--the time hath beenMy heart had shrunk from such a scene;That feeling long is past--my fateHath made me stern as desolate.

“Ye that around me shuddering stand,Ye chiefs and princes of the land!Mourn ye a guilty monarch’s doom?Ye wept not o’er the patriot’s tomb!He sleeps unhonour’d--yet be mineTo share his low, neglected shrine.His soul with freedom finds a home,His grave is that of glory--Rome!Are not the great of old with her,That city of the sepulchre?Lead me to death! and let me share,The slumbers of the mighty there!”

The day departs--that fearful dayFades in calm loveliness away:From purple heavens its lingering beamSeems melting into Tiber’s stream,And softly tints each Roman hillWith glowing light, as clear and stillAs if, unstain’d by crime or woe,Its hours had pass’d in silent flow.The day sets calmly--it hath beenMark’d with a strange and awful scene:One guilty bosom throbs no more,And Otho’s pangs and life are o’er.And thou, ere yet another sunHis burning race hath brightly run,Released from anguish by thy foes,Daughter of Rome! shalt find repose.Yes! on thy country’s lovely skyFix yet once more thy parting eye!A few short hours--and all shall beThe silent and the past for thee.Oh! thus with tempests of a dayWe struggle, and we pass away,Like the wild billows as they sweep,Leaving no vestige on the deep!And o’er thy dark and lowly bedThe sons of future days shall tread,The pangs, the conflicts, of thy lot,By them unknown, by thee forgot.

“Now purer airMeets his approach, and to the heart inspiresVernal delight and joy, able to driveAll sadness but despair.”--Milton.

‘AquilonibusQuerceta Gargani laborant,Et foliis viduantur orni.’--Horace.