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VI. Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye : Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky,
And the strange constellations which the Muse O’er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse:
VII. I saw or dream'd of such,--but let them go They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams; And whatsoe'er they were--are now but so: I could replace them if I would, still teems My mind with many a form which aptly seems Such as I sought for, and at moments found; Let these too go-for waking Reason deems
Such over-weaning phantasies unsound, And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
VIII. I've taught me other tongues--and in strange eyes Have made me not a stranger; to the mind Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find A country with-ay, or without mankind; Yet was I born where men are proud to be, Not without cause; and should I leave behind
The inviolate island of the sage and free, And seek me out a home by a remoter sea.
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are,
X. My name from out the temple where the dead Are honour'd by the nations-let it be And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartan's epitaph on me“ Sparta hath many a worthier son than he." (4) Mean time I seek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted, they have torn me,-and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from
such a seed.
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ;
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! (7)
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes,
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight!
XV. Statues of glass--all shiver'd—the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; . But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, (10) Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls.
Starts from its belt—he rends his captive's chains, And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains,
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall
XVIII. I loved her from my boyhood-she to me Was as a fairy city of the heart, Rising like water-columns from the sea, Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art, (12) Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, Although I found her thus, we did not part, Perchance even dearer in her day of wo, Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.
There are some feelings Time can not benumb,
Of bleak, gray, granite, into life it came,