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To aid thy mind's development, to watch
I know not what is there, yet something like to this.
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught,
Though the grave closed between us,---'twere the same, I know that thou wilt love me, though to drain
My blood from out thy being were an aim,
And an attainment,-all would be in vain,—
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.
The child of love,-though born in bitterness, And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire These were the elements-and thine no less. As yet such are around thee-but thy fire Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea, And from the mountains where I now respire, Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me!
CANTO THE FOURTH.
"Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,
I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased.
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn awayThe keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
And more beloved existence: that which Fate
Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy; And this wan 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:
I saw or dream'd of such,—but let them go,—
And other voices speak, and other sights surround.
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,
Perhaps I loved it well: and should I lay
My name from out the temple where the dead
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;