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And striven with thy masters. Get thee

hence! Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come-

Away ! I say. Man. I knew, and know my hour is

come, but not To render up my soul to such as thee: Away! I'll die as I have lived-alone. Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.-Rise !

[Other Spirits rise up. Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!

Avaunt! I say ; Ye have no power where piety hath

power, And I'do charge ye in the name--Spirit.

Old man ! We know ourselves, our mission, and

thine order; Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, It were in vain : this man is forfeited. Once more I summon him-Away !

Away ! Man. I do defy ye,—though I feel my

soul Is ebbing from ine, yet I do defy ye; Nor will I hence, while I have earthly

breath To breathe my scorn upon ye-earthly

strength To wrestle, though with spirits; what Shall be ta'en limb by limb. Spirit.

Reluctant mortal! Is this the Magian who would so pervate The world invisible, and make himself Almost our equal ? Can it be that thou Art thus in love with life? the very life Which made thee wretched !

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest! My life is in its last hour,-that I know, Nor would redeem a moment of that

hour; I do not combat against death, but thee And thy surrounding angels; my past

power, Was purchased by no compact with thy

crew, But by superior science-penance, dar

ing, And length of watching, strength of

mind, and skill In knowledge of our fathers--when the

earth Saw men and spirits walking side by

side, And gave ye no supremacy: I stand Upon my strength-I do defy-deny-Spurn back, and scorn ye !


But thy many crimes Have made thee

Man. What are they to such as thee? Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes,

(hell ! And greater criminals ?-Back to thy Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ;

[know: Thou never shalt possess me, that I What I have done is done ; I bear within A torture which could nothing gain

from thine: The mind which is immortal makes itself Requital for its gooil or evil thoughts,Is its own origin of ill and end And its own place and time : its innate

sense, When stripp'd of this mortality, derives No color from the fleeting things with

out, But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, Born from the knowledge of its own

desert. Thou didst not tempt me, and thou

couldst not tempt me ; I have not been thy dups, nor am thy

preyBut was my own destroyer and will be My own hereafter.—Back, ye baffled

fiends! The hand of death is on me-but not yours !

[The Demons disappear. Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art—thy

lips are whiteAnd thy breast heaves--and in thy gasp

ing throat The accents rattle : Give thy prayers to

heaven Pray--albeit but in thought,-but die not

thus. Man. 'T is over-my dull eyes can

fix thee not ; But all things swim around me, and the

earth Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare

thee well! Give me thy hand. Abbot. Cold – sold — even to the

heartBut yet one prayer- Alas ! how fares it

with thee? Man. Old man ! 't is not so difficult to die.

[MANFRED expires. Abbot. He's gone-his soul hath ta'en

its earthless flight; Whither? I dread to think--but he is

gone. September, 1816--May, 1817. June 16,


ye take


In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the


My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea ; But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me,

It liath springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well,

As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be-peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

July, 1817. 1821.

Those days are gone-but Beauty still is

here. States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth

not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was

dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of

Italy ! 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; Essentially immortal, they create And multiply in us a brighter ray And more beloved existence: that which

Fate Prohibits to dull life, in this our state Of mortal bondage, by these spirits sup

plied, First exiles, then replaces what we hate; Watering the heart whose early flowers

have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing

the void.


CANTO IV I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ;

(Stanza 1 A palace and a prison on each hand : I saw from out tlie wave her structures

rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's

wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings

expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a sub

ject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on

her hundred isles ! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers ; And such she was ;-her daughters bad

their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaust

less 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.

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The commonwealth of kings, the men of

Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy ! Thou art the garden of the world, the

home Of all Art yields, and Nature cau de

cree ; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility ; Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which can

not be defaced.

Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the

knot Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy

lot Is shameful to the nations,-most of all, Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen

should not Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall Of Venice think of thine, despite thy

watery wall. 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, Shake

speare's art, Had stamp'd her image in me, and even Although I found her thus, we did not

part, Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, Than when she was a boast, a marvel

and a show. I can repeople with the past-and of The present there is still for eye and

thought, And meditation chasten'd down,enough ; And more, it may be, than I hoped or

sought; And of the happiest moments which

were wrought Within the web of my existence, some Froin thee, fair Venice! have their

colors caught: There are some feelings Time cannot

benumb, Nor Torture shake, or mine would now

be cold and dumb.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night; Sunset divides the sky with her ; a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine

height Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is

free From clouds, but of all colors seems to

be,Melted to one vast Iris of the West,Where the Day joins the past Eternity, While, on the other hand, meek Dian's

crest Floats through the azure air-an island

of the blest!

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But my soul wanders ; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, aud stand

(St. 25 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a

land Which was the mightiest in its old com

mand, And is the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature's leavenly

hand; Wherein were cast the heroic and the

free, The beautiful, the brave, the lords of

earth and sea,

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven ;

but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and re

mains Rolld o'er the peak of the far Rhætian

hill, As Day and Night contending were,

until Nature reclaim'd her order :-gently

flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues

instil The odorous purple of a new born rose. Which streams upon her stream, and

glass'd within it glows, Filld with the face of heaven, which,

from afar, Comes down upon the waters ; all its

hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse : And now they change; a paler shadow

strew's Its mantle c'er the mountains; parting

day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang

imbues With a new color as it gasps away,


The last still loveliest,-till-t is gone

-and all is gray.

In their shut breast their petty misery. What are

our woes and sufferance 1 Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your

way O'er steps of broken thrones and tem

ples, Ye! Whose agonies are evils of a dayA world is at our feet as fragile as our

clay. 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 Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now, The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, Old Tiber! through a marble wilder

ness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle

her distress.


Italia ! oh Italia! thou who hast (St. 42 The fatal gift of beauty, which became A funeral dower of present woes and

past, On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd

by shame, And annals graved in characters of

flame. Oh, God! that thou wert in thy naked

ness Less lovely more powerful, and

couldst claim Thy right, and awe the robbers back, To shed thy blood, and drink the tears

of thy distress ; Then might'st thou more appal; or, less

desired, Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored For thy destructive charms; then, still

untired, Would not be seen the armed torrents

pour d Down the deep Alps; nor would the

hostile horde Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's

sword Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of

friend or foe.

who press

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War,

Flood, and Fire, Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's

pride ; She saw ber 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?


Yet, Italy ! through every other land

[St. 47 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from

side to side; Mother of Arts ! as once of arms; thy

hand Was then our guardian, and is still our

guide: Parent of our religion ! whom the wide Nations have knelt to for the keys of

heaven! Europe, repentant of her parricide, Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward

driven, Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be


Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, And Freedom find no champion and no

child Such as Columbia saw arise when she Sprung forth a Pallas, arm’d and un

defiled? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the

wild, Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the


Of cataracts, where nursing Nature

smiled On infant Washington? Has Earth no Such seeds within her breast, or Europe

Oh Rome ! my country! city of the soul

(St. 78 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,

(trol Lone mother of dead empires! and con

no such shore ?


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Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one

dome, Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams

shine As 'tware its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here

to illume This long-explored but still exhaustless

mine Of contemplation and the azure gloom Of an italian night, where the deep skies


Hues which have words, and speak to ye

of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous

monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is

given Unto the things of earth, which Time

hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath

leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is

a power And magic in the ruin'd battlement, For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages

are its dower. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd ap

plause, As man was slaughter' by his fellow

man. And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore,

but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial


He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far

away ; He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube

lay, There were his young barbarians all at

play, There was their Dacian mother-he,

their sire, Butcher'd to make a Roman holidayAll this rush'd with his blood-Shall he

expire And unavenged? Arise ! ye Goths, and

glut your ire ! But here, where Murder breathed her

bloody steam; And here, where brizzing nations choked

the ways, And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain

stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman million's blame

or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a

crowd, My voice sounds much-and fall tne

stars' faint rays On the arena void-seats ash'd, walls

bow'dAnd galleries, where my steps seem

echoes strangely loud.

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