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(If Hope, and Truth, and Justice can avail) Art thou of all these hopes.-O hail!
ANTISTROPHE ẞ. y.
Florence! beneath the sun,
Of cities fairest one,
Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expectation:
From eyes of quenchless hope
Rome tears the priestly cope,
As ruling once by power, so now by admiration,— An athlete stript to run
From a remoter station
For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore :— As then Hope, Truth, and Justice did avail, So now may Fraud and Wrong! O hail!
EPODE 1. B.
Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms
Of crags and thunder-clouds?
See ye the banners blazoned to the day,
Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride? Dissonant threats kill Silence far away,
The Serene Heaven which wraps our Eden wide
With iron light is dyed,
The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions
Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating;
An hundred tribes nourished on strange religions And lawless slaveries,-down the aërial regions Of the white Alps, desolating,
Famished wolves that bide no waiting, Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, Trampling our columned cities into dust, Their dull and savage lust
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiatingThey come! The fields they tread look black and hoary
With fire-from their red feet the streams run
EPODE II. B.
Great Spirit, deepest Love!
'Which rulest and dost move
All things which live and are, within the Italian
Who spreadest heaven around it,
Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it; Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor, Spirit of beauty! at whose soft command. The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison From the Earth's bosom chill ;
O bid those beams be each a blinding brand Of lightning bid those showers be dews of poi
Bid the Earth's plenty kill!
Whilst light and darkness bound it,
To make it ours and thine!
Or, with thine harmonizing ardours fill
And frowns and fears from Thee,
Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shepberds.
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine
THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wail
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are
And the year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves
Come, months, come away,
In your saddest array;
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawl
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each
To his dwelling;
Come, months, come away;
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.
DEATH is here, and death is there,
Death is busy everywhere,
All around, within, beneath,
Above is death-and we are death.
Death has set his mark and seal
First our pleasures die-and then
Dust claims dust-and we die too.
All things that we love and cherish,
THE fiery mountains answer each other;
From a single cloud the lightning flashes,