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(From Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage)
THERE is a tomb in Arqua;—reared in air, | |
| Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose | |
| The bones of Laura’s lover; here repair | |
| Many familiar with his well-sung woes, | |
| The pilgrims of his genius. He arose | 5 |
| To raise a language, and his land reclaim | |
| From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes; | |
| Watering the tree which bears his lady’s name | |
| With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. | |
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| They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; | 10 |
| The mountain-village where his latter days | |
| Went down the vale of years; and ’t is their pride,— | |
| An honest pride,—and let it be their praise, | |
| To offer to the passing stranger’s gaze | |
| His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain | 15 |
| And venerably simple, such as raise | |
| A feeling more accordant with his strain | |
| Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fame. | |
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| And the soft hamlet where he dwelt | |
| Is one of that complexion which seems made | 20 |
| For those who their mortality have felt, | |
| And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed | |
| In the deep umbrage of a green hill’s shade, | |
| Which shows a distant prospect far away | |
| Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, | 25 |
| For they can lure no further; and the ray | |
| Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, | |
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| Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, | |
| And shining in the brawling brook, whereby, | |
| Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours | 30 |
| With a calm languor, which, though to the eye | |
| Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. | |
| If from society we learn to live, | |
| ’T is solitude should teach us how to die; | |
| It hath no flatterers; vanity can give | 35 |
| No hollow aid; alone man with his God must strive. | |
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