| |
| WHAT though the Italian pencil wrought not here, | |
| Nor such fine skill as did the meed bestow | |
| On Marathonian valor, yet the tear | |
| Springs forth in presence of this gaudy show, | |
| While narrow cares their limits overflow. | 5 |
| Thrice happy, burghers, peasants, warriors old, | |
| Infants in arms, and ye, that as ye go | |
| Homeward or schoolward, ape what ye behold; | |
| Heroes before your time, in frolic fancy bold! | |
| |
| And when that calm spectatress from on high | 10 |
| Looks down,—the bright and solitary moon, | |
| Who never gazes but to beautify; | |
| And snow-fed torrents, which the blaze of noon | |
| Roused into fury, murmur a soft tune | |
| That fosters peace, and gentleness recalls; | 15 |
| Then might the passing monk receive a boon | |
| Of saintly pleasure from those pictured walls, | |
| While on the warlike groups the mellowing lustre falls. | |
| |
| How blest the souls who when their trials come | |
| Yield not to terror or despondency, | 20 |
| But face like that sweet boy their mortal doom, | |
| Whose head the ruddy apple tops, while he | |
| Expectant stands beneath the linden-tree; | |
| He quakes not like the timid forest game, | |
| But smiles,—the hesitating shaft to free; | 25 |
| Assured that Heaven its justice will proclaim, | |
| And to his father give its own unerring aim. | |
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