VI.

O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told Of thy great glories in the days of old: Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see Cæsar ride forth to royal victory. Mighty thy name when Rome’s lean eagles flew From Britain’s isles to far Euphrates blue; And of the peoples thou wast noble queen, Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen. Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea, Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery! No longer now upon thy swelling tide, Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride! For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float, The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note; And the white sheep are free to come and go Where Adria’s purple waters used to flow.

O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted! In ruined loveliness thou liest dead, Alone of all thy sisters; for at last Italia’s royal warrior hath passed Rome’s lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown In the high temples of the Eternal Town! The Palatine hath welcomed back her king, And with his name the seven mountains ring!

And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain, And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again, New risen from the waters! and the cry Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty, Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where The marble spires of Milan wound the air, Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore, And Dante’s dream is now a dream no more.

But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all, Thy ruined palaces are but a pall That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun Of new Italia! for the night is done, The night of dark oppression, and the day Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land, Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy, From the far West unto the Eastern sea.

I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died In Lissa’s waters, by the mountain-side Of Aspromonte, on Novara’s plain,— Nor have thy children died for thee in vain: And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine, Thou hast not followed that immortal Star Which leads the people forth to deeds of war. Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep, As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep, Careless of all the hurrying hours that run, Mourning some day of glory, for the sun Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face, And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

Yet wake not from thy slumbers,—rest thee well, Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel, Thy lily-sprinkled meadows,—rest thee there, To mock all human greatness: who would dare To vent the paltry sorrows of his life Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife Of kings’ ambition, and the barren pride Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride Of the wild Lord of Adria’s stormy sea! The Queen of double Empires! and to thee Were not the nations given as thy prey! And now—thy gates lie open night and day, The grass grows green on every tower and hall, The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall; And where thy mailèd warriors stood at rest The midnight owl hath made her secret nest. O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate, O city trammelled in the toils of Fate, Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days, But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!

Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears, From tranquil tower can watch the coming years; Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring, Or why before the dawn the linnets sing? Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose To crimson splendour from its grave of snows; As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter’s cold; As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!

O much-loved city! I have wandered far From the wave-circled islands of my home; Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome Rise slowly from the drear Campagna’s way, Clothed in the royal purple of the day: I from the city of the violet crown Have watched the sun by Corinth’s hill go down, And marked the ‘myriad laughter’ of the sea From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady; Yet back to thee returns my perfect love, As to its forest-nest the evening dove.

O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen Some twenty summers cast their doublets green For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain, Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed, Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky, And flame across the heavens! and to try Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know That never felt my heart a nobler glow Than when I woke the silence of thy street With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet, And saw the city which now I try to sing, After long days of weary travelling.