XVI.
Oh, Greece! thy flourishing cities were
a spoil
Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed
And crushed the helpless; thou didst make
thy soil
Drunk with the blood of those that loved
thee best;
And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural
breast,
Thy just and brave to die in distant climes;
Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed
for rest
From thine abominations; after times,
That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy
crimes.
XVII.
Yet there was that within thee which has
saved
Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name;
The story of thy better deeds, engraved
On fame’s unmouldering pillar, puts
to shame
Our chiller virtue; the high art to tame
The whirlwind of the passions was thine
own;
And the pure ray, that from thy bosom
came,
Far over many a land and age has shone,
And mingles with the light that beams from God’s
own throne;
XVIII.
And Rome—thy sterner, younger
sister, she
Who awed the world with her imperial frown—
Rome drew the spirit of her race from
thee,—
The rival of thy shame and thy renown.
Yet her degenerate children sold the crown
Of earth’s wide kingdoms to a line
of slaves;
Guilt reigned, and we with guilt, and
plagues came down,
Till the north broke its floodgates, and
the waves
Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o’er
their graves.
XIX.
Vainly that ray of brightness from above,
That shone around the Galilean lake,
The light of hope, the leading star of
love,
Struggled, the darkness of that day to
break;
Even its own faithless guardians strove
to slake,
In fogs of earth, the pure immortal flame;
And priestly hands, for Jesus’ blessed
sake,
Were red with blood, and charity became,
In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name.
XX.
They triumphed, and less bloody rites
were kept
Within the quiet of the convent cell:
The well-fed inmates pattered prayer,
and slept,
And sinned, and liked their easy penance
well.
Where pleasant was the spot for men to
dwell,
Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay,
Sheltering dark orgies that were shame
to tell,
And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed
the way,
All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and
gray.
XXI.
Oh, sweetly the returning muses’
strain
Swelled over that famed stream, whose
gentle tide
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales
detain,
Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased
to chide,
And all the new-leaved woods, resounding
wide,
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air.
Lo! to the smiling Arno’s classic
side
The emulous nations of the west repair,
And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit
there.