LXI.

   There be more things to greet the heart and eyes
   In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely shrine,
   Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies;
   There be more marvels yet—­but not for mine;
   For I have been accustomed to entwine
   My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields
   Than Art in galleries:  though a work divine
   Calls for my spirit’s homage, yet it yields
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields

LXII.

   Is of another temper, and I roam
   By Thrasimene’s lake, in the defiles
   Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home;
   For there the Carthaginian’s warlike wiles
   Come back before me, as his skill beguiles
   The host between the mountains and the shore,
   Where Courage falls in her despairing files,
   And torrents, swoll’n to rivers with their gore,
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o’er,

LXIII.

   Like to a forest felled by mountain winds;
   And such the storm of battle on this day,
   And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds
   To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray,
   An earthquake reeled unheededly away! 
   None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet,
   And yawning forth a grave for those who lay
   Upon their bucklers for a winding-sheet;
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet.

LXIV.

   The Earth to them was as a rolling bark
   Which bore them to Eternity; they saw
   The Ocean round, but had no time to mark
   The motions of their vessel:  Nature’s law,
   In them suspended, recked not of the awe
   Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds
   Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and withdraw
   From their down-toppling nests; and bellowing herds
Stumble o’er heaving plains, and man’s dread hath no words.

LXV.

   Far other scene is Thrasimene now;
   Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain
   Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough;
   Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain
   Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath ta’en —
   A little rill of scanty stream and bed —
   A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain;
   And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.

LXVI.

   But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave
   Of the most living crystal that was e’er
   The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave
   Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear
   Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer
   Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
   And most serene of aspect, and most clear: 
   Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters,
A mirror and a bath for Beauty’s youngest daughters!