With Byron in Italy; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in Italy. Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan (1907) (14595423459)

Identifier: withbyroninitaly00byrouoft (find matches)
Title: With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in Italy. Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan
Year: 1907 (1900s)
Authors: Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron, 1788-1824 McMahan, Anna (Benneson) 1846-
Subjects:
Publisher: London T.F. Unwin
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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onquerd be,And Freedom find no champion and no childSuch as Columbia saw arise when sheSprung forth a Pallas, armd and undented ?Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,Deep in the unpruned forest, midst the roarOf cataracts, where nursing Nature smiledOn infant Washington? Has Earth no moreSuch seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ?XCVIIBut France got drunk with blood to vomit crime,And fatal have her Saturnalia beenTo Freedoms cause, in every age and clime;Because the deadly days which we have seen,And vile Ambition, that built up betweenMan and his hopes an adamantine wall,And the base pageant last upon the scene,Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrallWhich nips lifes tree, and dooms mans worst — his secondfall. XCVIIIYet, Freedom, yet thy banner, torn but flying,Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ;Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,The loudest still the tempest leaves behind:[ 84 ]Tomb of Caecilia Metella on Appian WayAt Rome. Alban Mount in distance
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" There is a stern round tower of other days,Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,Such as an army's bafled strength delays,. . . . . . . What reasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? A woman's grave. —Childe Harold Canto IV, stanza xcix, page 85."THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,Choppd by the axe, looks rough and little worth,But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we findSown deep, even in the bosom of the North ;So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth.XCIXThere is a stern round tower of other days,1Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone,Such as an army's baffled strength delays,Standing with half its battlements alone,And with two thousand years of ivy grown,The garland of eternity, where waveThe green leaves over all by time overthrown; —What was this tower of strength ? within its caveWhat treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ? A womans grave.CBut who was she, the lady of the dead,Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ?Worthy a kings — or more — a Romans bed ?What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ?What daughter of her beauties was the heir ?How lived, how loved, how died she ? Was she notSo honoured— and conspicuously there,

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