XXI.

 England! my great, my glorious,—loved with love
 That almost makes a portion of the soul;
 The hour has come to fix thine eye above.
 There lie the thunders thou alone must roll,
 And roll upon thyself;—There spreads the scroll,
 Where thine own hand must write thy destiny.
 None can decide but thou, if wolves shall howl,
 And the black viper in thy temples lie.
Be holy, and thou 'rt saved; England, thou must not die!

XXII.

 Again the glass runs down! The Steeds must range;
 Aye, till the tangled web of Time be spun.
 Thou King of Kings, above all chance or change,
 When shall this toil and strife of earth be done;
 When his Great Year be roll'd by Empire's sun?
 Come to our world, thou Triumpher, whose train
 Are cherubim, and take thy promised throne.
 Come Conqueror of man's misery, death's chain.
Come, first-born from the dead, and reign, for ever reign!

XXIII.

 The Louvre halls are fill'd with strange turmoil
 Of axe and hammer, steps and voices loud,
 For there the victors seize a noble spoil;
 'Twas won by England's arm in Soignie's wood.
 Yon bayonets still are rusty with the blood
 That drench'd its dark ravines. The struggle's o'er,
 So may the restless rancour be subdued.
 The final lesson's given. The might that tore
That matchless prize from France, proclaimed, “Go sin no
more.”

XXIV.

 Kingly and broad ascends the Parian stair,
 Fit entrance to the regal glories nigh;
 And toilsome 'tis to make the passage there,
 Through its thick crowd incessant rushing by.
 The summit gain'd,—like lightning on the eye,
 Bursts the deep vision, from the stately door,
 One colour'd splendour, far as glance can fly,
 Gold, marble, giant mirror, o'er and o'er.
Flashing in sun-like streams from fretted vault to floor.

XXV.

 These were thy spoil, sad Italy: the prey
 Of slaves that sent thy glories to the tomb.
 Still on thy odour-breathing heaven the day
 Awoke on roses, and the evening gloom
 Sail'd down the azure on as soft a plume
 As ever fann'd the sir in Summer's bower;
 But the high voice that bade the nations come
 To love and worship, parted in that hour.
These were thy crown of stars, thy soul, thy living power!

XXVI.

 Yet these are thy revenge.—The spoiler's spoil'd;—
 Ev'n on this spot is given the deadliest blow;
 Here on the robber's head his crime recoil'd.
 Strange scene, of wonderers hasting to and fro,
 And soldiers on their posts parading slow,
 And the fix'd native with his livid glare,
 And woman with her ready burst of woe,
 And eager artists scaffolded in air,
Catching its pomps before that dazzling wall is bare.

XXVII.

 But man and earth have vanish'd from the eye,
 Once on its host of silent beauty roll'd,
 Ranged in their tribes, ascending majesty!
 Holland's fine touch, the Flanders pencil bold,
 Superb Venetian, pearl and purple stoled;
 Romantic Lombard, fiery Florentine,
 Brightening, as up the Alp the evening's gold
 From the deep vineyard to the crown of pine,
Till, on the marble peak, 'tis mix'd with heaven,—divine!

XXVIII.

 What are those tablets round me? Living minds—
 The mighty soul in form and pressure wrought;—
 Unfolded natures,—where the vision winds
 Thro' what was dream, deep throb, unutter'd thought.
 There breathes Salvator! That red lightning shot
 From its dark throne to fire that forest hoar,
 That combat in its burnings madly fought,
 That lake convulsed beneath the tempest's roar,
All in Salvator's soul toss'd, battled, burn'd, before.

XXIX.

 And o'er them, o'er these very hues have hung
 The men, whom empires reckon in their fame,
 Kings, sages;—Here from morn till midnight clung
 Immortal genius, lavishing its flame.
 Guido for this flung down his maddening game,
 Startling the revellers, who saw his eyes
 Flashing with thoughts that like the lightnings came,
 And his brow clouding, as the vision'd cries
Of Peter woke his own repentant agonies.

XXX.

 Here, Raphael! is reveal'd the mystery,
 That fixed the hectic crimson on thy cheek—
 Here sank the earnest radiance of thine eye,
 Dying beneath th' empassioned thoughts, that wreck
 Spirits like thine;—Those eagle flights that seek
 And perish in the sun-beams;—glorious fires,
 That from their heaven around the mountain break
 With crowning splendour, till the storm retires,
Leaving but smoke and dust, of all its marble spires.