XLI

He stood and watched where over Baiae's shore,
Like a material god the sun declined,
Called on the hearts that watched him to adore;
Thus had he walked, his track had left behind
A glory undecaying 'mid mankind,
A blessing felt, and hallowed in his course,
Hero or sage to deathless fame consigned;
What was he now? — a blight, a withering curse,
None loved, nought clung to him save his own vain remorse.

XLII

The mind stretched on its rack of pain, the past
Its visions magnified in memory's shade,
The hopeless future, life's hours ebbing fast,
Health, strength, hope, passion's energy decayed,
All these he felt, till pride no more obeyed
The inflexible will, forth flowed escaping tears;
Not that refreshing dew to virtue paid,
But fire-like, scalding the lone heart it sears,
Shed o'er the arid waste of unrepented years.

XLIII

It was a moment, but that moment brought
Pangs which he never dealt: in man doth dwell
The purgatory by self-conscience wrought,
That mocks imagination, the quick hell
Whose torturing retribution none may tell,
The vain remorse, the curse of guilt unshriven.
The old man turned, that hour repaid him well;
Forth from the haunts of men self-exiled driven,
Murder's releasing stroke to him was mercy given.

XLIV

Italian paradise, Sorrento! thou
Spirit of enchaining spells, lo, yonder bay
Where the lone crag upheaves its cloven brow,
Round which the blue waves chafe in idle play;
Know'st thou whose mighty presence casts a ray
O'er its dim cavern? — know'st thou who stood there,
And bodied in his world-inspiring lay
Its tale? — whose genius fills, informs the air,
Whose phantoms round that spot for ever shall repair?

XLV

Even now reclining on this mossy stone,
I see the sail spread from Lachaea's isle.
They scale the Cyclop's cave; a shout, a groan!
In his red eye is plunged the fiery pile.
In the grey morning's light the goats defile
Slowly beneath the blinded monster's hand,
Free stands at length the hero of the wile;
And now the giant's clamours fill the strand,
As shouting bound from shore the Ulyssean band!

XLVI

O thou eternal Homer, every nook
Of this all wild yet lovely coast is thine!
The Sirens those grey islets have forsook,
Yet is each vestige of their haunt divine.
Doth not thy awful genius o'er them shine,
Even as yon setting sun that steeps them o'er
With hues of life? So thy embodying line
From phantasy dost hero-life restore,
Until we hear their tongues, and see the forms they bore.

XLVII

For by thy sceptred hand great truth was wielded;
Behold yon promontory! Circe's spell
There changed to brutes the slaves to vice who yielded;
Speaks not thy moral eloquently well?
What herb save reason could her power compel,
And bid her kneel to virtue? O'er the foam
Why sighed the chief in Ithaca to dwell,
Her charms unfelt, and loathed her starry dome?
Grave duty showed afar his wife, his son, his home.

XLVIII

There was a dwelling on the sea-cliff's side,
No ruined vestige doth its site attest;
A secret nook where love would choose to hide
Its loved one from the world, a haven-nest
Of shelter, when, of all it asks possessed,
The heart would find or make its earthly heaven
Where only found, in woman's answering breast;
All other ties save that sole life-tie riven,
The world's neglect forgot, its injuries forgiven.

XLIX

A sacred spot! — create it on thine eye;
Each spot is sacred, hallowed by a tear,
But this is sanctified by memory;
By venerating bosoms that revere
The martyrs of the past who suffered here,
O'er whom are offered human sympathies,
Flowers of the heart that sanctify the bier.
A woman by that shore with heedful eyes
Watches a nearing sail whose white wing homeward flies.

L

The sister's love, the vestal, and the pure,
Recalled again affection's wasted force
In exiled Tasso; other loves endure
To perish, lighted at an earthlier source,
Satiate with passion, buried in remorse.
Oh, if the bosom one receptacle
May own, one feeling holier in its course,
One love a spirit might not blush to tell,
'Tis when a sister's heart to thine doth fondly swell.