Upon the turbid Arno whose swift stream
Of lucent waters green with the sun's gleam
Lures many souls to death, a gaunt house stands
Gray in the pallid shade of Winter's hands;
Its staring windows, shutterless and blind,
Shudder with the violent onslaughts of the wind,
While the barred, impenetrable door
Admits of visitation now no more.
Within, the empty chambers dark and dim
Preserve the sacred memory of him
Who once long years ago, when Pisa's pow'r
Was at its height, here left his lifetime's dower
Of lovely lays; here sang his sweetest songs
As an inspired bird, whose soul belongs
Not to this earth, but to a celestial spot.
His strains of music shall live unforgot,
Thro'out the numberless years that are to be:
Death cannot blight his fame's infinity—
His memory is as deathless as a star
That shines within a heavenly height afar!