Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/210

 By falcons on your wrists, it unaware Arose up overhead, and out of sight.

Meanwhile, let all the far ends of the world Breathe back the deep breath of their old delight, To swell the Italian banner just unfurled. Help, lands of Europe ! for, if Austria fight, The drums will bar your slumber. Who had curled The laurel for your thousand artists' brows, If these Italian hands had planted none ? And who can sit down idle in the house, Nor hear appeals from Buonarotti's stone And Raffael's canvas, rousing and to rouse ? Where's Poussin's master? Gallic Avignon Bred Laura, and Vaucluse's fount has stirred The heart of France too strongly,—as it lets Its little stream out, like a wizard's bird Which bounds upon its emerald wings, and wets The rocks on each side—that she should not gird Her loins with Charlemagne's sword, when foes beset The country of her Petrarch. Spain may well Be minded how from Italy she caught, To mingle with her tinkling Moorish bell, A fuller cadence and a subtler thought; And even the New World, the receptacle Of freemen, may send glad men, as it ought, To greet Vespucci Amerigo's door; While England claims, by trump of poetry, Verona, Venice, the Ravenna shore, And dearer holds her Milton's Fiesole Than Malvern with a sunset running o'er.