Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/390

348 XXVI.

The Commonwealth of Kings—the Men of Rome!

And even since, and now, fair Italy!

Thou art the Garden of the World, the Home

Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree;

Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?

Thy very weeds are beautiful—thy waste

More rich than other climes' fertility;

Thy wreck a glory—and thy ruin graced

With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.

XXVII.

The Moon is up, and yet it is not night—

Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea

Of glory streams along the Alpine height

Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free

From clouds, but of all colours seems to be,—

Melted to one vast Iris of the West,—

Where the Day joins the past Eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest

Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest!