Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/406

364 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass

The skeleton of her Titanic form,

Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm.

XLVII.

Yet, Italy! through every other land

Thy wrongs should ring—and shall—from side to side;

Mother of Arts! as once of Arms! thy hand

Was then our Guardian, and is still our Guide;

Parent of our Religion! whom the wide

Nations have knelt to for the keys of Heaven!

Europe, repentant of her parricide,

Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven,

Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven.

XLVIII.

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls,

Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps

A softer feeling for her fairy halls:

Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps