Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/295

CANTO II.] Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds

Her palace, in whose cradle Empire grew,

And formed the Eternal City's ornaments

From spoils of Kings whom freemen overthrew;

Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of Saints,

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made

Her home; thou, all which fondest Fancy paints,

And finds her prior vision but portrayed

In feeble colours, when the eye—from the Alp

Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp

Nods to the storm—dilates and dotes o'er thee,

And wistfully implores, as 'twere, for help

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still

The more approached, and dearest were they free,

Thou—Thou must wither to each tyrant's will:

The Goth hath been,—the German, Frank, and Hun

Are yet to come,—and on the imperial hill

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new,

Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won

Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue

Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter

Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue,

And deepens into red the saffron water

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest,

And still more helpless nor less holy daughter,

Vowed to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased

Their ministry: the nations take their prey,

Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast

And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they

Are; these but gorge the flesh, and lap the gore