Ghost-like and pale he wandered, With a dreamy, haggard eye; He seemed not one of the living, And yet he could not die. 'Tis said that the lady met him, When many years had past, And kissing his lips, released him From the burden of life at last. LATER POEMS. TO THE APENNINES. YOUR peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! There, rooted to the aërial shelves that wear The glory of a brighter world, might spring Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday; The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould, Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain, Was yielded to the elements again. Ages of war have filled these plains with fear, Or seen the lightning of the battle flash Ah me! what armèd nations-Asian horde, And Libyan host, the Scythian and the GaulHave swept your base and through your passes poured, Like ocean-tides uprising at the call Of tyrant winds—against your rocky side The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died! How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain; And commonwealths against their rivals rose, Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain! While, in the noiseless air and light that flowed Round your fair brows, eternal Peace abode. Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar-flames In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks And Thought, her wingèd offspring, chained by power, |