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THE FIREWORKS.

FROM THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO.

PLAY on, play on, I share your gorgeous glee,
Creatures of elemental mirth! play on,-
Let each fulfil his marvellous destiny,

My heart leaps up and falls in unison.

The Tower round which ye weave, with elfin grace, The modulations of your burning dance,

Looks through your gambols with a grandsire's face,

A grave but not reproachful countenance ;

Ye are the children of a festive night,

He is the mate of many an hundred years,—
Ye but attest men's innocent delight,
He is the comrade of their crimes and tears,-
Ye in your joy's pure prime will flare away,
He waits his end in still and slow decay.

ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE LADY GWENDOLIN TALBOT WITH THE ELDEST

SON OF THE PRINCE BORGHESE.

LADY! to decorate thy marriage morn,

Rare gems, and flowers, and lofty songs are brought ;
Thou the plain utterance of a Poet's thought,
Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn :

The name, into whose splendour thou wert born,
Thou art about to change for that which stands
Writ on the proudest work* that mortal hands
Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn.
Take it rejoicing,-take with thee thy dower,
Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new,
Being of mind; may the cool northern dew
Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower!
Mingling thy English nature, pure and true,
With the bright growth of each Italian hour.

ROME, May 11th, 1835.

* St. Peter's.

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS BORGHESE,

AT ROME, NOVEMBER, 1840.

ONCE, and but once again I dare to raise

A voice which thou in spirit still may'st hear,
Now that thy bridal bed becomes a bier,

Now that thou canst not blush at thine own praise!
The ways of God are not as our best ways,

And thus we ask, with a convulsive tear,

Why is this northern blossom low and sere?
Why has it blest the south but these few days?
Another Basilic,* decked otherwise

Than that which hailed thee as a princely bride,
Receives thee and three little ones beside ;
While the young lord of that late glorious home
Stands 'mid these ruins and these agonies,
Like some lone column of his native Rome !

* S. Maria Maggiore, where the Borghese family are interred.

ROMAN RUINS.

How could Rome live so long, and now be dead? How came this waste and wilderness of stones? How shows the orbèd monster, so long fed

On martyr-blood, his bare and crumbling bones?
Did the strong Faith, that built eight hundred years
Of world-dominion on a robber's name,

Once animate this corse, and fervent seers
Augur it endless life and shadeless fame ?
Stranger! if thou a docile heart dost bring
Within thee, bear a timely precept hence ;
That Power, mere Power, is but a barren thing,
Even when it seems most like omnipotence;
The forms must pass,—and past, they leave behind
Little to please, and nought to bless mankind.

ON A SCENE IN TUSCANY.

WHAT good were it to dim the pleasure-glow,
That lights thy cheek, fair Girl, in scenes like these,
By shameful facts, and piteous histories?

While we enjoy, what matters what we know?

What tender love-sick looks on us below

Those Mountains cast! how courteously the Trees
Raise up their branching heads in calices.
For the thick Vine to fill and overflow!
This nature is like Thee, all-bright, all-mild;
If then some self-wise man should say, that here
Hate, sin, and death held rule for many a year,
That of this kindliest earth there's not a rood
But has been saturate with brother's blood,-
Believe him not, believe him not, my Child.

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