With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . grave, they had found her hair complete, and as yellow as gold. Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments of Bologna; for instance: — Martini LuigiImplora pace. Lucrezia Pichu Implora eterna quiete. Can any thing be more full of pathos ? Those few wordssay all that can be said or sought: the dead had hadenough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this theyimplore. There is all the helplessness, and humblehope, and deathl
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . grave, they had found her hair complete, and as yellow as gold. Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments of Bologna; for instance: — Martini LuigiImplora pace. Lucrezia Pichu Implora eterna quiete. Can any thing be more full of pathos ? Those few wordssay all that can be said or sought: the dead had hadenough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this theyimplore. There is all the helplessness, and humblehope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave— implora pace. 1 hope, whoever may survive me, andshall see me put in the foreigners burying-ground at theLido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see thosetwo words, and no more, put over me. I trust they wontthink of pickling, and bringing me home to Clod orBlunderbuss Hall. I am sure my bones would not restin an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of thatcountry. I believe the thought would drive me mad onmy deathbed, could I suppose that any of my friends [ 128 ]. I ?= > SB — •~ o1 W JO ft* p 5fc. : ^ ^- •? 8 .O « •~ ft jt t> ^ o THE YEARS 181?, 1818, 1819 would be base enough to convey my carcase back to yoursoil. I would not even feed your worms, if I couldhelp it. ODE ON VENICE I O Venice ! Venice! when thy marble wallsAre level with the waters, there shall beA cry of nations oer thy sunken halls, A loud lament along the sweeping sea !If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,What should thy sons do ? — anything but weep :And yet they only murmur in their contrast with their fathers — as the slime,The dull green ooze of the receding deep,Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam,That drives the sailor shipless to his home,Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping agony ! that centuries should reapNo mellower harvest! T
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