With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . ook hath taen —A little rill of scanty stream and bed —A name of blood from that days sanguine rain;And Sanguinetto tells ye where the deadMade the earth wet and turnd the unwilling waters red. LXVI But thou, Clitumnus, in thy sweetest waveOf the most living crystal that was eerThe haunt of river nymph, to gaze and laveHer limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rearThy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steerGrazes, —the purest god of gentle waters,And most s
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . ook hath taen —A little rill of scanty stream and bed —A name of blood from that days sanguine rain;And Sanguinetto tells ye where the deadMade the earth wet and turnd the unwilling waters red. LXVI But thou, Clitumnus, in thy sweetest waveOf the most living crystal that was eerThe haunt of river nymph, to gaze and laveHer limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rearThy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steerGrazes, —the purest god of gentle waters,And most serene of aspect, and most clear!Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters —A mirror and a bath for Beautys youngest daughters! LXVII And on thy happy shore a Temple still,Of small and delicate proportion, keeps,Upon a mild declivity of hill,Its memory of thee; beneath it sweepsThy currents calmness; oft from out it leapsThe finny darter with the glittering scales,Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps;While, chance, some scatterd water-lily sailsDown where the shallower wave still tells its bubblingtales. [ 76 ]. i THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 LXVIII Pass not unblest the Genius of the place !If through the air a zephyr more sereneWin to the brow, t is his; and if ye traceAlong his margin a more eloquent green,If on the heart the freshness of the sceneSprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dustOf weary life a moment lave it cleanWith Natures baptism, — i is to him ye mustPay orisons for this suspension of disgust. LXIX The roar of waters ! — from the headlong heightVelino cleaves the wave-worn precipice;The fall of waters ! rapid as the lightThe flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,And boil in endless torture; while the sweatOf their great agony, wrung out from thisTheir Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jetThat gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, LXX And mounts in spray the skies, and thence againRet
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