With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . snow. [ ™ ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LXXVI Aught that recalls the daily drug which turnedMy sickening memory; and, though Time hath taughtMy mind to meditate what then it leamd,Yet such the fiVd inveteracy wroughtBy the impatience of my early thought,That, with the freshness wearing out beforeMy mind could relish what it might have sought,If free to choose, I cannot now restoreIts health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII Then farewell, Horace; whom I h
With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in ItalyEdited by Anna Benneson McMahan . snow. [ ™ ] WITH BYRON IN ITALY LXXVI Aught that recalls the daily drug which turnedMy sickening memory; and, though Time hath taughtMy mind to meditate what then it leamd,Yet such the fiVd inveteracy wroughtBy the impatience of my early thought,That, with the freshness wearing out beforeMy mind could relish what it might have sought,If free to choose, I cannot now restoreIts health; but what it then detested, still abhor. LXXVII Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curseTo understand, not feel thy lyric flow,To comprehend, but never love thy verse,Although no deeper Moralist rehearseOur little life, nor Bard prescribe his art,Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce,Awakening without wounding the touched heart; —Yet fare thee well — upon Soractes ridge we part. LXXVITI 0 Rome, my country ! city of the soul!The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,Lone mother of dead empires, and controlIu their shut breasts their petty misery. r so ]. 00 p. £ > 3 ; a5 * O 2 THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and seeThe cypress, hear the owl, and plod your wayOer steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye !Whose agonies are evils of a day —A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. LXXIX The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;An empty urn within her witherd hands,Whose holy dust was scattercl long ago :The Scipios tomb contains no ashes now;1The very sepulchres lie tenantlessOf their heroic dwellers ; — dost thou flow,Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness?Eise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress ! LXXX The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,Have dealt upon the seven-hilld citys pride:She saw her glories star by star expire,And up the steep barbarian monarchs rideWhere the car ciimbd the c
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