Nor here, nor thus with tears Untimely shed, but there whence o’er the sea The great Volcano looks, his rest might be, The close of prosperous years. 20 No! Different hearts are bribed; And therefore, in his cause’s sad eclipse, Here died he, with ‘Palermo’ on his lips, A poor man, and proscribed. Wrecked all thy hopes, O friend,-- 25 Hopes for thyself, thine Italy, thine own,-- High gifts defeated of their due renown,-- Long toil--and this the end! The end? not ours to scan: Yet grieve not, children, for your father’s worth; 30 Oh! never wish that in his native earth He lay, a baser man. What to the dead avail The chance success, the blundering praise of fame? Oh! rather trust, somewhere the noble aim 35 Is crowned, though here it fail. Kind, generous, true wert thou: This meed at least to goodness must belong, That such it was. Farewell; the world’s great wrong Is righted for thee now. 40 Rest in thy foreign grave, Sicilian! whom our English hearts have loved,-- Italian! such as Dante had approved,-- An exile--not a slave! _Henry Lushington._ CCXVI _HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI._ Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy, 20 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing--there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 30