Hast thou a scene that is not spread With records of thy glory fled? A monument that doth not tell The tale of liberty’s farewell? Italia! thou art but a grave Where flowers luxuriate o’er the brave, And nature gives her treasures birth O’er all that hath been great on earth. Yet smile thy heavens as once they smiled When thou wert freedom’s favour’d child: Though fane and tomb alike are low, Time hath not dimm’d thy sunbeam’s glow; And, robed in that exulting ray, Thou seem’st to triumph o’er decay-- Oh, yet, though by thy sorrows bent, In nature’s pomp magnificent! What marvel if, when all was lost, Still on thy bright enchanted coast, Though many an omen warn’d him thence, Linger’d the lord of eloquence.[114] Still gazing on the lovely sky, Whose radiance woo’d him--but to die? Like him, _who_ would not linger there, Where heaven, earth, ocean, all are fair? Who midst thy glowing scenes could dwell, Nor bid awhile his griefs farewell? Hath not thy pure and genial air Balm for all sadness but despair?[115] No! there are pangs whose deep-worn trace Not all thy magic can efface! Hearts by unkindness wrung may learn The world and all its gifts to spurn; Time may steal on with silent tread, And dry the tear that mourns the dead, May change fond love, subdue regret, And teach e’en vengeance to forget: But thou, Remorse! there is no charm _Thy_ sting, avenger, to disarm! Vain are bright suns and laughing skies To soothe thy victim’s agonies: The heart once made thy burning throne, Still, while it beats, is thine alone. In vain for Otho’s joyless eye Smile the fair scenes of Italy, As through her landscapes’ rich array Th’ imperial pilgrim bends his way. Thy form, Crescentius! on his sight Rises when nature laughs in light, Glides round him at the midnight hour, Is present in his festal bower, With awful voice and frowning mien, By all but him unheard, unseen. Oh! thus to shadows of the grave Be every tyrant still a slave!