Italia too! Italia! looking on thee, Full flashes on the Soul the light of ages, Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, To the last halo of the Chiefs and Sages Who glorify thy consecrated pages; Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; still,[348] The fount at which the panting Mind assuages Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial hill. CXI. Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:--to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be,--and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught,-- Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,-- Which is the tyrant Spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:--No matter,--it is taught.[349] CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,--[kw] The colouring of the scenes which fleet along,[kx] Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not[ky] So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;-- I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath,[350] nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,--nor cried aloud In worship of an echo: in the crowd They could not deem me one of such--I stood Among them, but not of them[351]--in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.[23.B.] CXIV. I have not loved the World, nor the World me,-- But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, And Virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing; I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve--[kz][24.B.] That two, or one, are almost what they seem,-- That Goodness is no name--and Happiness no dream. CXV.[352] My daughter! with thy name this song begun! My daughter! with thy name thus much shall end!-- I see thee not--I hear thee not--but none Can be so wrapt in thee; Thou art the Friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never should'st behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart,--when mine is cold,-- A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould.