All suffering doth destroy, or is destroyed,[404] Even by the sufferer--and, in each event, Ends:--Some, with hope replenished and rebuoyed, Return to whence they came--with like intent, And weave their web again; some, bowed and bent, Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, And perish with the reed on which they leant; Some seek devotion--toil--war--good or crime, According as their souls were formed to sink or climb. XXIII. But ever and anon of griefs subdued There comes a token like a Scorpion's sting, Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; And slight withal may be the things which bring Back on the heart the weight which it would fling Aside for ever: it may be a sound--[405] A tone of music--summer's eve--or spring--[mb] A flower--the wind--the Ocean--which shall wound, Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound; XXIV. And how and why we know not, nor can trace Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface The blight and blackening which it leaves behind, Which out of things familiar, undesigned, When least we deem of such, calls up to view The Spectres whom no exorcism can bind,-- The cold--the changed--perchance the dead, anew-- The mourned--the loved--the lost--too many! yet how few![406] XXV. But my Soul wanders; I demand it back To meditate amongst decay, and stand A ruin amidst ruins; there to track Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land Which _was_ the mightiest in its old command, And _is_ the loveliest, and must ever be The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand; Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,-- The beautiful--the brave--the Lords of earth and sea, XXVI. The Commonwealth of Kings--the Men of Rome! And even since, and now, fair Italy! Thou art the Garden of the World, the Home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? Thy very weeds are beautiful--thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility; Thy wreck a glory--and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced. XXVII. The Moon is up, and yet it is not night-- Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains;[407] Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be,-- Melted to one vast Iris of the West,-- Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest![408] XXVIII.