A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny Sea heaves brightly, and remains Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaimed her order:--gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta,[409] where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows, XXIX. Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, Comes down upon the waters! all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change--a paler Shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting Day Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away-- The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray. XXX. There is a tomb in Arqua;--reared in air, Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover: here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes, The Pilgrims of his Genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: Watering the tree which bears his Lady's name[410][8.H.] With his melodious tears, he gave himself to Fame. XXXI. They keep his dust in Arqua,[411] where he died--[9.H.] The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride-- An honest pride--and let it be their praise, To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre--both plain[mc] And venerably simple--such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a Pyramid formed his monumental fane.[md] XXXII. And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt Is one of that complexion which seems made For those who their mortality[412] have felt, And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away Of busy cities, now in vain displayed, For they can lure no further; and the ray[413] Of a bright Sun can make sufficient holiday, XXXIII. Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours With a calm languor, which, though to the eye Idlesse it seem, hath its morality-- If from society we learn to live,[me] 'Tis Solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers--Vanity can give No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive:[mf] XXXIV.