Boccaccio[439] to his parent earth bequeathed[my][21.H.] His dust,--and lies it not her Great among, With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue?[440] That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech? No;--even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyæna bigot's wrong, No more amidst the meaner dead find room, Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for _whom!_ LIX. And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Cæsar's pageant,[441] shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more: Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, Fortress of falling Empire! honoured sleeps[mz] The immortal Exile;--Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead and weeps.[442] LX. What is her Pyramid of precious stones?[22.H.] Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones Of merchant-dukes?[443] the momentary dews Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, Whose names are Mausoleums of the Muse, Are gently prest with far more reverent tread Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head. LXI. There be more things to greet the heart and eyes In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, Where Sculpture with her rainbow Sister vies;[444] There be more marvels yet--but not for mine; For I have been accustomed to entwine My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, Than Art in galleries: though a work divine Calls for my Spirit's homage, yet it yields Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields LXII. Is of another temper, and I roam By Thrasimene's lake,[445] in the defiles Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles Come back before me, as his skill beguiles The host between the mountains and the shore, Where Courage falls in her despairing files,[na] And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scattered o'er. LXIII. Like to a forest felled by mountain winds; And such the storm of battle on this day, And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds To all save Carnage, that, beneath the fray, An Earthquake[446] reeled unheededly away![23.H.] None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, And yawning forth a grave for those who lay Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet-- Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meet! LXIV.