Identifier: withbyroninitlay00byrouoft (find matches)
Title: With Byron in Itlay; a selection of the poems and letters of Lord Byron relating to his life in Italy. Edited by Anna Benneson McMahan
Year: 1907 (1900s)
Authors: Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron, 1788-1824 McMahan, Anna (Benneson) 1846-
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Publisher: London T.F. Unwin
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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ven in thy desert, what is like to thee ?Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy wasteMore rich than other climes fertility;Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin gracedWith 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 seaOf glory streams along the Alpine heightOf blue Friulis mountains; Heaven is freeFrom clouds, but of all colours seems to beMelted to one vast Iris of the West,Where the Day joins the past Eternity ;While, on the other hand, meek Dians crestFloats through the azure air, an island of the blest! XXVIII A single star is at her side, and reignsWith her oer half the lovely heaven; but stillYon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remainsRolld oer the peak of the far Rhaetian hill,As Day and Night contending were, untilNature reclaimd her order: gently flowsThe deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instilThe odorous purple of a new-born rose,Which streams upon her stream, and glassd within itglows, ( 66 ) C3 O a
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8 CO ^ * 43 > s S »N M w THE YEARS 1817, 1818, 1819 XXIX Filld with the face of heaven, which from afarComes 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 strewsIts mantle oer the mountains; parting dayDies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbuesWith a new colour as it gasps away,The last still loveliest, till — t is gone — and all is gray. XXX There is a tomb in Arqua; reared in air,Pillared in their sarcophagus, reposeThe bones of Lauras lover: here repairMany familiar with his well-sung woes,The pilgrims of his genius. He aroseTo raise a language, and his land reclaimFrom the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ;Watering the tree which bears his ladys nameWith his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. XXXI They keep his dust in Arqua where he died,The mountain-village where his latter daysWent down the vale of years ; and t is their pride —An honest pride, and let it be their pra

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