Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY, by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE RESTORATION OF THE WORKS OF ART TO ITALY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Land of departed fame! Whose classic plains
Last Line: "faint effluence of ""the day-spring from on high!"
Alternate Author Name(s): Browne, Felicia Dorothea
Subject(s): Art & Artists; Italy; Italians


LAND of departed fame! whose classic plains
Have proudly echoed to immortal strains;
Whose hallowed soil hath given the great and brave,
Day-stars of life, a birthplace and a grave;
Home of the Arts! where glory's faded smile
Sheds lingering light o'er many a mouldering pile;
Proud wreck of vanished power, of splendour fled,
Majestic temple of the mighty dead!
Whose grandeur, yet contending with decay,
Gleams through the twilight of thy glorious day;
Though dimmed thy brightness, riveted thy chain,
Yet, fallen Italy! rejoice again!
Lost, lovely Realm! once more 'tis thine to gaze
On the rich relics of sublimer days.

Awake, ye Muses of Etrurian shades,
Or sacred Tivoli's romantic glades;
Wake, ye that slumber in the bowery gloom
Where the wild ivy shadows Virgil's tomb;
Or ye, whose voice, by Sorga's lonely wave,
Swelled the deep echoes of the fountain's cave,
Or thrilled the soul in Tasso's numbers high,
Those magic strains of love and chivalry;
If yet by classic streams ye fondly rove,
Haunting the myrtle-vale, the laurel-grove;
Oh! rouse once more the daring soul of song,
Seize with bold hand the harp, forgot so long,
And hail, with wonted pride, those works revered,
Hallowed by time, by absence more endeared.

And breathe to those the strain, whose warrior-might
Each danger stemmed, prevailed in every fight;
Souls of unyielding power, to storms inured,
Sublimed by peril, and by toil matured,
Sing of that Leader, whose ascendant mind
Could rouse the slumbering spirit of mankind;
Whose banners tracked the vanquished Eagle's flight
O'er many a plain, and dark Sierra's height:
Who bade once more the wild, heroic lay,
Record the deeds of Roncesvalles' day;
Who, through each mountain-pass of rock and snow,
An Alpine Huntsman chased the fear-struck foe;
Waved his proud standard to the balmy gales,
Rich Languedoc! that fan thy glowing vales,
And 'midst those scenes renewed th' achievements high,
Bequeathed to fame by England's ancestry.

Yet, when the storm seemed hushed, the conflict past,
One strife remained -- the mightiest and the last!
Nerved for the struggle, in that fateful hour
Untamed Ambition summoned all his power:
Vengeance and Pride, to frenzy roused, were there,
And the stern might of resolute Despair.
Isle of the free! 'twas then thy champions stood,
Breasting unmoved the combat's wildest flood;
Sunbeam of Battle! then thy spirit shone,
Glowed in each breast, and sunk with life alone.

O hearts devoted! whose illustrious doom,
Gave there at once your triumph and your tomb,
Ye, firm and faithful, in th' ordeal tried
Of that dread strife, by Freedom sanctified;
Shrined, not entombed, ye rest in sacred earth,
Hallowed by deeds of more than mortal worth.
What though to mark where sleeps heroic dust,
No sculptured trophy rise, or breathing bust,
Yours, on the scene where valour's race was run,
A prouder sepulchre -- the field ye won!
There every mead, each cabin's lowly name,
Shall live a watchword blended with your fame;
And well may flowers suffice those graves to crown
That ask no urn to blazon their renown!
There shall the Bard in future ages tread,
And bless each wreath that blossoms o'er the dead;
Revere each tree, whose sheltering branches
O'er the low mounds, the altars of the brave;
Pause o'er each Warrior's grass-grown bed and hear
In every breeze, some name to glory dear.
And as the shades of twilight close around,
With martial pageants people all the ground.
Thither unborn descendants of the slain
Shall throng, as pilgrims, to some holy fane,
While, as they trace each spot, whose records tell,
Where fought their fathers, and prevailed, and fell,
Warm in their souls shall loftiest feelings glow,
Claiming proud kindred with the dust below!
And many an age shall see the brave repair,
To learn the Hero's bright devotion there.

And well, Ausonia! may that field of fame,
From thee one song of echoing triumph claim.
Land of the lyre! 'twas there th' avenging sword
Won the bright treasures to thy fanes restored;
Those precious trophies o'er thy realms that throw
A veil of radiance, hiding half thy woe,
And bid the stranger for awhile forget
How deep thy fall, and deem thee glorious yet.

Yes! fair creations, to perfection wrought,
Embodied visions of ascending thought!
Forms of sublimity! by Genius traced,
In tints that vindicate adoring taste;
Whose bright originals, to earth unknown,
Live in the spheres encircling glory's throne;
Models of art, to deathless fame consigned,
Stamped with the high-born majesty of mind;
Yes, matchless works! your presence shall restore
One beam of splendour to your native shore,
And her sad scenes of lost fenown illume,
As the bright Sunset gilds some Heros tomb.

Oh! ne'er, in other climes, though many an eye
Dwelt on your charms, in beaming ecstasy
Ne'er was it yours to bid the soul expand
With thoughts so mighty, dreams so boldly grand,
As in that realm, where each faint breeze's moan,
Seems a low dirge for glorious ages gone;
Where 'midst the ruined shrines of many a vale,
E'en Desolation tells a haughty tale,
And scarce a fountain flows, a rock ascends,
But its proud name with song eternal blends!

Yes! in those scenes where every ancient stream
Bids memory kindle o'er some lofty theme;
Where every marble deeds of fame records,
Each ruin tells of Earth's departed lords;
And the deep tones of inspiration swell
From each wild Olive-wood and Alpine dell;
Where heroes slumber, on their battle plains,
'Midst prostrate altars, and deserted fanes,
And Fancy communes, in each lonely spot,
With shades of those who ne'er shall be forgot;
There was your home, and there your power imprest,
With tenfold awe, the pilgrim's glowing breast;
And, as the wind's deep thrills, and mystic sighs,
Wake the wild harp to loftiest harmonies,
Thus at your influence, starting from repose,
Thought, Feeling, Fancy, into grandeur rose.

Fair Florence! Queen of Arno's lovely vale!
Justice and Truth indignant heard thy tale,
And sternly smiled in retribution's hour,
To wrest thy treasures from the Spoiler's power.
Too long the spirits of thy noble dead
Mourned o'er the domes they reared in ages fled.
Those classic scenes their pride so richly graced,
Temples of genius, palaces of taste,
Too long, with sad and desolated mien,
Revealed where conquest's lawless track had been;
Reft of each form with brighter light imbued,
Lonely they frowned, a desert solitude.
Florence! th' Oppressor's noon of pride is o'er,
Rise in thy pomp again, and weep no more!

As one who, starting at the dawn of day
From dark illusions, phantoms of dismay,
With transport heightened by those ills of night,
Hails the rich glories of expanding light;
E'en thus, awakening from thy dream of woe,
While Heaven's own hues in radiance round thee glow,
With warmer ecstasy 'tis thine to trace
Each tint of beauty, and each line of grace;
More bright, more prized, more precious, since deplored
As loved, lost relics, ne'er to be restored,
Thy grief as hopeless as the tear-drop shed
By fond affection bending o'er the dead.

Athens of Italy! once more are thine,
Those matchless gems of Art's exhaustless mine.
For thee bright Genius darts his living beam,
Warm o'er thy shrines the tints of Glory stream,
And forms august as natives of the sky
Rise round each fane in faultless majesty,
So chastely perfect, so serenely grand,
They seem creations of no mortal hand.

Ye, at whose voice fair Art, with eagle glance,
Burst in full splendour from her deathlike
Whose rallying call bade slumbering nations wake,
And daring Intellect his bondage break;
Beneath whose eye the Lords of song arose,
And snatched the Tuscan lyre from long repose,
And bade its pealing energies resound,
With power electric, through the realms around;
Oh! high in thought, magnificent in soul!
Born to inspire, enlighten and control;
Cosmo, Lorenzo! view your reign once more,
The shrine where nations mingle to adore!
Again th' Enthusiast there, with ardent gaze,
Shall hail the mighty of departed days:
Those sovereign spirits, whose commanding mind,
Seems in the marble's breathing mould enshrined;
Still, with ascendant power, the world to awe,
Still the deep homage of the heart to draw;
To breathe some spell of holiness around,
Bid all the scene be consecrated ground,
And from the stone, by Inspiration wrought,
Dart the pure lightnings of exalted thought.

There thou, fair offspring of immortal Mind!
Love's radiant Goddess, Idol of mankind!
Once the bright object of Devotion's vow,
Shalt claim from taste a kindred worship now.
Oh! who can tell what beams of heavenly light,
Flashed o'er the sculptor's intellectual sight,
How many a glimpse, revealed to him alone,
Made brighter beings, nobler worlds his own;
Ere, like some vision sent the earth to bless,
Burst into life thy pomp of loveliness!

Young Genius there, while dwells his kindling eye
On forms, instinct with bright divinity,
While new-born powers, dilating in his heart,
Embrace the full magnificence of Art;
From scenes, by Raphael's gifted hand arrayed,
From dreams of heaven by Angelo portrayed;
From each fair work of Grecian skill sublime,
Sealed with perfection, "sanctified by time;"
Shall catch a kindred glow, and proudly feel
His spirit burn with emulative zeal:
Buoyant with loftier hopes, his soul shall rise,
Imbued at once with nobler energies;
O'er life's dim scenes on rapid pinion soar
And worlds of visionary grace explore,
Till his bold hand give glory's day-dreams birth,
And with new wonders charm admiring earth.

Venice exult! and o'er thy moonlight seas,
Swell with gay strains each Adriatic breeze!
What though long fled those years of martial fame,
That shed romantic lustre o'er thy name:
Though to the winds thy streamers idly play.
And the wild waves another Queen obey;
Though quenched the spirit of thine ancient race,
And power and freedom scarce have left a trace;
Yet still shall Art her splendours round tnee cast.
And gild the wreck of years for ever past.
Again thy fanes may boast a Titian's dyes,
Whose clear soft brilliance emulates thy skies,
And scenes that glow in colouring's richest bloom,
With life's warm flush Palladian halls illume.
From thy rich dome again th' unrivalled steed
Starts to existence, rushes into speed,
Still for Lysippus claims the wreath of fame,
Panting with ardour, vivified with flame.

Proud Racers of the Sun! to fancy's thought,
Burning with spirit, from his essence caught,
No mortal birth ye seem -- but formed to bear
Heaven's car of triumph through the realms of air;
To range uncurbed the pathless fields of space,
The winds your rivals in the glorious race;
Traverse empyreal spheres with buoyant feet,
Free as the zephyr, as the shot-star fleet;
And waft through worlds unknown the vital ray,
The flame that wakes creations into day.
Creatures of fire and ether! winged with light,
To track the regions of the Infinite!
From purer elements whose light was drawn,
Sprung from the sunbeam, offspring of the dawn,
What years on years, in silence gliding by,
Have spared those forms of perfect symmetry!
Moulded by Art to dignify alone,
Her own bright deity's resplendent throne,
Since first her skill their fiery grace bestowed,
Meet for such lofty fate, such high abode,
How many a race, whose tales of glory seem
An echo's voice -- the music of a dream,
Whose records feebly from oblivion save,
A few bright traces of the wise and brave:
How many a state, whose pillared strength sublime,
Defied the storms of war, the waves of time,
Towering o'er earth majestic and alone,
Fortress of power -- has flourished and is gone!
And they, from clime to clime by conquest borne,
Each fleeting triumph destined to adorn,
They, that of powers and kingdoms lost and won,
Have seen the noontide and the setting sun,
Consummate still in every grace remain.
As o'er their heads had ages rolled in vain!
Ages, victorious in their ceaseless flight,
O'er countless monuments of earthly might!
While she, from fair Byzantium's lost domain,
Who bore those treasures to her ocean-reign,
'Midst the blue deep, who reared her island-throne,
And called th' infinitude of waves her own;
Venice the proud, the Regent of the sea,
Welcomes in chains the trophies of the Free!

And thou, whose Eagle's towering plume unfurled
Once cast its shadow o'er a vassal world,
Eternal city! round whose Curule throne
The Lords of nations knelt in ages flown;
Thou, whose Augustan years have left to time
Immortal records of their glorious prime;
When deathless bards, thine olive shades among,
Swelled the high raptures of heroic song;
Fair, fallen Empress! raise thy languid head,
From the cold altars of th' illustrious dead,
And once again with fond delight survey,
The proud memorials of thy noblest day.

Lo! where thy sons, oh Rome! a godlike train,
In imaged majesty return again!
Bards, chieftains, monarchs, tower with mien august
O'er scenes that shrine their venerable dust.
Those forms, those features, luminous with soul,
Still o'er thy children seem to claim control;
With awful grace arrest the pilgrim's glance,
Bind his rapt soul in elevating trance,
And bid the past, to fancy's ardent eyes,
From time's dim sepulchre in glory rise.

Souls of the lofty! whose undying names
Rouse the young bosom still to noblest aims;
Oh! with your images could fate restore,
Your own high spirit to your sons once more;
Patriots and Heroes! could those flames return,
That bade your hearts with freedom's ardours burn;
Then from the sacred ashes of the first,
Might a new Rome in phoenix-grandeur burst!
With one bright glance dispel th' horizon's gloom,
With one loud call wake Empire from the tomb,
Bind round her brows her own triumphal crown,
Lift her dread AEgis, with majestic frown,
Unchain her Eagle's wing, and guide his flight
To bathe its plumage in the fount of light.

Vain dream I degraded Rome! thy noon is o'er;
Once lost, thy spirit shall revive no more.
It sleeps with those, the sons of other days,
Who fixed on thee the world's adoring gaze;
Those, blest to live, while yet thy star was high,
More blest, ere darkness quenched its beam, to die!

Yet, though thy faithless tutelary powers
Have fled thy shrines, left desolate thy towers,
Still, still to thee shall nations bend their way,
Revered in ruin, sovereign in decay!
Oh! what can realms, in fame's full zenith, boast,
To match the relics of thy splendour lost!
By Tiber's waves, on each illustrious hill,
Genius and Taste shall love to wander still,
For there has Art survived an Empire's doom,
And reared her throne o'er Latium's trophied tomb:
She from the dust recalls the brave and free,
Peopling each scene with beings worthy thee!

Oh! ne'er again may War, with lightning stroke,
Rend its last honours from the shattered oak!
Long be those works, revered by ages, thine,
To lend one triumph to thy dim decline.

Bright with stern beauty, breathing wrathful fire,
In all the grandeur of celestial ire,
Once more thine own, th' immortal Archer's form
Sheds radiance round, with more than being warm!
Oh! who could view, nor deem that perfect frame,
A living temple of ethereal flame?

Lord of the day-star! how may words portray
Of thy chaste glory one reflected ray?
Whate'er the soul could dream, the hand could trace,
Of real dignity, and heavenly grace,
Each purer effluence of the fair and bright,
Whose fitful gleams have broke on mortal sight;
Each bold idea, borrowed from the sky.
To vest th' embodied form of Deity;
All, all in thee, ennobled and refined,
Breathe and enchant, transcendently combined!
Son of Elysium! years and ages gone,
Have bowed, in speechless homage, at thy throne,
And days unborn, and nations yet to be,
Shall gaze, absorbed in ecstasy, on thee!

And thou, triumphant wreck, e'en yet sublime,
Disputed trophy, claimed by Art and Time:
Hail to that scene again, where Genius caught
From thee its fervours of diviner thought!
Where He, th' inspired One, whose gigantic mind
Lived in some sphere, to him alone assigned;
Who from the past, the future, and th' unseen,
Could call up forms of more than earthly mien:
Unrivalled Angelo on thee would gaze,
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze!
And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare
Thy sovereign greatness view without despair?
Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurled,
Yet claiming still the homage of the world.

What hadst thou been, ere barbarous hands defaced
The work of wonder, idolized by taste?
Oh! worthy still of some divine abode,
Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God!
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless beam
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream,
'Tis thine, by fate unconquered, to dispense
From every part, some ray of excellence!
E'en yet, informed with essence from on high,
Thine is no trace of frail mortality!
Within that frame a purer being glows,
Through viewiess veins a brighter current flows;
Filled with immortal life each muscle swells,
In every line supernal grandeur dwells.

Consummate work! the noblest and the last,
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past,
Nurse of the mighty, she, while lingering still,
Her mantle flowed o'er many a classic hill,
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed,
A Hero's image to the world bequeathed;
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray
Of high-souled Genius, fostered by her sway,
And bade thee teach, to ages yet unborn,
What lofty dreams were hers -- who never shall return!

And mark yon group, transfixed with many a throe,
Sealed with the image of eternal woe:
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest,
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast,
And the stern combat picture to mankind,
Of suffering nature, and enduring mind.
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense,
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense;
Though fixed on him, his children's suppliant eyes
Implore the aid avenging fate denies;
Though with the giant-snake in fruitless strife,
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life,
And in each limb Existence writhes, enrolled
'Midst the dread circles of the venomed fold;
Yet the strong spirit lives -- and not a cry
Shall own the might of Nature's agony!
That furrowed brow unconquered soul reveals,
That patient eye to angry Heaven appeals,
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath,
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death!

Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art!
With speechless horror to congeal the heart,
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every vein,
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain;
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour.

Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze
On scenes where Painting all her skill displays:
Landscapes, by colouring drest in richer dyes,
More mellowed sunshine, more unclouded skies,
Or dreams of bliss to dying Martyrs given,
Descending Seraphs robed in beams of heaven.

Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pench's might,
Its depth of shadow, and its blaze of light,
Ye, whose bold thought disdaining every bound,
Explored the worlds above, below, around,
Children of Italy! who stand alone
And unapproached, 'midst regions all your own;
What scenes, what beings blest your favoured sight,
Severely grand, unutterably bright!
Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye
Could meet the noontide of eternity,
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontrolled,
On all that Fancy trembles to behold.

Bright on your view such forms their splendour shed
As burst on Prophet-bards in ages fled:
Forms that to trace, no hand but yours might dare,
Darkly sublime, or exquisitely fair;
These o'er the walls your magic skill arrayed,
Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade,
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower,
And breathe and move, the records of your power.
Inspired of heaven! what heightened pomp ye cast,
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome;
Round many a work that bids the world believe,
What Grecian Art could image and achieve;
Again, creative minds, your visions throw,
Life's chastened warmth and Beauty's mellowest glow.
And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume, with purple smile,
The Parian altar, and the pillared aisle,
Then, as the full, or softened radiance falls,
On Angel-groups that hover o'er the walls,
Well may those Temples, where your hand has shed
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance there,
Some sphere, where beings, to mankind unknown.
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!
Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy's erring theme!
Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream!
Frail, powerless idols of departed time,
Fables of song, delusive, though sublime!
To loftier tasks has Roman Art assigned
Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!
From brighter streams her vast ideas flowed,
With purer fire her ardent spirit glowed.
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore
The land of miracles, the holiest shore;
That realm where first the light of life was sent,
The loved, the punished, of th' Omnipotent!
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would stray,
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way;
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,
Chained in dead silence, and unbroken sleep;
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell,
Where passed th' Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate revealed,
Swelled in the whirlwind, in the thunder pealed,
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
Breathed "still small" whispers on the midnight gale.
There dwelt her spirit -- there her hand portrayed,
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or Patriarch-seers absorbed in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest,
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul returned to animate the dead;
Whom the waves owned -- and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;
To Him she gave her meditative hours,
Hallowed her thoughts, and sanctified her powers.
O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw,
As all around the Godhead's presence knew,
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien
In beaming mercy, majesty serene.

Oh! mark, where Raphael's pure and perfect line
Portrays that form ineffably divine!
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head;
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued
With all the fulness of beatitude,
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight
Sinks overpowered by that excess of light!

Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art,
By truth inspired, to elevate the heart!
To bid the soul exultingly possess,
Of all her powers, a heightened consciousness;
And strong in hope, anticipate the day,
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray;
To realize, in some unclouded sphere,
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here!
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky,
Faint effluence of "the day-spring from on high!"





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