Location: "Tomb of Francesco Petrarca"

George Gordon Byron

XXIX
Fill'd 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 color as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till - 'tis gone - and all is gray.

XXX
There is a tomb in Arqua; - rear'd in air,
Pillar'd 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
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

XXXI
They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
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
And venerably simple, such as raise
A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.

XXXII

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd
For they can lure no further; and the ray
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,
'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:

XXXIV
Or, it may be, with demons, who impair
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their prey
In melancholy bosoms, such as were
Of moody texture from their earliest day,
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay,
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom
Which is not of the pangs that pass away;
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb,
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom.

***

... All the colors/ from the rich sunset to the rising star, spread their magical variety:/ and now they change; a paler shadow casts/ its cloak over the mountains; the fleeing day/ dies like the dolphin, which with each convulsion is tinged/ with a new color as it gasps,/ each more and more beautiful,/ until - it is over - and all becomes gray.//

There is a tomb in Arquà; lifted upward, on columns, rest/ the bones of Laura's lover:/ here flock/ many friends of his well-tuned laments,/ like pilgrims honoring his genius. He arose/ to raise a tongue, and to free a country/ from the dull yoke of his barbarian foes:/ Watering the tree that bore his lady's name/ with his melodic tears he delivered himself to fame. //

His ashes are preserved in Arquà, where he died; / the mountain village where his last days / descended to the bottom of the valley of years; and this it is their boast - / a legitimate pride - that they rejoice in it / offering to the gaze of the passing stranger / his home and his tomb; both humble / but venerably simple, such as to arouse / a feeling more in keeping with his song / than if a pyramid constituted his monumental shrine.//

And the gentle, quiet village where he lived / has the appearance that seems appropriate / for those who have felt their mortality / and have sought a refuge from their fallen hopes / in the deep, gloomy shadows of a green hillside / that reveals a far-off prospect / of busy cities / and in vain offered to the gaze,/ for they can now attract no more; and the ray / of a radiant sun can be a sufficient feast;//

revealing the mountains, the leaves, and the flowers,/ and shining on the murmuring brook, where / clear as its current, glide the indolent hours/ with a calm languor, which, though on the surface/ seems idleness, has its morality./ If we learn to live from society,/ this loneliness will teach us how to die;/ it has no flatterers; vanity can give no vain help;/ man is alone - he must wrestle with his God://

or, perhaps, with demons, who undermine / the strength of our best thoughts,/ and seek their prey among melancholy hearts,/ those who were of moody character from their earliest days,/ and love to live in darkness and consternation.

George Gordon Byron

George Gordon Byron

Birth: Jan. 22, 1788, London
Death: April 19, 1824, Missolonghi (Greece)
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