Buskerud 

Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume CXXIX. Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, And shadows forth its glory. There is given A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant And magic in the ruined battlement, Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. CXXX. O Time! the beautifier of the dead, And only healer when the heart.html">heart.html">heart hath bled - The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher, Which never loses though it doth defer - My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift: CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou.html">thou.html">thou.html">thou.html">thou.html">thou hast made a shrine Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, If thou hast ever seen me too elate, Good, and reserved my pride against the hate This iron in my soul in vain--shall THEY not mourn? CXXXII. And thou, who never yet of human.html">human wrong Here, where the ancients paid thee homage long - And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss Had it but been from hands less near--in this Dost thou not hear my heart?--Awake! thou shalt, and must. CXXXIII. It is not that I may not have incurred I bleed withal, and had it been conferred But now my blood shall not sink in the ground; The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, But let that pass--I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. CXXXIV. And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, But in this page a record will I seek. Though I be ashes; a far hour shall wreak And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse! .

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