The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Here to thine exile rest is sweet:
Here, Mother-land, thy breath is near him!
Thy pontiff, Donat, raised his seat
On these fair hills that still revere him;
Like him that thrill'd the Helvetian vale,
St. Gall's, with rock-resounded anthem:
For their sakes honour'd is the Gael:
The peace they gave to men God grant them!

II

Far down in pomp the Arno winds
By domes the boast of old Religion;
The eternal azure shining blinds
Serene Ausonia's queenliest region.
Assunta be her name! for bright
She sits, assumed 'mid heavenly glories;
But ah! more dear, though dark like night,
To me, my loved and lost Dolores!

III

The mild Franciscans say—and sigh—
‘Weep not except for Christ's dear Passion!’
They never saw their Florence lie,
Like her I mourn, in desolation!
On this high crest they brood in rest,
The pines their Saint and them embowering,
While centuries blossom round their nest
Like those slow aloes seldom flowering.

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IV

‘Salvete, flores Martyrum?’
Such was the Roman Philip's greeting
In banner'd streets with myrtles dumb
The grave-eyed English college meeting:
There lived an older martyr-land!
All realms revered her; none would aid her;
Or reaching forth a tardy hand
Enfeebled first, at last betrayed her!

V

Men named that land a ‘younger Rome!’
She lit the north with radiance golden;
Alone survives the Catacomb
Of all that Roman greatness olden!
Her Cathall at Taranto sate:
Virgilius! Saltzburgh was thy mission!
Who sow'd the Faith fast long, feast late;
Who reap'd retain unvex'd fruition.

VI

Peace settles on the whitening hair;
The heart that burned grows cold and colder;
My Resurrection spot is there
Where those Etrurian ruins moulder.
Foot-sore, by yonder pillar's base
My rest I make, unknown and lowly:
And teach the legend-loving race
To weep a Troy than theirs more holy.

University of Virginia Library

THE IRISH EXILE AT FIESOLE.

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