 | Fra Cipolla, and other poems |  |
82
THRASIMENE.
How bright the peaceful sun upon the lake,
How rich the plain, with corn, and wine, and oil,
That with scared echoes heard the war-cry wake,
When fell Rome's lion in the Moorish toil;
Scarce knows the peasant of that battle day,
Save that it fell in ages far away.
How rich the plain, with corn, and wine, and oil,
That with scared echoes heard the war-cry wake,
When fell Rome's lion in the Moorish toil;
Scarce knows the peasant of that battle day,
Save that it fell in ages far away.
Yet though no Carthaginian now await,
With legions swift, and terrible, and strong,
And elephants, whose force might break the gate
Of high Cortona; boast not, lest ere long
Your visions of security be fled,
And captive you by Doganieri led.
With legions swift, and terrible, and strong,
And elephants, whose force might break the gate
Of high Cortona; boast not, lest ere long
Your visions of security be fled,
And captive you by Doganieri led.
83
Vile caitiffs, who in wait for travellers lie,
And make them have recourse to magic spell
That lurks in dollars, from their searching eye
To hide at Rome, what might not do to tell
Had passed the frontier of that sacred land;
That feels St. Peter's keys, like burning brand.
And make them have recourse to magic spell
That lurks in dollars, from their searching eye
To hide at Rome, what might not do to tell
Had passed the frontier of that sacred land;
That feels St. Peter's keys, like burning brand.
| Fra Cipolla, and other poems | |