_ And yet you see how, from their
banishment
150
Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remained of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62]
And shall an evil, which so often leads
To good, depress thee thus?
Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remained of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62]
And shall an evil, which so often leads
To good, depress thee thus?
Byron
_ And _here_?
_Jac. Fos. _ At once--by better means, as briefer. [bm]
What! would they even deny me my Sire's sepulchre,
As well as home and heritage?
_Mar. _ My husband!
I have sued to accompany thee hence, 140
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil
Is Passion, and not Patriotism; for me,
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect,
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air,
I would not cavil about climes or regions.
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not
A Paradise; its first inhabitants
Were wretched exiles.
_Jac. Fos. _ Well I know _how_ wretched!
_Mar.
_ And yet you see how, from their banishment 150
Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remained of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62]
And shall an evil, which so often leads
To good, depress thee thus?
_Jac. Fos. _ Had I gone forth
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking
Another region, with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila[63] 160
From fertile Italy, to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late country
And many thoughts; but afterwards addressed
Myself, with those about me, to create
A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this--though I know not.
_Mar. _ Wherefore not?
It was the lot of millions, and must be
The fate of myriads more.
_Jac. Fos. _ Aye--we but hear
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can number 170
The hearts which broke in silence at that parting,
Or after their departure; of that malady[64]
Which calls up green and native fields to view
From the rough deep, with such identity
To the poor exile's fevered eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody,[65] which out of tones and tunes[bn]
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 180
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
And dies. [66] You call this _weakness_! It is strength,
I say,--the parent of all honest feeling.
He who loves not his Country, can love nothing.
_Mar. _ Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.
_Jac. Fos. _ At once--by better means, as briefer. [bm]
What! would they even deny me my Sire's sepulchre,
As well as home and heritage?
_Mar. _ My husband!
I have sued to accompany thee hence, 140
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil
Is Passion, and not Patriotism; for me,
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect,
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air,
I would not cavil about climes or regions.
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not
A Paradise; its first inhabitants
Were wretched exiles.
_Jac. Fos. _ Well I know _how_ wretched!
_Mar.
_ And yet you see how, from their banishment 150
Before the Tartar into these salt isles,
Their antique energy of mind, all that
Remained of Rome for their inheritance,
Created by degrees an ocean Rome;[62]
And shall an evil, which so often leads
To good, depress thee thus?
_Jac. Fos. _ Had I gone forth
From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking
Another region, with their flocks and herds;
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion,
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila[63] 160
From fertile Italy, to barren islets,
I would have given some tears to my late country
And many thoughts; but afterwards addressed
Myself, with those about me, to create
A new home and fresh state: perhaps I could
Have borne this--though I know not.
_Mar. _ Wherefore not?
It was the lot of millions, and must be
The fate of myriads more.
_Jac. Fos. _ Aye--we but hear
Of the survivors' toil in their new lands,
Their numbers and success; but who can number 170
The hearts which broke in silence at that parting,
Or after their departure; of that malady[64]
Which calls up green and native fields to view
From the rough deep, with such identity
To the poor exile's fevered eye, that he
Can scarcely be restrained from treading them?
That melody,[65] which out of tones and tunes[bn]
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away
From his snow canopy of cliffs and clouds, 180
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought,
And dies. [66] You call this _weakness_! It is strength,
I say,--the parent of all honest feeling.
He who loves not his Country, can love nothing.
_Mar. _ Obey her, then: 'tis she that puts thee forth.
