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(Childe Harold, Canto iv. Stanzas 30–32.)
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.
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.
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.
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