821. Gibraltar
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.
Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules
And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!
822. Written at Florence
O world, in very truth thou art too young; When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age? World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, Hast thou forgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep, that I may come Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?
O world, in very truth thou art too young.
The heroic wealth of passionate emprize Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: How hast thou set thy summer growth among
