Poems Sigourney 1827/Lake Thrasymene
LAKE THRASYMENE.
Sleep on, in shadowy rest, bold, beauteous lake!—
Sleep calmly on, as if thou ne'er hadst drank
The richest blood of Carthage and of Rome.—
Dream on beneath Cortona's sheltering hills,
And lend thy freshness to the olive groves
Which bending kiss thy brow,—as if thy care
To nurse the plant of peace, might deftly hide
From nature's all-pervading eye, the stain
Of thy blood-guiltiness.—But she who rests
Her tablet on the wing of time, and flies
With him o'er every region of the earth,
Hath written of thee with her diamond pen,
And told thy secret to each passing age.—
—Shrank not thy placid waters from the plunge
Of Hannibal's plumed helmet, when he sought
To slake his battle-thirst? He heeded not
The awful redness of thy breast,—but drank
Free, as he pour'd that day, the priceless blood
Of shuddering Italy.—Rememberest thou
The rush of those firm cohorts, when the earth,
Trampled and trembling,—and the echoing hills
Attested the dire onset?—With deep groans
A mighty earthquake rent the rocks, and made
Cities an heap,—yet smote not their mad ear
Who mid the clash of sword and buckler fought,
With hatred horrible.—
—Man's passions mock
The strife of nature.—Her worst deluge spared
The righteous household.—The storm-stricken main
In wrath remembereth mercy,—wrecks not all
That to its bosom cling.—
—Vesuvius saves
Even in the height of his mad victory,
The little Hermitage that timid asks
Mercy of him, and bids his molten fires
Ripen to richer zest its vineyards green.—
—But the blind haste, and headlong rage of war,
What know they of compassion?—Bid him speak,
Who in thy dark and watery deep doth rest,—
The stern Flaminius,—he who saw defeat
The eagle standard quell, and fled to hide
His burning shame with thee, holding the frown
And grasp of pitiless Death, less terrible
Than Rome's upbraiding eye.—
In earth he dream'd
To strike a root eternal, and to hang
Unfading garlands on the fickle sky
Of stormy honour.—Even then was spread
Thy bulrush pall for him,—and from their cells
Thy scaly monsters throng'd at his approach
To gaze upon him.—
So farewell, pure Lake!—
I am thy debtor for this musing hour
Of fancy's sway,—for the bright pageantry
Of other days,—the men of mighty soul
Which thou hast call'd around.—Oh Italy!—
The beautiful,—the fallen,—the worshipp'd one,—
The loved of Nature!—whose aspiring cliffs,
And caverns hoar, dart inspiration's rays
Into the traveller's soul.—Yet what avail
The burning glory of thy sunset beam,
Thy cataracts rainbow-crown'd,—the hallow'd domes
Of thine eternal city,—or the throng
Of countless pilgrims kneeling on thy breast,
While like the mutilated kings who fed
At Agag's table,—thou dost bow thee low
Beneath a proud hierarchy, and lay
The birthright of thy sons at papal feet.—
—Bethink thee of the past,—thou glorious land!—
And purge that dark "Mal'aria" which doth blast
Thy moral beauty;—
—So shalt thou be found
A second Paradise,—by serpent's wile,
And vengeful sword of flame menaced no more.