Here too the deep and fervent orison
Hath matron whisper'd for her absent lord,
Peril'd in civil wars, that shook the throne,
When every hand in England, clench'd the sword:--
And here, as tales and chronicles agree,
If tales and chronicles be deem'd sincere,
Fair Warwick's heiress smiled at many a plea
Of puissant Thane, or Norman cavalier.
XIII.
Or dost thou sigh for theme of classic lore
Midst arms and moats, and battlements and towers?
Behold the Vase! that, erst on Anio's shore,
Hath found a splendid home in Warwick's bowers:
To British meads ere yet the Saxon came,
The pomp of senates swept its pedestal,
And kings of many an Oriental name
Have seen its shadow, and are perish'd all!
XIV.
Haply it stood on that illustrious ground
Where circling columns once, in sculptur'd pride,
With fine volute or wreath'd acanthus crown'd,
Rear'd some light roof by Anio's plunging tide;
There, in the brightness of the votive fane
To rural or to vintage gods addrest,
Those vine clad symbols of Pan's peaceful reign
Amidst dark pines their sacred seats possess'd.
XV.
Or, did it break with soft and silvery shower
The silence of some marble solitude,
Where Adrian, at the fire fly's glittering hour,
Of rumour'd worlds to come the doubts review'd?
Go mark his tomb!--in that sepulchral mole
Scowls the fell bandit:--from its towering height
Old Tiber's flood reflects the girandole,
Midst bells, and shouts, and rockets' arrowy flight!
XVI.
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