With the purple vintage strain,
Heaped upon the creaking wain,
That the brutal Celt may swill
Drunken sleep with savage will;
And the sickle to the sword225
Lies unchanged, though many a lord,
Like a weed whose shade is poison,
Overgrows this region's foison,[1]
Sheaves of whom are ripe to come
To destruction's harvest home:230
Men must reap the things they sow,
Force from force must ever flow,
Or worse; but 'tis a bitter woe
That love or reason cannot change
The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.235
Padua, thou within whose walls
Those mute guests at festivals,
Son and Mother, Death and Sin,
Played at dice for Ezzelin,
Till Death cried, "I win, I win!"240
And Sin cursed to lose the Wager,
But Death promised, to assuage her,
That he would petition for
Her to be made Vice-Emperor,
When the destined years were o'er,245
Over all between the Po
And the eastern Alpine snow,
Under the mighty Austrian.
Sin smiled so as Sin only can,
And since that time, aye, long before,250
Both have ruled from shore to shore,
That incestuous pair, who follow
Tyrants as the sun the swallow,
- ↑ Printed foizon in Shelley's edition.
