Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
IV. Diocletian at SalonaSir Aubrey de Vere (17881846)
T
Crown, truncheon, golden eagle, bawbles all,
And robe of Tyrian dye, to me a pall;
And be forever alien to my hand,
Though laurel-wreathed, War’s desolating brand.
I would have friends, not courtiers, in my hall;
Wise books, learn’d converse, beauty free from thrall,
And leisure for good deeds, thoughtfully planned.
Farewell, thou garish World! thou Italy,
False widow of departed Liberty!
I scorn thy base caresses. Welcome the roll,
Between us, of mine own bright Adrian sea!
Welcome these wilds, from whose bold heights my soul
Looks down on your degenerate Capitol!