Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,5Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles,Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,5Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!
A. H. Clough.
IYour ghost will walk, you lover of trees,(If our loves remain)In an English lane,By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—5A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,Making love, say,—The happier they!Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,And let them pass, as they will too soon,10With the beanflowers' boon,And the blackbird's tune,And May, and June!IIWhat I love best in all the world,Is, a castle, precipice-encurled,15In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—20In a sea-side house to the farther south,Where the baked cicalas die of drouth,And one sharp tree—'tis a cypress—stands,By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,25My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, for ever crumbles30Some fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news to-day—the king35Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—40(When fortune's maliceLost her, Calais)Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, 'Italy,'Such lovers old are I and she;45So it always was, so shall ever be!
I
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,(If our loves remain)In an English lane,By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—5A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,Making love, say,—The happier they!Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,And let them pass, as they will too soon,10With the beanflowers' boon,And the blackbird's tune,And May, and June!
II
What I love best in all the world,Is, a castle, precipice-encurled,15In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—20In a sea-side house to the farther south,Where the baked cicalas die of drouth,And one sharp tree—'tis a cypress—stands,By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,25My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, for ever crumbles30Some fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news to-day—the king35Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—40(When fortune's maliceLost her, Calais)Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, 'Italy,'Such lovers old are I and she;45So it always was, so shall ever be!
R. Browning.
There is a glorious City in the sea.The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weedClings to the marble of her palaces.No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,5Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,Invisible; and from the land we went,As to a floating city—steering in,And gliding up her streets as in a dream,So smoothly, silently—by many a dome,10Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,The statues ranged along an azure sky;By many a pile in more than eastern pride,Of old the residence of merchant-kings;The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,Still glowing with the richest hues of art,16As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
There is a glorious City in the sea.The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weedClings to the marble of her palaces.No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,5Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,Invisible; and from the land we went,As to a floating city—steering in,And gliding up her streets as in a dream,So smoothly, silently—by many a dome,10Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,The statues ranged along an azure sky;By many a pile in more than eastern pride,Of old the residence of merchant-kings;The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,Still glowing with the richest hues of art,16As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
S. Rogers.
Underneath Day's azure eyesOcean's nursling, Venice lies,A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite's destined halls,Which her hoary sire now paves5With his blue and beaming waves.Lo! the sun upsprings behind,Broad, red, radiant, half-reclinedOn the level quivering lineOf the waters crystalline;10And before that chasm of light,As within a furnace bright,Column, tower, and dome, and spire,Shine like obelisks of fire,Pointing with inconstant motion15From the altar of dark oceanTo the sapphire-tinted skies;As the flames of sacrificeFrom the marble shrines did rise,As to pierce the dome of gold20Where Apollo spoke of old.Sun-girt City! thou hast beenOcean's child, and then his queen;Now is come a darker day,And thou soon must be his prey,25If the power that raised thee hereHallow so thy watery bier.
Underneath Day's azure eyesOcean's nursling, Venice lies,A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite's destined halls,Which her hoary sire now paves5With his blue and beaming waves.Lo! the sun upsprings behind,Broad, red, radiant, half-reclinedOn the level quivering lineOf the waters crystalline;10And before that chasm of light,As within a furnace bright,Column, tower, and dome, and spire,Shine like obelisks of fire,Pointing with inconstant motion15From the altar of dark oceanTo the sapphire-tinted skies;As the flames of sacrificeFrom the marble shrines did rise,As to pierce the dome of gold20Where Apollo spoke of old.Sun-girt City! thou hast beenOcean's child, and then his queen;Now is come a darker day,And thou soon must be his prey,25If the power that raised thee hereHallow so thy watery bier.
P. B. Shelley.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;A palace and a prison on each hand:I saw from out the wave her structures riseAs from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:A thousand years their cloudy wings expand5Around me, and a dying Glory smilesO'er the far times, when many a subject landLooked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,10Rising with her tiara of proud towersAt airy distance, with majestic motion,A ruler of the waters and their powers:And such she was;—her daughters had their dowers14From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless EastPoured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.In purple was she robed, and of her feastMonarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,And silent rows the songless gondolier;20Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,And music meets not always now the ear:Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die,Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,25The pleasant place of all festivity,The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!But unto us she hath a spell beyondHer name in story, and her long arrayOf mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond30Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;Ours is a trophy which will not decayWith the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away—The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,For us repeopled were the solitary shore.36The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;And, annual marriage now no more renewed,The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,Neglected garment of her widowhood!40St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stoodStand, but in mockery of his withered power,Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour44When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;But is not Doria's menace come to pass?Are they notbridled?—Venice, lost and won,Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,50Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes,From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;A palace and a prison on each hand:I saw from out the wave her structures riseAs from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:A thousand years their cloudy wings expand5Around me, and a dying Glory smilesO'er the far times, when many a subject landLooked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles,Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,10Rising with her tiara of proud towersAt airy distance, with majestic motion,A ruler of the waters and their powers:And such she was;—her daughters had their dowers14From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless EastPoured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.In purple was she robed, and of her feastMonarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,And silent rows the songless gondolier;20Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,And music meets not always now the ear:Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die,Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,25The pleasant place of all festivity,The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
But unto us she hath a spell beyondHer name in story, and her long arrayOf mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond30Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;Ours is a trophy which will not decayWith the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away—The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,For us repeopled were the solitary shore.36
The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;And, annual marriage now no more renewed,The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,Neglected garment of her widowhood!40St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stoodStand, but in mockery of his withered power,Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour44When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;But is not Doria's menace come to pass?Are they notbridled?—Venice, lost and won,Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,50Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes,From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.
Lord Byron.
On the LidoOn her still lake the city sitsWhile bark and boat beside her flits,Nor hears, her soft siesta taking,The Adriatic billows breaking.In the Piazza at nightO beautiful beneath the magic moon5To walk the watery way of palaces;O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blueThis spacious court; with colour and with gold,With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls,10(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;)Fantastically perfect this lone pileOf oriental glory; these long rangesOf classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd,And the calm Campanile.—Beautiful!16O beautiful!
On the Lido
On her still lake the city sitsWhile bark and boat beside her flits,Nor hears, her soft siesta taking,The Adriatic billows breaking.
In the Piazza at night
O beautiful beneath the magic moon5To walk the watery way of palaces;O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blueThis spacious court; with colour and with gold,With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls,10(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;)Fantastically perfect this lone pileOf oriental glory; these long rangesOf classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd,And the calm Campanile.—Beautiful!16O beautiful!
A. H. Clough.
Arno wins us to the fair white walls,Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keepsA softer feeling for her fairy halls.Girt by her theatre of hills, she reapsHer corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps5To laughing life, with her redundant horn.Along the banks where smiling Arno sweepsWas modern Luxury of Commerce born,And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fillsThe air around with beauty; we inhale11The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instilsPart of its immortality; the veilOf heaven is half undrawn; within the paleWe stand, and in that form and face behold15What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail;And to the fond idolaters of oldEnvy the innate flash which such a soul could mould.
Arno wins us to the fair white walls,Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keepsA softer feeling for her fairy halls.Girt by her theatre of hills, she reapsHer corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps5To laughing life, with her redundant horn.Along the banks where smiling Arno sweepsWas modern Luxury of Commerce born,And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.
There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fillsThe air around with beauty; we inhale11The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instilsPart of its immortality; the veilOf heaven is half undrawn; within the paleWe stand, and in that form and face behold15What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail;And to the fond idolaters of oldEnvy the innate flash which such a soul could mould.
Lord Byron.
Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,Your London sun is here seen shining brightly;The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face,And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly.The Romans are a kind and cordial race,5The women charming, if one takes them rightly;I see them at their doors, as day is closing,More proud than duchesses,—and more imposing.Afar nientelife promotes the graces;They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,10And in their bearing and their speech one tracesA breadth of grace and depth of courtesyThat are not found in more inclement places;Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony:The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,15Is often cold—and always in a hurry.Thoughfar nienteis their passion, theySeem here most eloquent in things most slight;No matter what it is they have to say,The manner always sets the matter right:20And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day,They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'.Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you,'Tis always something that they've wished to please you!Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read25Alone of stately palaces and streetsWhose fountains ever run with joyful speed,And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meetsGreat Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed,Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats,30The sites of vanished temples, where now moulderOld ruins, hiding ruin even older.Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches,Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,35Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.The sombre streets are worthy your researches:The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid,But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages,Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.40About one fane I deprecate all sneering,For during Christmas-time I went there daily,Amused, or edified, or both, by hearingThe little preachers of theAra Coeli.Conceive a four-year-oldbambinarearing45Her small form on a rostrum,—tricked out gaily,And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful,With action quite dramatic and delightful.Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags!The country's better seen when one is riding:We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags51At will. The aqueducts are yet bestridingWith giant march (now whole, now broken cragsWith flowers plumed) the swelling and subsidingCampagna, girt by purple hills, afar,—55That melt in light beneath the evening star.A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant;The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood;There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasantLike Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,60And seems to wake the past time in the present.Faircontadina, mark his mirthful mood,No antique satyr he. The nimble fellowCan join with jollity yoursalterello.Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath65Of life to unsophisticated man.Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath,Per dar' al mio bene.When you can,Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim DeathAnd Time are grudging of Life's little span:70Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn,Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.I dare not speak of Michael Angelo—Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:And if I breathe the name of Sanzio75(The brightest of Italian gentlemen),It is that love casts out my fear, and soI claim with him a kindredship. Ah, whenWe love, the name is on our hearts engraven,As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!80Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine,'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;The world goes there with torches, I declineThus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.Some day in May our forces we'll combine85(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing,And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and thenYou'll muse upon the vanity of men!Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern,89'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay:The ashes buried in a sculptured urnAre not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!That better time, for which the patriots yearn,Enchants the gaze, again to fade away.They wait and pine for what is long denied,95And thus I wait till thou art by my side.Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I stillSeem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine;I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,I cannot yet thy little hand resign!100The plain is fading into darkness chill,The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine,I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;Oh, come to Rome—oh come, oh come to me!
Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,Your London sun is here seen shining brightly;The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face,And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly.The Romans are a kind and cordial race,5The women charming, if one takes them rightly;I see them at their doors, as day is closing,More proud than duchesses,—and more imposing.
Afar nientelife promotes the graces;They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,10And in their bearing and their speech one tracesA breadth of grace and depth of courtesyThat are not found in more inclement places;Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony:The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,15Is often cold—and always in a hurry.
Thoughfar nienteis their passion, theySeem here most eloquent in things most slight;No matter what it is they have to say,The manner always sets the matter right:20And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day,They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'.Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you,'Tis always something that they've wished to please you!
Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read25Alone of stately palaces and streetsWhose fountains ever run with joyful speed,And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meetsGreat Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed,Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats,30The sites of vanished temples, where now moulderOld ruins, hiding ruin even older.
Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches,Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,35Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.The sombre streets are worthy your researches:The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid,But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages,Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.40
About one fane I deprecate all sneering,For during Christmas-time I went there daily,Amused, or edified, or both, by hearingThe little preachers of theAra Coeli.Conceive a four-year-oldbambinarearing45Her small form on a rostrum,—tricked out gaily,And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful,With action quite dramatic and delightful.
Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags!The country's better seen when one is riding:We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags51At will. The aqueducts are yet bestridingWith giant march (now whole, now broken cragsWith flowers plumed) the swelling and subsidingCampagna, girt by purple hills, afar,—55That melt in light beneath the evening star.A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant;The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood;There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasantLike Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,60And seems to wake the past time in the present.Faircontadina, mark his mirthful mood,No antique satyr he. The nimble fellowCan join with jollity yoursalterello.
Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath65Of life to unsophisticated man.Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath,Per dar' al mio bene.When you can,Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim DeathAnd Time are grudging of Life's little span:70Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn,Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.
I dare not speak of Michael Angelo—Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:And if I breathe the name of Sanzio75(The brightest of Italian gentlemen),It is that love casts out my fear, and soI claim with him a kindredship. Ah, whenWe love, the name is on our hearts engraven,As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!80
Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine,'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;The world goes there with torches, I declineThus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.Some day in May our forces we'll combine85(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing,And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and thenYou'll muse upon the vanity of men!
Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern,89'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay:The ashes buried in a sculptured urnAre not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!That better time, for which the patriots yearn,Enchants the gaze, again to fade away.They wait and pine for what is long denied,95And thus I wait till thou art by my side.
Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I stillSeem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine;I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,I cannot yet thy little hand resign!100The plain is fading into darkness chill,The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine,I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;Oh, come to Rome—oh come, oh come to me!
F. Locker-Lampson.
I do remember me, that in my youth,When I was wandering,—upon such a nightI stood within the Coliseum's wall,'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;The trees which grew along the broken arches5Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the starsShone through the rents of ruin; from afarThe watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; andMore near from out the Caesar's palace cameThe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,10Of distant sentinels the fitful songBegun and died upon the gentle wind.Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breachAppeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stoodWithin a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,15And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidstA grove which springs through levelled battlements,And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,20A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, uponAll this, and cast a wide and tender light,25Which softened down the hoar austerityOf rugged desolation, and filled up,As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;Leaving that beautiful which still was so,And making that which was not, till the place30Became religion, and the heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old,—The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.
I do remember me, that in my youth,When I was wandering,—upon such a nightI stood within the Coliseum's wall,'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;The trees which grew along the broken arches5Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the starsShone through the rents of ruin; from afarThe watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; andMore near from out the Caesar's palace cameThe owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,10Of distant sentinels the fitful songBegun and died upon the gentle wind.Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breachAppeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stoodWithin a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,15And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidstA grove which springs through levelled battlements,And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,20A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, uponAll this, and cast a wide and tender light,25Which softened down the hoar austerityOf rugged desolation, and filled up,As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;Leaving that beautiful which still was so,And making that which was not, till the place30Became religion, and the heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old,—The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.
Lord Byron.
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock,Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping stillThat name, a local Phantom proud to mockThe Traveller's expectation?—Could our Will5Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere doneThro' what men see and touch,—slaves wandering on,Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill.Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh;Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn,10From that depression raised, to mount on highWith stronger wing, more clearly to discernEternal things; and, if need be, defyChange, with a brow not insolent, though stern.
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock,Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping stillThat name, a local Phantom proud to mockThe Traveller's expectation?—Could our Will5Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere doneThro' what men see and touch,—slaves wandering on,Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill.Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh;Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn,10From that depression raised, to mount on highWith stronger wing, more clearly to discernEternal things; and, if need be, defyChange, with a brow not insolent, though stern.
W. Wordsworth.
Who, then, was Cestius,And what is he to me?—Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinousOne thought alone brings he.I can recall no word5Of anything he did;For me he is a man who died and was interredTo leave a pyramidWhose purpose was exprestNot with its first design,10Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their restTwo countrymen of mine.Cestius in life, maybe,Slew, breathed out threatening;I know not. This I know: in death all silentlyHe does a rarer thing,16In beckoning pilgrim feetWith marble finger highTo where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,Those matchless singers lie....20—Say, then, he lived and diedThat stones which bear his nameShould mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;It is an ample fame.
Who, then, was Cestius,And what is he to me?—Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinousOne thought alone brings he.
I can recall no word5Of anything he did;For me he is a man who died and was interredTo leave a pyramid
Whose purpose was exprestNot with its first design,10Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their restTwo countrymen of mine.
Cestius in life, maybe,Slew, breathed out threatening;I know not. This I know: in death all silentlyHe does a rarer thing,16
In beckoning pilgrim feetWith marble finger highTo where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,Those matchless singers lie....20
—Say, then, he lived and diedThat stones which bear his nameShould mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;It is an ample fame.
T. Hardy.
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—5So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!10Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro,(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace.15
Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the AnioFalling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—5So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!10Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro,(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace.15
A. H. Clough.
Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest woodTo slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar;To range through the Temples of Paestum, to museIn Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth;6On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues;And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth!The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret?With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,11Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurnedAwoke to new life from its ashes and dust;Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned15From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the pageOf that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mindHad a musical charm, which the winter of ageAnd the changes it brings had no power to unbind.And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you21I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part,While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew,And the realized vision is clasped to my heart.
Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest woodTo slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar;To range through the Temples of Paestum, to museIn Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth;6On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues;And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth!The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret?With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,11Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurnedAwoke to new life from its ashes and dust;Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned15From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.
Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the pageOf that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mindHad a musical charm, which the winter of ageAnd the changes it brings had no power to unbind.And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you21I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part,While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew,And the realized vision is clasped to my heart.
W. Wordsworth.
They stand between the mountains and the sea;Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck;The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,Points to the work of magic, and moves on.5Time was they stood along the crowded street,Temples of Gods, and on their ample stepsWhat various habits, various tongues besetThe brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice;10And here the accuser stood, and there the accused,And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged.All silent now, as in the ages past,Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust.How many centuries did the sun go round15From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,While, by some spell rendered invisible,Or, if approached, approached by him aloneWho saw as though he saw not, they remainedAs in the darkness of a sepulchre,20Waiting the appointed time! All, all withinProclaims that Nature had resumed her right,And taken to herself what man renounced;No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern,25Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!From my youth upward have I longed to treadThis classic ground; and am I here at last?Wandering at will through the long porticoes,And catching, as through some majestic grove,30Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up,Towns like the living rock from which they grew?A cloudy region, black and desolate,Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.35The air is sweet with violets, running wild'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals;Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost—Turning to thee, divine philosophy,40Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul—Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago,For Athens; when a ship, if north-east windsBlew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course.On as he moved along the level shore,45These temples, in their splendour eminent'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers,Reflecting back the radiance of the west,Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up,The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf50Suckles her young; and as alone I standIn this, the nobler pile, the elementsOf earth and air its only floor and covering,How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirsSave the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round55On the rough pediment to sit and sing;Or the green lizard rushing through the grass,And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring,To vanish in the chinks that time has made.In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk60Seen at his setting, and a flood of lightFilling the courts of these old sanctuaries—Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,Athwart the innumerable columns flung—In such an hour he came, who saw and told,65Led by the mighty genius of the place.Walls of some capital city first appeared,Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn;—And what within them? What but in the midstThese three in more than their original grandeur,And, round about, no stone upon another?71As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear,And, turning, left them to the elements.
They stand between the mountains and the sea;Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck;The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,Points to the work of magic, and moves on.5Time was they stood along the crowded street,Temples of Gods, and on their ample stepsWhat various habits, various tongues besetThe brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice;10And here the accuser stood, and there the accused,And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged.All silent now, as in the ages past,Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust.How many centuries did the sun go round15From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,While, by some spell rendered invisible,Or, if approached, approached by him aloneWho saw as though he saw not, they remainedAs in the darkness of a sepulchre,20Waiting the appointed time! All, all withinProclaims that Nature had resumed her right,And taken to herself what man renounced;No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern,25Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!From my youth upward have I longed to treadThis classic ground; and am I here at last?Wandering at will through the long porticoes,And catching, as through some majestic grove,30Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up,Towns like the living rock from which they grew?A cloudy region, black and desolate,Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.35The air is sweet with violets, running wild'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals;Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost—Turning to thee, divine philosophy,40Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul—Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago,For Athens; when a ship, if north-east windsBlew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course.On as he moved along the level shore,45These temples, in their splendour eminent'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers,Reflecting back the radiance of the west,Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up,The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf50Suckles her young; and as alone I standIn this, the nobler pile, the elementsOf earth and air its only floor and covering,How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirsSave the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round55On the rough pediment to sit and sing;Or the green lizard rushing through the grass,And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring,To vanish in the chinks that time has made.In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk60Seen at his setting, and a flood of lightFilling the courts of these old sanctuaries—Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,Athwart the innumerable columns flung—In such an hour he came, who saw and told,65Led by the mighty genius of the place.Walls of some capital city first appeared,Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn;—And what within them? What but in the midstThese three in more than their original grandeur,And, round about, no stone upon another?71As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear,And, turning, left them to the elements.
S. Rogers.
A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare,Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,In quiet adoration, silently—Till the faint currents of the upper airDislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there,5The dome, as of a palace, hung on highOver the mountain; underneath it lieVineyards and bays and cities white and fair.Might we not think this beauty would engageAll living things unto one pure delight?10Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell,Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sightHid, as within a guilty citadel,The shame of his dishonourable age.
A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare,Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,In quiet adoration, silently—Till the faint currents of the upper airDislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there,5The dome, as of a palace, hung on highOver the mountain; underneath it lieVineyards and bays and cities white and fair.Might we not think this beauty would engageAll living things unto one pure delight?10Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell,Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sightHid, as within a guilty citadel,The shame of his dishonourable age.
R. C. Trench.
Sweet the memory is to meOf a land beyond the sea,Where the waves and mountains meet,Where, amid her mulberry-trees,Sits Amalfi in the heat,5Bathing ever her white feetIn the tideless summer seas.In the middle of the town,From its fountains in the hills,Tumbling through the narrow gorge,10The Canneto rushes down,Turns the great wheels of the mills,Lifts the hammers of the forge.'Tis a stairway, not a street,That ascends the deep ravine,15Where the torrent leaps betweenRocky walls that almost meet.Toiling up from stair to stairPeasant girls their burdens bear;Sunburnt daughters of the soil,20Stately figures tall and straight,What inexorable fateDooms them to this life of toil?Lord of vineyards and of lands,Far above the convent stands.25On its terraced walk aloofLeans a monk with folded hands,Placid, satisfied, serene,Looking down upon the sceneOver wall and red-tiled roof;30Wondering unto what good endAll this toil and traffic tend,And why all men cannot beFree from care and free from pain,And the sordid love of gain,35And as indolent as he.Where are now the freighted barksFrom the marts of east and west?Where the knights in iron sarksJourneying to the Holy Land,40Glove of steel upon the hand,Cross of crimson on the breast?Where the pomp of camp and court?Where the pilgrims with their prayers?Where the merchants with their wares,45And their gallant brigantinesSailing safely into portChased by corsair Algerines?Vanished like a fleet of cloud,Like a passing trumpet-blast,50Are those splendours of the past,And the commerce and the crowd!Fathoms deep beneath the seasLie the ancient wharves and quaysSwallowed by the engulfing waves;55Silent streets and vacant halls,Ruined roofs and towers and walls;Hidden from all mortal eyesDeep the sunken city lies:Even cities have their graves!60This is an enchanted land!Round the headlands far awaySweeps the blue Salernian bayWith its sickle of white sand:Further still and furthermost65On the dim-discovered coastPaestum with its ruins lies,And its roses all in bloomSeem to tinge the fatal skiesOf that lonely land of doom.70On his terrace, high in air,Nothing doth the good monk careFor such worldly themes as these.From the garden just belowLittle puffs of perfume blow,75And a sound is in his earsOf the murmur of the beesIn the shining chestnut-trees;Nothing else he heeds or hears.All the landscape seems to swoon80In the happy afternoon;Slowly o'er his senses creepThe encroaching waves of sleep,And he sinks as sank the town,Unresisting, fathoms down,85Into caverns cool and deep!Walled about with drifts of snow,Hearing the fierce north wind blow,Seeing all the landscape white,And the river cased in ice,90Comes this memory of delight,Comes this vision unto meOf a long-lost ParadiseIn the land beyond the sea.
Sweet the memory is to meOf a land beyond the sea,Where the waves and mountains meet,Where, amid her mulberry-trees,Sits Amalfi in the heat,5Bathing ever her white feetIn the tideless summer seas.In the middle of the town,From its fountains in the hills,Tumbling through the narrow gorge,10The Canneto rushes down,Turns the great wheels of the mills,Lifts the hammers of the forge.
'Tis a stairway, not a street,That ascends the deep ravine,15Where the torrent leaps betweenRocky walls that almost meet.Toiling up from stair to stairPeasant girls their burdens bear;Sunburnt daughters of the soil,20Stately figures tall and straight,What inexorable fateDooms them to this life of toil?
Lord of vineyards and of lands,Far above the convent stands.25On its terraced walk aloofLeans a monk with folded hands,Placid, satisfied, serene,Looking down upon the sceneOver wall and red-tiled roof;30Wondering unto what good endAll this toil and traffic tend,And why all men cannot beFree from care and free from pain,And the sordid love of gain,35And as indolent as he.
Where are now the freighted barksFrom the marts of east and west?Where the knights in iron sarksJourneying to the Holy Land,40Glove of steel upon the hand,Cross of crimson on the breast?Where the pomp of camp and court?Where the pilgrims with their prayers?Where the merchants with their wares,45And their gallant brigantinesSailing safely into portChased by corsair Algerines?
Vanished like a fleet of cloud,Like a passing trumpet-blast,50Are those splendours of the past,And the commerce and the crowd!Fathoms deep beneath the seasLie the ancient wharves and quaysSwallowed by the engulfing waves;55Silent streets and vacant halls,Ruined roofs and towers and walls;Hidden from all mortal eyesDeep the sunken city lies:Even cities have their graves!60
This is an enchanted land!Round the headlands far awaySweeps the blue Salernian bayWith its sickle of white sand:Further still and furthermost65On the dim-discovered coastPaestum with its ruins lies,And its roses all in bloomSeem to tinge the fatal skiesOf that lonely land of doom.70
On his terrace, high in air,Nothing doth the good monk careFor such worldly themes as these.From the garden just belowLittle puffs of perfume blow,75And a sound is in his earsOf the murmur of the beesIn the shining chestnut-trees;Nothing else he heeds or hears.All the landscape seems to swoon80In the happy afternoon;Slowly o'er his senses creepThe encroaching waves of sleep,And he sinks as sank the town,Unresisting, fathoms down,85Into caverns cool and deep!
Walled about with drifts of snow,Hearing the fierce north wind blow,Seeing all the landscape white,And the river cased in ice,90Comes this memory of delight,Comes this vision unto meOf a long-lost ParadiseIn the land beyond the sea.
H. W. Longfellow.