Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart,Leaving a little portion of my heart;Then day-dreams make the heart's division goodWith many a loved Italian solitude.4As sons the whole year scattered here and thereGather at Christmas round their father's chair,Prodigal memories tenderly come home—Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome;Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wallSaw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall,10And rosy gold upon Verona tarry.O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry,Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling shortTo whisper with the rosebush in the Court!14How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan margesCried in the broken moonlight round the barges,Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's marchFlaws in a riot at the Causeway arch!How Cava from grey wall and silence greenEchoes the humming voice of the ravine,20The while a second spell the brain composes,Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses!How that first sunbeam on Assisi fellTo wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell,Before the tides of noonday washed the pale25Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale!Multitudinous colonies of my love!But there's a single village dear aboveCities and scenes, a township of kind hearts,The quick Boïte laughs to and departs30Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green.My tower that climbs to see what can be seenTowards Three Crosses or the high Giaù daisies,Or where the great white highway southward blazes!My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn35Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawnShows up her pillared bulwarks one by one—Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun!Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect,Dares the poor dole ofHereandNowreject,40The lust of larger things invades and fills—The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills!
Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart,Leaving a little portion of my heart;Then day-dreams make the heart's division goodWith many a loved Italian solitude.4As sons the whole year scattered here and thereGather at Christmas round their father's chair,Prodigal memories tenderly come home—Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome;Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wallSaw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall,10And rosy gold upon Verona tarry.O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry,Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling shortTo whisper with the rosebush in the Court!14How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan margesCried in the broken moonlight round the barges,Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's marchFlaws in a riot at the Causeway arch!How Cava from grey wall and silence greenEchoes the humming voice of the ravine,20The while a second spell the brain composes,Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses!How that first sunbeam on Assisi fellTo wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell,Before the tides of noonday washed the pale25Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale!Multitudinous colonies of my love!But there's a single village dear aboveCities and scenes, a township of kind hearts,The quick Boïte laughs to and departs30Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green.My tower that climbs to see what can be seenTowards Three Crosses or the high Giaù daisies,Or where the great white highway southward blazes!My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn35Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawnShows up her pillared bulwarks one by one—Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun!Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect,Dares the poor dole ofHereandNowreject,40The lust of larger things invades and fills—The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills!
J. S. Phillimore.
I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no moreFrom the high terraces, at even-tide,To look supine into thy depths of sky,Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses5Bordering the channel of the milky-way.Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreamsHereafter, and my own lost AffricoMurmur to me but in the poet's song.I did believe (what have I not believed?),10Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,To close in thy soft clime my quiet dayAnd rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;15But thou didst promise this, and all was well.For we are fond of thinking where to lieWhen every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heartCan lift no aspiration ... reasoningAs if the sight were unimpaired by death,20Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,And the sun cheered corruption! Over allThe smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,And light us to our chamber at the grave.
I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no moreFrom the high terraces, at even-tide,To look supine into thy depths of sky,Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses5Bordering the channel of the milky-way.Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreamsHereafter, and my own lost AffricoMurmur to me but in the poet's song.I did believe (what have I not believed?),10Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,To close in thy soft clime my quiet dayAnd rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;15But thou didst promise this, and all was well.For we are fond of thinking where to lieWhen every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heartCan lift no aspiration ... reasoningAs if the sight were unimpaired by death,20Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,And the sun cheered corruption! Over allThe smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,And light us to our chamber at the grave.
W. S. Landor.
'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.'
'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.'
Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heartTowards these scenes of ancient heathen fame?Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that cameFixing my restless youth with its sweet art,And shades of power, and those who bore a part5In the mad deeds that set the world in flame,So fret my memory here,—ah! is it blame?—That from my eyes the tear is fain to start.Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise;'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race10Which in each brother's history reads its own.So let the cliffs and seas of this fair placeBe named man's tomb and splendid record stone,High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize.
Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heartTowards these scenes of ancient heathen fame?Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that cameFixing my restless youth with its sweet art,And shades of power, and those who bore a part5In the mad deeds that set the world in flame,So fret my memory here,—ah! is it blame?—That from my eyes the tear is fain to start.Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise;'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race10Which in each brother's history reads its own.So let the cliffs and seas of this fair placeBe named man's tomb and splendid record stone,High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize.
J. H. Newman.
'And Jacob went on his way;and the angels of God met him.'
'And Jacob went on his way;and the angels of God met him.'
Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round,Nor visions met thee there,Thou couldst but marvel to have foundThis blighted world so fair?And feel an awe within thee rise,5That sinful man should seeGlories far worthier Seraph's eyesThan to be shared by thee?Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint'Mid coming pains and fears,10As the third heaven once nerved a SaintFor fourteen trial-years.
Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round,Nor visions met thee there,Thou couldst but marvel to have foundThis blighted world so fair?
And feel an awe within thee rise,5That sinful man should seeGlories far worthier Seraph's eyesThan to be shared by thee?
Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint'Mid coming pains and fears,10As the third heaven once nerved a SaintFor fourteen trial-years.
J. H. Newman.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say,5Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say,5Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
R. Browning.
England, we love thee better than we know.—And this I learned when, after wanderings long'Mid people of another stock and tongue,I heard again thy martial music blow,And saw thy gallant children to and fro5Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits.When first I came in sight of that brave show,It made the very heart within me dance,To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advanceForward so far into the mighty sea.11Joy was it and exultation to beholdThine ancient standard's rich emblazonry,A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.
England, we love thee better than we know.—And this I learned when, after wanderings long'Mid people of another stock and tongue,I heard again thy martial music blow,And saw thy gallant children to and fro5Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits.When first I came in sight of that brave show,It made the very heart within me dance,To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advanceForward so far into the mighty sea.11Joy was it and exultation to beholdThine ancient standard's rich emblazonry,A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.
R. C. Trench.
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of stormUpon the huge Atlantic, and once moreWe ride into still water and the calmOf a sweet evening, screened by either shoreOf Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er,5Our exile is accomplished. Once againWe look on Europe, mistress as of yoreOf the fair earth and of the hearts of men.Ay, this is the famed rock which HerculesAnd Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this doorEngland stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill11Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,And at the summons of the rock gun's roarTo see her red coats marching from the hill!
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of stormUpon the huge Atlantic, and once moreWe ride into still water and the calmOf a sweet evening, screened by either shoreOf Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er,5Our exile is accomplished. Once againWe look on Europe, mistress as of yoreOf the fair earth and of the hearts of men.Ay, this is the famed rock which HerculesAnd Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this doorEngland stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill11Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,And at the summons of the rock gun's roarTo see her red coats marching from the hill!
W. S. Blunt.
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,Descried at sunrise an emerging prowLifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily,The fringes of a southward-facing brow5Among the Aegean isles;And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine—9And knew the intruders on his ancient home,The young light-hearted masters of the waves—And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail;And day and night held on indignantlyO'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,15To where the Atlantic ravesOutside the western straits; and unbent sailsThere, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;And on the beach undid his corded bales.20
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,Descried at sunrise an emerging prowLifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily,The fringes of a southward-facing brow5Among the Aegean isles;And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine—9And knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The young light-hearted masters of the waves—And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail;And day and night held on indignantlyO'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,15To where the Atlantic ravesOutside the western straits; and unbent sailsThere, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;And on the beach undid his corded bales.20
M. Arnold.
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!Adieu, ye mansions where—I've ventured!Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs!5(How surely he who mounts you swears!)Adieu, ye merchants often failing!Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!Adieu, ye packets—without letters!Adieu, ye fools—who ape your betters!10Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,That gave me fever, and the spleen!Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!Adieu to Peter—whom no fault's in,15But could not teach a colonel waltzing;Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!Adieu, the supercilious airOf all that strut 'en militaire!'20I go—but God knows when, or why,To smoky towns and cloudy sky,To things (the honest truth to say)As bad—but in a different way.Farewell to these, but not adieu,25Triumphant sons of truest blue!While either Adriatic shore,And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,Proclaim you war and woman's winners.30Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,And take my rhyme—because 'tis 'gratis'.And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,Thou little military hothouse!I'll not offend with words uncivil,35And wish thee rudely at the Devil,But only stare from out my casement,And ask, for what is such a place meant?Then, in my solitary nook,Return to scribbling, or a book,40Or take my physic while I'm able(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,And bless the gods I've got a fever.
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!Adieu, ye mansions where—I've ventured!Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs!5(How surely he who mounts you swears!)Adieu, ye merchants often failing!Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!Adieu, ye packets—without letters!Adieu, ye fools—who ape your betters!10Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,That gave me fever, and the spleen!Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!Adieu to Peter—whom no fault's in,15But could not teach a colonel waltzing;Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!Adieu, the supercilious airOf all that strut 'en militaire!'20I go—but God knows when, or why,To smoky towns and cloudy sky,To things (the honest truth to say)As bad—but in a different way.Farewell to these, but not adieu,25Triumphant sons of truest blue!While either Adriatic shore,And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,Proclaim you war and woman's winners.30Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,And take my rhyme—because 'tis 'gratis'.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,Thou little military hothouse!I'll not offend with words uncivil,35And wish thee rudely at the Devil,But only stare from out my casement,And ask, for what is such a place meant?Then, in my solitary nook,Return to scribbling, or a book,40Or take my physic while I'm able(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,And bless the gods I've got a fever.
Lord Byron.
Illyrian woodlands, echoing fallsOf water, sheets of summer glass,The long divine Peneïan pass,The vast Akrokeraunian walls,Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,5With such a pencil, such a pen,You shadow forth to distant men,I read and felt that I was there:And trust me while I turned the page,And tracked you still on classic ground,10I grew in gladness till I foundMy spirits in the golden age.For me the torrent ever pouredAnd glistened—here and there aloneThe broad-limbed Gods at random thrown15By fountain-urns;—and Naiads oaredA glimmering shoulder under gloomOf cavern pillars; on the swellThe silver lily heaved and fell;And many a slope was rich in bloom20From him that on the mountain leaBy dancing rivulets fed his flocks,To him who sat upon the rocks,And fluted to the morning sea.
Illyrian woodlands, echoing fallsOf water, sheets of summer glass,The long divine Peneïan pass,The vast Akrokeraunian walls,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,5With such a pencil, such a pen,You shadow forth to distant men,I read and felt that I was there:
And trust me while I turned the page,And tracked you still on classic ground,10I grew in gladness till I foundMy spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever pouredAnd glistened—here and there aloneThe broad-limbed Gods at random thrown15By fountain-urns;—and Naiads oared
A glimmering shoulder under gloomOf cavern pillars; on the swellThe silver lily heaved and fell;And many a slope was rich in bloom20
From him that on the mountain leaBy dancing rivulets fed his flocks,To him who sat upon the rocks,And fluted to the morning sea.
Lord Tennyson.
It is not only that the sunLoves best these southern lands,It is not for the trophies wonOf old by hero hands,That nature wreathed in softer smiles5Was here the bride of art;A closer kinship claims these isles,The love-land of the heart.It is because the poet's dreamStill haunts each happy vale,10That peopled every grove and streamTo fit his fairy tale.There may be greener vales and hillsLess bare to shelter man;But still they want the naiad rills,15And miss the pipe of Pan.There may be other isles as fairAnd summer seas as blue,But then Odysseus touched not thereNor Argo beached her crew.20The Nereid-haunted river shore,The Faun-frequented dell,Possess me with their magic moreThan sites where Caesars fell:And where the blooms of Zante blow25Their incense to the waves;Where Ithaca's dark headlands showThe legendary caves;Where in the deep of olive grovesThe summer hardly dies;30Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maidsStill keep their siren eyes;Where Chalcis strains with loving lipsTowards the little bay,The strand that held the thousand ships,35The Aulis of delay;Where Oeta's ridge of granite barsThe gate Thermopylae,Where huge Orion crowned with starsLooks down on Rhodope;40Where once Apollo tended flocksOn Phera's lofty plain,Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocksTo find the outer main;Where Argos and Mycenae sleep45With all the buried wrong,And where Arcadian uplands keepThe antique shepherd song,There is a spirit haunts the placeAll other lands must lack,50A speaking voice, a living grace,That beckons fancy back.Dear isles and sea-indented shore,Till songs be no more sung,The singers that have gone before55Will keep your lovers young:And men will hymn your haunted skies,And seek your holy streams,Until the soul of music dies,And earth has done with dreams.60
It is not only that the sunLoves best these southern lands,It is not for the trophies wonOf old by hero hands,That nature wreathed in softer smiles5Was here the bride of art;A closer kinship claims these isles,The love-land of the heart.It is because the poet's dreamStill haunts each happy vale,10That peopled every grove and streamTo fit his fairy tale.
There may be greener vales and hillsLess bare to shelter man;But still they want the naiad rills,15And miss the pipe of Pan.There may be other isles as fairAnd summer seas as blue,But then Odysseus touched not thereNor Argo beached her crew.20The Nereid-haunted river shore,The Faun-frequented dell,Possess me with their magic moreThan sites where Caesars fell:And where the blooms of Zante blow25Their incense to the waves;Where Ithaca's dark headlands showThe legendary caves;Where in the deep of olive grovesThe summer hardly dies;30Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maidsStill keep their siren eyes;Where Chalcis strains with loving lipsTowards the little bay,The strand that held the thousand ships,35The Aulis of delay;Where Oeta's ridge of granite barsThe gate Thermopylae,Where huge Orion crowned with starsLooks down on Rhodope;40Where once Apollo tended flocksOn Phera's lofty plain,Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocksTo find the outer main;Where Argos and Mycenae sleep45With all the buried wrong,And where Arcadian uplands keepThe antique shepherd song,There is a spirit haunts the placeAll other lands must lack,50A speaking voice, a living grace,That beckons fancy back.
Dear isles and sea-indented shore,Till songs be no more sung,The singers that have gone before55Will keep your lovers young:And men will hymn your haunted skies,And seek your holy streams,Until the soul of music dies,And earth has done with dreams.60
Sir Rennell Rodd.
'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?'One asked me, as the April sun went downBehind the shadows of the Persian's mound,The fretted crags of Salamis.'Look round,And see the question answered!'For we wereUpon the summit of that battled square,6The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrineThe world still worships what man made divine,The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birthOf half the immortalities of earth.10The last rays light the portal, a gold waveRuns up the columns to the architrave,Lingers about the gable and is gone:—Parnes, Hymettus, and PenteliconShow shadowy violet in the after-rose,15Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands closeThe mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea,And from this circle's heart aetheriallySprings the white altar of the land's renown,A marble lily in a violet crown.20And fairer crown had never queen than thisThat girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis!So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea,I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee.
'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?'One asked me, as the April sun went downBehind the shadows of the Persian's mound,The fretted crags of Salamis.'Look round,And see the question answered!'For we wereUpon the summit of that battled square,6The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrineThe world still worships what man made divine,The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birthOf half the immortalities of earth.10
The last rays light the portal, a gold waveRuns up the columns to the architrave,Lingers about the gable and is gone:—Parnes, Hymettus, and PenteliconShow shadowy violet in the after-rose,15Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands closeThe mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea,And from this circle's heart aetheriallySprings the white altar of the land's renown,A marble lily in a violet crown.20
And fairer crown had never queen than thisThat girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis!So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea,I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee.
Sir Rennell Rodd.
The nodding promontories and blue isles,And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous wavesOf Greece, basked glorious in the open smilesOf favouring heaven: from their enchanted cavesProphetic echoes flung dim melody5On the unapprehensive wild.The vine, the corn, the olive wild,Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled;And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea,Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain,10Like aught that is which wraps what is to be,Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a veinOf Parian stone; and yet a speechless child,Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strainHer lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main15Athens arose: a city such as visionBuilds from the purple crags and silver towersOf battlemented cloud, as in derisionOf kingliest masonry: the ocean-floorsPave it; the evening sky pavilions it;20Its portals are inhabitedBy thunder-zonèd winds, each headWithin its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,—A divine work! Athens, diviner yet,Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the willOf man, as on a mount of diamond, set;26For thou wert, and thine all-creative skillPeopled, with forms that mock the eternal deadIn marble immortality, that hillWhich was thine earliest throne and latest oracle.Within the surface of Time's fleeting river31Its wrinkled image lies, as then it layImmovably unquiet, and for everIt trembles, but it cannot pass away!
The nodding promontories and blue isles,And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous wavesOf Greece, basked glorious in the open smilesOf favouring heaven: from their enchanted cavesProphetic echoes flung dim melody5On the unapprehensive wild.The vine, the corn, the olive wild,Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled;And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea,Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain,10Like aught that is which wraps what is to be,Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a veinOf Parian stone; and yet a speechless child,Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strainHer lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main15Athens arose: a city such as visionBuilds from the purple crags and silver towersOf battlemented cloud, as in derisionOf kingliest masonry: the ocean-floorsPave it; the evening sky pavilions it;20Its portals are inhabitedBy thunder-zonèd winds, each headWithin its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,—A divine work! Athens, diviner yet,Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the willOf man, as on a mount of diamond, set;26For thou wert, and thine all-creative skillPeopled, with forms that mock the eternal deadIn marble immortality, that hillWhich was thine earliest throne and latest oracle.Within the surface of Time's fleeting river31Its wrinkled image lies, as then it layImmovably unquiet, and for everIt trembles, but it cannot pass away!
P. B. Shelley.
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!5What marvel if I thus essay to sing?The humblest of thy pilgrims passing byWould gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious nameWho knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:11And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shameThat I in feeblest accents must adore.When I recount thy worshippers of yoreI tremble, and can only bend the knee;15Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopyIn silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!5What marvel if I thus essay to sing?The humblest of thy pilgrims passing byWould gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious nameWho knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:11And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shameThat I in feeblest accents must adore.When I recount thy worshippers of yoreI tremble, and can only bend the knee;15Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopyIn silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!
Lord Byron.
Many a vanished year and age,And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands,A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock,5Have left untouched her hoary rock,The keystone of a land, which still,Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill,The landmark to the double tideThat purpling rolls on either side,10As if their waters chafed to meet,Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.But could the blood before her shed,Since first Timoleon's brother bled,Or baffled Persia's despot fled,15Arise from out the earth which drankThe stream of slaughter as it sank,That sanguine ocean would o'erflowHer isthmus idly spread below:Or could the bones of all the slain,20Who perished there, be piled again,That rival pyramid would riseMore mountain-like, through those clear skies,Than yon tower-capped Acropolis,Which seems the very clouds to kiss.25
Many a vanished year and age,And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands,A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock,5Have left untouched her hoary rock,The keystone of a land, which still,Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill,The landmark to the double tideThat purpling rolls on either side,10As if their waters chafed to meet,Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.But could the blood before her shed,Since first Timoleon's brother bled,Or baffled Persia's despot fled,15Arise from out the earth which drankThe stream of slaughter as it sank,That sanguine ocean would o'erflowHer isthmus idly spread below:Or could the bones of all the slain,20Who perished there, be piled again,That rival pyramid would riseMore mountain-like, through those clear skies,Than yon tower-capped Acropolis,Which seems the very clouds to kiss.25
Lord Byron.
Tanagra! think not I forgetThy beautifully-storied streets;Be sure my memory bathes yetIn clear Thermodon, and yet greetsThe blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,5Whose sunny bosom swells with joyWhen we accept his matted rushesUpheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes.A gift I promise: one I seeWhich thou with transport wilt receive,10The only proper gift for thee,Of which no mortal shall bereaveIn later times thy mouldering walls,Until the last old turret falls;A crown, a crown from Athens won,15A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.There may be cities who refuseTo their own child the honours due,And look ungently on the Muse;But ever shall those cities rue20The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,Offering no nourishment, no rest,To that young head which soon shall riseDisdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows25Do white-armed maidens chant my lay,Flapping the while with laurel-roseThe honey-gathering tribes away;And sweetly, sweetly Attic tonguesLisp your Corinna's early songs;30To her with feet more graceful comeThe verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.O let thy children lean aslantAgainst the tender mother's knee,And gaze into her face, and want35To know what magic there can beIn words that urge some eyes to dance,While others as in holy tranceLook up to heaven: be such my praise!Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.
Tanagra! think not I forgetThy beautifully-storied streets;Be sure my memory bathes yetIn clear Thermodon, and yet greetsThe blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,5Whose sunny bosom swells with joyWhen we accept his matted rushesUpheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes.
A gift I promise: one I seeWhich thou with transport wilt receive,10The only proper gift for thee,Of which no mortal shall bereaveIn later times thy mouldering walls,Until the last old turret falls;A crown, a crown from Athens won,15A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.
There may be cities who refuseTo their own child the honours due,And look ungently on the Muse;But ever shall those cities rue20The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,Offering no nourishment, no rest,To that young head which soon shall riseDisdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows25Do white-armed maidens chant my lay,Flapping the while with laurel-roseThe honey-gathering tribes away;And sweetly, sweetly Attic tonguesLisp your Corinna's early songs;30To her with feet more graceful comeThe verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
O let thy children lean aslantAgainst the tender mother's knee,And gaze into her face, and want35To know what magic there can beIn words that urge some eyes to dance,While others as in holy tranceLook up to heaven: be such my praise!Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.
W. S. Landor.
What's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and down5Any longer London-town?Ichabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed!Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,10Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a God,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?15In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfallsOver the Kremlin's pavement, brightWith serpentine and syenite,20Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughTo kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuff25To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring, in Moscow, to those roughCold northern natures borne, perhaps,Like the lambwhite maiden dear30From the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alway35Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach,As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy landsRapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cry40Amid their barbarous twitter?In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 'tis in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave Madrid45All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slidIts stiff gold blazing pallFrom some black coffin-lid.'When I last saw Waring ...'50(How all turned to him who spoke—You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel, or sea-faring?)'We were sailing by Triest,Where a day or two we harboured:55A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And, as a sea-duck flies and swims60At once, so came the light craft up,With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,65And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's),"Buy wine of us, you English brig?70Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best."75I turned, and "Just those fellows' way",Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves."'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his side80Under the furled sail, soon I spied,With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throat,Said somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to look85Their longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the lee,Into the weather, cut somehow90Her sparkling path beneath our bow;And so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfOf the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calf95Its singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!'—You? Oh, never star100Was lost here, but it rose afar!Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
What's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and down5Any longer London-town?
Ichabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed!Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,10Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a God,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?15In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfallsOver the Kremlin's pavement, brightWith serpentine and syenite,20Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughTo kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuff25To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring, in Moscow, to those roughCold northern natures borne, perhaps,Like the lambwhite maiden dear30From the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alway35Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach,As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy landsRapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cry40Amid their barbarous twitter?In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 'tis in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave Madrid45All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slidIts stiff gold blazing pallFrom some black coffin-lid.
'When I last saw Waring ...'50(How all turned to him who spoke—You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel, or sea-faring?)'We were sailing by Triest,Where a day or two we harboured:55A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And, as a sea-duck flies and swims60At once, so came the light craft up,With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,65And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's),"Buy wine of us, you English brig?70Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best."75I turned, and "Just those fellows' way",Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves."
'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his side80Under the furled sail, soon I spied,With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throat,Said somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to look85Their longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the lee,Into the weather, cut somehow90Her sparkling path beneath our bow;And so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfOf the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calf95Its singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!'—You? Oh, never star100Was lost here, but it rose afar!Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
R. Browning.
Vain is the effort to forget.Some day I shall be cold, I know,As is the eternal moon-lit snowOf the high Alps, to which I goBut ah, not yet! not yet!5Vain is the agony of grief.'Tis true, indeed, an iron knotTies straitly up from mine thy lot,And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not!But is despair relief?10Awhile let me with thought have done;And as this brimmed unwrinkled RhineAnd that far purple mountain lineLie sweetly in the look divineOf the slow-sinking sun;15So let me lie, and calm as theyLet beam upon my inward viewThose eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue—Eyes too expressive to be blue,Too lovely to be grey.20Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm!Those blue hills too, this river's flow,Were restless once, but long ago.Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow:Their joy is in their calm.25
Vain is the effort to forget.Some day I shall be cold, I know,As is the eternal moon-lit snowOf the high Alps, to which I goBut ah, not yet! not yet!5
Vain is the agony of grief.'Tis true, indeed, an iron knotTies straitly up from mine thy lot,And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not!But is despair relief?10
Awhile let me with thought have done;And as this brimmed unwrinkled RhineAnd that far purple mountain lineLie sweetly in the look divineOf the slow-sinking sun;15
So let me lie, and calm as theyLet beam upon my inward viewThose eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue—Eyes too expressive to be blue,Too lovely to be grey.20
Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm!Those blue hills too, this river's flow,Were restless once, but long ago.Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow:Their joy is in their calm.25
M. Arnold.
The castled crag of DrachenfelsFrowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossomed trees,5And fields which promise corn and wine,And scattered cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine,Have strewed a scene, which I should seeWith double joy wertthouwith me.10And peasant girls, with deep blue eyesAnd hands which offer early flowers,Walk smiling o'er this paradise;Above, the frequent feudal towersThrough green leaves lift their walls of grey;15And many a rock which steeply lowers,And noble arch in proud decay,Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!20I send the lilies given to me;Though long before thy hand they touch,I know that they must withered be,But yet reject them not as such;For I have cherished them as dear,25Because they yet may meet thine eye,And guide thy soul to mine even here,When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,And offered from my heart to thine!30The river nobly foams and flows,The charm of this enchanted ground,And all its thousand turns discloseSome fresher beauty varying round:The haughtiest breast its wish might bound35Through life to dwell delighted here:Nor could on earth a spot be foundTo nature and to me so dear,Could thy dear eyes in following mineStill sweeten more these banks of Rhine!40
The castled crag of DrachenfelsFrowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossomed trees,5And fields which promise corn and wine,And scattered cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine,Have strewed a scene, which I should seeWith double joy wertthouwith me.10
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyesAnd hands which offer early flowers,Walk smiling o'er this paradise;Above, the frequent feudal towersThrough green leaves lift their walls of grey;15And many a rock which steeply lowers,And noble arch in proud decay,Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!20
I send the lilies given to me;Though long before thy hand they touch,I know that they must withered be,But yet reject them not as such;For I have cherished them as dear,25Because they yet may meet thine eye,And guide thy soul to mine even here,When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,And offered from my heart to thine!30
The river nobly foams and flows,The charm of this enchanted ground,And all its thousand turns discloseSome fresher beauty varying round:The haughtiest breast its wish might bound35Through life to dwell delighted here:Nor could on earth a spot be foundTo nature and to me so dear,Could thy dear eyes in following mineStill sweeten more these banks of Rhine!40
Lord Byron.
Why, Tourist, whyWith Passport have to do?Pr'ythee stay at home and passThe Port and Sherry too.Why, Tourist, why5Embark for Rotterdam?Pr'ythee stay at home and takeThy Hollands in a dram.Why, Tourist, whyTo foreign climes repair?10Pr'ythee take thy German Flute,And breathe a German air.Why, Tourist, whyThe Seven Mountains view?Any one at home can tint15A hill with Prussian Blue.Why, Tourist, whyTo old Colonia's walls?Sure, to see aWrenishDome,One needn't leave St. Paul's.20
Why, Tourist, whyWith Passport have to do?Pr'ythee stay at home and passThe Port and Sherry too.
Why, Tourist, why5Embark for Rotterdam?Pr'ythee stay at home and takeThy Hollands in a dram.
Why, Tourist, whyTo foreign climes repair?10Pr'ythee take thy German Flute,And breathe a German air.
Why, Tourist, whyThe Seven Mountains view?Any one at home can tint15A hill with Prussian Blue.
Why, Tourist, whyTo old Colonia's walls?Sure, to see aWrenishDome,One needn't leave St. Paul's.20
T. Hood.