Poems on Travel Part 7

--Say, then, he lived and died That stones which bear his name Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide; It is an ample fame.

T. HARDY.

THE VALLEY AND VILLA OF HORACE

Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio Falling, 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:-- 5 So 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! 10 Tivoli'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

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood To 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 muse In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth; 6 On 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, 11 Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?

Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned 15 From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.

Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind Had a musical charm, which the winter of age And the changes it brings had no power to unbind.

And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you 21 I 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.

PAESTUM

They stand between the mountains and the sea; Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!

The seaman, pa.s.sing, gazes from the deck; The buffalo-driver, in his s.h.a.ggy cloak, Points to the work of magic, and moves on. 5 Time was they stood along the crowded street, Temples of G.o.ds, and on their ample steps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!

Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; 10 And 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 round 15 From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell rendered invisible, Or, if approached, approached by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remained As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 20 Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims 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, 25 Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!

From my youth upward have I longed to tread This cla.s.sic ground; and am I here at last?

Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove, 30 Now 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. 35 The 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, 40 Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul-- Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course.

On as he moved along the level sh.o.r.e, 45 These 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-wolf 50 Suckles her young; and as alone I stand In this, the n.o.bler pile, the elements Of earth and air its only floor and covering, How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 55 On the rough pediment to sit and sing; Or the green lizard rushing through the gra.s.s, And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, To vanish in the c.h.i.n.ks that time has made.

In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 60 Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling 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, 65 Led 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 midst These three in more than their original grandeur, And, round about, no stone upon another? 71 As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements.

S. ROGERS.

VESUVIUS

AS SEEN FROM CAPRI

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 air Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, 5 The dome, as of a palace, hung on high Over the mountain; underneath it lie Vineyards and bays and cities white and fair.

Might we not think this beauty would engage All living things unto one pure delight? 10 Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell, Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel, The shame of his dishonourable age.

R. C. TRENCH.

AMALFI

Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees, Sits Amalfi in the heat, 5 Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas.

In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 10 The 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, 15 Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet.

Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 20 Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?

Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. 25 On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; 30 Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, 35 And as indolent as he.

Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west?

Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, 40 Glove 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, 45 And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines?

Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a pa.s.sing trumpet-blast, 50 Are those splendours of the past, And the commerce and the crowd!

Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays Swallowed by the engulfing waves; 55 Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves! 60

This is an enchanted land!

Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost 65 On the dim-discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. 70

On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these.

From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, 75 And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears.

All the landscape seems to swoon 80 In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, 85 Into 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, 90 Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

VIATOR

Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, Leaving a little portion of my heart; Then day-dreams make the heart's division good With many a loved Italian solitude. 4 As sons the whole year scattered here and there Gather 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 wall Saw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall, 10 And rosy gold upon Verona tarry.

O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry, b.u.t.ting Saint Benet's tower and doubling short To whisper with the rosebush in the Court! 14 How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan marges Cried in the broken moonlight round the barges, Where, glib decline of gla.s.s, the Mincio's march Flaws in a riot at the Causeway arch!

How Cava from grey wall and silence green Echoes the humming voice of the ravine, 20 The while a second spell the brain composes, Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses!

How that first sunbeam on a.s.sisi fell To wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell, Before the tides of noonday washed the pale 25 Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale!

Mult.i.tudinous colonies of my love!

But there's a single village dear above Cities and scenes, a township of kind hearts, The quick Bote laughs to and departs 30 Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green.

My tower that climbs to see what can be seen Towards Three Crosses or the high Giau daisies, Or where the great white highway southward blazes!

My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn 35 Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawn Shows up her pillared bulwarks one by one-- Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun!

Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect, Dares the poor dole of _Here_ and _Now_ reject, 40 The l.u.s.t of larger things invades and fills-- The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills!

J. S. PHILLIMORE.

FAREWELL TO ITALY