MA S TER NEGA TIVE NO 93-81378 MICROFILMED 1993 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES/NEW YORK as part of the . „ • *» "Foundations of Western Civilization Preservation Project Funded by the .tt.t.tt-o NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE HUMANITIES Reproductions may not be made without permission from Columbia University Library COPYRIGHT STATEMENT The copyright law of the United States - Title 17, United States Code - concerns the making of photocopies or other reproductions of copyrighted material. Under certain conditions specified in the law, libraries and archives are authorized to furnish a photocopy or other reproduction. One of these specified conditions is that the photocopy or other reproduction is not to be used for any purpose other than private study, scholarship, or research. If a user makes a request for, or later uses, a photocopy or reproduction for purposes in excess of "fair use, '^ p% f^-f 11^*' may be liable for copyright infringement. This institution reserves the right to refuse to accept a copy order if, in its judgement, fulfillment of the order would involve violation of the copyright law. AUTHOR: PHELPS, RUTH SHEPARD TITLE: SKIES ITALIAN PLACE: NNEAPOLIS M-^ AM. M. mLJ 1910 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES PRESERVATION DEPARTMENT Master Negative # BIBLIOGRAPHIC MICROFORM TARHFT Original Material as Filmed - Existing Bibliographic Record f"\^CF?NO LlLV^,»fj» D808.1 P51 Restrictions on Use: Phelps, Ruth Shepard, 107G-1949. Sides Italian; a little breviary for travel- lers in Italy, chosen and arranged by Ruth Shepard Phelps ,.. Uinneapolis, Brooks, 1910. xxii p., 1 1,, 368 p. 17^. Poems. "First published in 1910 J' Presentation copy to Patcrno library vrith editor's inscription cjid si^naturo. ^1 .-i ^ 'M ( ) >.' FILM SIZE: ^^/P H^ TECHNICAL MICROFORM DATA REDUCTION RATIO: //^KZ IMAGE PLACEMENT: lA IIA / IB IIB DATE FILMED: ^//Il_____ INITIALS. HLMEDBY: RESEARCH PUBLICATIONS. INC WOOnBRfDCRCT c Association for Information and Image Management 1100 Wayne Avenue, Suite 1100 Silver Spring. Maryland 20910 301/587-8202 Centimeter 12 3 4 liiiilniili LMJ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 mm lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMMlMllllMllMlllMllllMllllMh ^ rTT Inches TIT 1 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ 2.8 1^ — " 2.5 i^|£ 2.2 ■ 63 t 71 ^^^O "^ 140 2.0 fc- u Ibku 1.8 1.4 1.6 TTT TTT 1 /

/y. £. /^^^J.^^ f^- M ^^ A-^in. P. a^yti s OcAU^ :Z^, /f3^ II ! r I SKIES ITALIAN A LITTLE BREVIARY FOR TRAVELLERS IN ITALY ■1) SKIES ITALIAN A LITTLE BREVIARY FOR TRAVELLERS IN ITALY CHOSEN AND ARRANGED BY RUTH SHEPARD PHELPS " Ye/ do I sometimes feel a latignishment for skies Italian " Keats MINNEAPOLIS EDMUND D. BROOKS 1910 I D8O6. ■Z\ (L First Publishid in igio \ 1 FOREWORD ro A, u. Lisa's sweet O WOMAN - COUNTRY I " still smile ; The tears of wasting Fia ; the despair Of young Ponipilia, netted in foul snare ; Francesca's passion ; something of the guile Of her who wooed the Roman by the Nile ; Pale Juliet's moonlit beauty : These thy share, These s{)ells that like dim jewels star thy hair, And hold a World thy lover this long while. O Italy I the heart that knows not love Half finds it, loving thee; the love-taught heart Thrills newly by thy fountains. Ours thou art Who cherish thee— it needs not that we prove Us native to thy skies ; nay, better be Of young lands born, and born to yearn for thee! Ruth Shepard Phelps Copyright in 1908 by Ruth Shepard Phelps CHANSON A SAINT-BLAISE, a la Zuecca, Vous etiez, vous etiez bien aise A Saint-Blaise. A Saint-Blaise, it la Zuecca, Nous etions bien la. Mais de vous en souvenir Frendrez-vous la peine ? Mais de vous en souvenir Et d'y revenir, A Saint-Blaise, a la Zuecca, Dans les pres fleuris cueillir la verveine } A Saint-Blaise, a la Zuecca, Vivre et mourir la ! Alfred de Mmset Ill TO J. M. K. FOR WHOSE PLEASURING UPON AN ITALIAN JOURNEY ONCE THIS LITTLE BOOK WAS MADE *• Kennst du das Land, wo die Citroncn bluhn, Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen gluhn, Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht, Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht? Kennst du es wohl ? Dahin ! Dahin ! Mocht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn ! " Goethe CONTENTS **De Gustibus — " Robert Browning . PAGR I THE APPROACH Sonnet : " Happy is England ! I could be content. /ohn Keats ....... Departure. Auguste Barbier .... Sonnet on approaching Italy. Oscar Wilde ** Italy, like a Dream." George Edward Woodberry Italy. Samuel Rogers ..... THE NORTH Como in April. Robert Underwood Johnson Cadenabbia. Henry IVadsworth Longfellow The Gardens of Bellaggio. Edith M. Thomas . Nocturne : Bellaggio. Thomas Bailey Aldrich . Stanzas to W. R. Turner, R A. Robert Southey The Statue of St Carlo Borromeo. Aubrey de Vere On the late Massacre in Piedmont. John Milton Mother and Poet. Elizabeth Barrett Browning In a Vineyard of Asti. Lloyd Mifflin . xiii 5 5 6 7 7 II 12 U 15 i6 17 17 22 XIV SKIES ITALIAN THE LIGURIAN SHORE Villa Franca. James Russell Lowell . Genoa. F. W. Faber Genoa. Aubrey de Vere Sonnet written in Holy Week at Genoa. Oscar Wilde Genova Mia. Gaetana Passerini Genoa. William Gibson San Terenzo. Andrew Lang .... To Shelley. Walter Savage Landor . Lines written near Shelley's House. Aubrey de Vere Shelley's House. George Edward Woodberry After a Lecture on Shelley. Oliver Wendell Holmes Shelley's Death. William Watson FACE 27 30 32 32 33 34 34 35 36 38 39 41 THE LOMBARD PLAIN Lines written among the Euganean Hills. Percy Bysshe Shelley ........ The Cathedral of Milan Aubrey de J 'ere The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci. William Wordsworth ....... The Patriot. Robert Browning The Forced Recruit. Elizabeth Barrett Browning Sirmio : Lago di Garda. Catullus .... Peschiera. Arthur Hugh Clough .... The Daisy. Alfred Tennyson VENETL\ At Verona. Oscar Wilde .... Browning at Asolo Robert Underwood Johnson 45 56 57 58 59 61 62 63 CONTENTS Dawn in Arqua. Lloyd Mifflin .... '♦ExLibris." Arthur Upsoft .... Petrarch's Tomb. Lord Byron .... Written in Petrarch's House. Lord Houghton To the River Po, on quitting Laura. Francesco Petrarca Stanzas to the Po. Lord Byron .... Dante. Giovanni Boccaccio .... Beatrice. Henry Sewell Stokes .... On the Tomb of Guidarello Guidarelli at Ravenna Walter Wilson Greg Venice. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Venice. Graf von Platen ..... Goldoni. Robert Broxvning .... A Toccata of Galuppi's. Robert Browning A Ballade of Forgotten Tunes. A. Mary F. Robinson 85 71 71 An old Venetian Wine-Glass. Lloyd Mifflin Venice by Day. Aubrey de Vere Feeding the Pigeons. Lloyd Mifflin . Venice in the Evening. Aubrey de Vere In Venice. Cora Kennedy Aitken WTien through the Piazretta. Thovias Moore The Piazza of St Mark at Midnight. 7'homas Bailey Aldrich ..... Venetian Nocturne. A. Mary F. Robinson Row gently here. Thomas Moore Venice. Thomas Buchanan Read Venice. Alfred de Musset . In a Gondola. Robert Browning The Rezzonico Palace. Arthur Upson Saint Christopher. William Dean Ho^vells Rivers of Venice. Clattdian XV PAGE 73 73 74 75 76 76 78 79 80 80 81 81 82 86 87 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 93 98 99 108 108 no XVI SKIES ITALIAN CONTENTS PACK Lido. Lord Houghton . , .no The Jews* Cemetery on the Lido. John Addington Symonds . . .112 The Madonna deir Acqua. John Ruskin 113 Torcello. Helen Hunt Jackson 113 The last Doge to Fettered \>nice. Eugene Lee- Hamilton 114 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic. William Wordsworth . . . . . .115 At Venice. Eugene Lee Hamilton . • J'S \'enice. John Addington Symonds . . . .116 EMILIA AND THE MARCHES Implora Pace. Charles Lotin Hildreth . .119 To the Duke Alfonso, asking to be liberated. Tonjuato Tasso ...... Prison of Tasso. Lord Byron To Scipio Gonzaga. Torquato Tasso . The Guardian Angel. Robert Bro^vning At Fano. Sir Rennell Rodd IN TUSCANY "Now marble Apennines shining." George Edward Woodberry ..... By the Arno. Oscar Wilde A Song of Arno. Grace Elleiy Channing-Stetsoh Approach to Florence. L.ord Byron . Florentine May. A. Maiy F. Robinson To L. T. in Florence Thomas Bailey Aldrich 119 120 122 123 125 131 131 132 133 133 135 XVII PAGE Florence. Piero de' Medici .... At Florence. William Wordsworth The Old Bridge at Florence. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ....... Giotto's Campanile. Aubrey de Vere Giotto's Tower. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . Santa Croce. Lord Byron From "Casa Guidi Windows." Elizabeth Barrett Browning ....... Casa Guidi Windows. Bayard Taylor E. B. B. James Thomson Old Pictures in Florence. Robert Browning On a Portrait of Dante by Giotto. James Russell Lowell ....... On a Bust of Dante. Thomas William Parsons . The Pathmaster. Arthur Upson On the Fly-leaf of Dante's "Vita Nuova." Eugene Lee- Hamilton ...... To Guido Cavalcanti. Dante Alighieri Beata Beatrix. Samuel Waddington . Andrea del Sarto. Robert Browning . On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci. Percy Bysshe Shelley • Era Lippo Lippi. Robert Browning . The Madonna. Lloyd Mifflin .... Spring, by Sandro Botticelli. Dante Gabriel Rossetti Masaccio. James Russell Lowell Uccello. Sarah D. Clarke .... Pictor Ignotus. Robert Browning The Campagna of Florence. Samuel Rogers 135 136 136 137 137 138 140 143 144 145 147 148 150 153 153* 154 155 164 165 179 179 180 181 183 186 ' The Garden of Boccaccio. b Samuel Taylor Coleridge 190 xviii SKIES ITALIAN PACK 196 Fiesolan Idyl. IVaiier Savage Landor Evening at Fiesole. Walter Savage Landor The Fig-trees of Gheraidesca. Walter Savage Landor 197 Michael Angelo at Forty-seven. Lloyd Mifflin To Vernon Lee. Amy Levy Castello. A. Mary F. Robinson After Reading *'An Italian Garden." Arthur The White Peacock. William Sharp At Vallombrosa. William Wordsworth Lastra a Signa. Sarah D. Clarke Etruscan Tombs. A. Mary F. Robinson . An Etruscan Ring. /. W. Mackail A Tuscan Lachrymatory. Lloyd Mifflin . Campiello Barbero. A, Mary F. Robinson Pisa. William Gibson .... The Campo Santo at Pisa. Aubrey de Vere Evening: Ponte a Mare, Pisa. Percy Bysshe Shelley 213 The Boat on the Serchio. Percy Bysshe Shelley .214 Siena. George Edward Woodberry . . . .218 July in Siena. Folgore da San Gemignano . . .222 Pia dei Tolomei to Love and Death. Eugene Lee- Hamilton 222 Ode to the West Wind. Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 223 . 198 . 199 . 199 Upson 200 . 201 . 203 . 205 . 206 . 208 . 209 . 210 . 211 . 212 UMBRIA Umbria. Laurence Binyon 229 " Per gl' Occhi almeno non v'e Clausura." E. H. Pember 231 The Unknown Madonna. Sir Rennell Rodd . . 235 From Perugia, [ohn Greenleaf Whittier . . .236 The Sermon of St Francis. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 240 CONTENTS An Episode. John Addington Symonds Luca Signorelli to his Son. Eugene Lee-Hamilton XIX PACK . 242 . 243 THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA Rome Unvisited. Oscar Wilde 247 Roman May. Arthur Symons 248 Rome. Lord Byron 248 Rome. Baldassare Castiglione 249 Near Rome, in Sight of St Peter's. William Wordsworth 250 St Peter's by Moonlight. Aubrey de Vere . .251 Sonnet on hearing the Dies Ine. Oscar Wilde . .251 The Sistine Chapel. Aubrey de Vere . . .252 The Bishop orders his Tomb at St Praxed's Church. Robert Browning 253 The Lachrymatory. Charles Tennyson Turner . . 257 On Lucretia Borgia's Hair. Walter Savage Landor . 258 Villa Borghese. Arthur Symons .... 258 An Inscription in Rome. Richard Watson Gilder . 259 The Name writ in Water. Robert Underwood Johnson 259 The Grave of Keats. Oscar Wilde . . . -260 The Grave of Shelley. Oscar Wilde . . • .261 Sonnet: "Among the cypresses young Shelley lies." Nina Morais Cohen 262 Three Flowers. Thomas Bailey Aldrich . . .262 Sant' Onofrio. Thomas D'Arcy McGee . . .263 Hills of Rome. Joachim du Bellay . ... 265 The Capitol : Tasso's Coronation. Felicia Hemans . 265 The Philosophic Flight. Giordano Bruno . . .267 The Ruins of Rome. Joachim du Bellay . . .268 The Coliseum. Lord Byron 270 XX SKIES ITALIAN The Coliseum. Edgar Allan Poe Roman Baths. Eugene Lee-Hamilton Birds in the Baths of Diocletian. Aubrey de Vere The Arch of Titus. Aubrey de Vere . The Appian Way. Aubrey de Vere . The Tomb of Cecilia Metella. Mrs R. H. Stoddard Grotto of Egeria. Lord Byron .... Ruins of Cornelia's House. Aubrey de Vere The Campagna seen from St John Lateran. Aubrey Vere Two in the Campagna. Robert Browning Spring on the Alban Hills. Alice Meynell Nemi. Samuel Waddington Monte Cassino. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . Love among the Ruins. Robert Browning At Tiber Mouth. Sir Rennell Rodd . Roman Villeggiatura. Silius Ltalicus Tivoli. Felicia Hemans The City of my Love. Julia Ward Howe Rome. Bessie Rayner Parkes The Fountain of Trevi. Bayard Taylor Rome. Arthur Symons I'AGB . 273 . 275 • 275 . 276 • 277 . 277 . 278 . 280 de . 280 . 281 . 283 . 2S4 . 285 . 288 . 291 . 295 . 295 . 297 • 299 . 302 • 303 THE SOUTH Capua. John Nichol ....... 307 Naples. William Gibson 308 Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Percy Bysshe Shelley 309 The Sibyl's Cave at Cumae. Aubrey de Vere . '311 Virgil's Tomb. William Gibson . . . • 311 Virgil's Tomb. Robert Cameron Rogers . . .312 CONTENTS Vesuvius. Richard Chevenix Trench . Vesuvius. William Gibson Pompeii. John Bruce Norton Pompeii. Thomas Gold Appleton Pompeii. William Gibson .... Sorrento. Frederick Locker- Lampson Sorrento. Thomas William Parsons . Written in Tasso's House at Sorrento. Aubrey de Sorrento. William Wetmore Story . The Englishman in Italy. Robert Browning Amalfi. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Drifting. Thomas Buchanan Read . Capri. Alfred Austin . . . • The Azure Grotto. Charles D, Bell . Inarim^. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . Pjestum. Christopher Pearce Cranch . Mare Mediterraneum. John Nichol . Taormina. George Edward Woodberry Etna. Matthew Arnold .... Arethusa. Percy Bysshe Shelley . Vere MEDITATIONS Birthright. Maud Caldwell Perry To Italy. Anonymous To Italy. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow To Italy. Giacomo Leopardi To Italy. Pietro Bembo Citta d'ltalia. Anonymous Love and Italy. Robert Underwood Johnson XXI PAGE 313 315 315 316 316 317 318 319 320 321 330 334 337 338 339 341 342 344 345 347 353 354 354 355 356 357 358 11 XXll SKIES ITALIAN ADIEU ! PAGB In Italy. Lloyd Mifflin ^g, Lines on Leaving Italy. Adam Got t lob OehUnschlager 361 L' Adieu. Auguste Barbier .... Farewell to Italy. Walter Savage Landor . Farewell to the Land of the South. Anna Jameson " Italia, io ti saluto." Christina G. Rossetti 362 363 364 36s Acknowledgment 367 SKIES ITALIAN \ "DE GUSTIBUS— " 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 — A 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. With the beanflower's boon. And the blackbird's tune. And May, and June ! What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurled. In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands. And come again to the land of lands) — In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the baked cicala dies of drouth. And one sharp tree — 'tis a cypress — stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted. Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted. My sentinel to guard the sands To the water's edge. For, what expands A X SKIES ITALIAN Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break ? While, in the house, forever crumbles Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons. And says there's news to-day — the king Was 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— (When fortune's malice Lost her, Calais) Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, " Italy." Such lovers old are I and she : So it always was, so shall ever be I Roheri Browning THE APPROACH -V IM THE APPROACH SONNET IT APPY is England! I could be content i To see no other verdure than its own ; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent : Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters ; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: Yet do I often warmly burn to see Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing. And Hoat with them about the summer waters. John Keats DEPARTURE VAINLY the Alps their shoulders interpose. And their blue glaciers seamed with dark crevasse. And peaks from which, its entrails torn, yon mass Of storm-cloud like a ragged banner blows. Let fall, let fall on me those perilous snows, 6 SKIES ITALIAN Let the wild waters break above the pass, And from their hundred caverns bright as glass Come winds to tear me, like fierce steel-girt foes ! I go, ye cannot stay me ! For I hope To tread the streets of Florence, and to view Those Sabine Hills the Roman poet knew; To see the sun dance on Sorrento's bay. And, stretched ujxm some southern seaward slope, Drink thy sweet air, () Isle of Ischia ! Augusle Barhicrf tr. Ruth Shepard Phelps v: SONNET ON APPROACHING ITALY I REACHED the Alps; the soul within me burned, Italia, my Italia, at thy name : And when from out the mountain's heart I came And saw the land for which my life had yearned, I laughed as one who some great prize had earned : n^ And musing on the story of thy fame I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned. The pine-trees waved as waves a woman's hair. And in the orchards every twining spray Was breakhig into flakes of blossoming foam : But when I knew that far away at Rome In evil bonds a second Peter lay, I wept to see the land so very fair. Oscar JVilde '^ / ITALY 7 "ITALY, LIKE A DREAM"* ITALY, like a dream. Unfolds before my eyes ; yC But another fairer dream Behind me lies ; Could I turn from the dream that is To where that first light flies — Could I turn from the dream that was — In a dream life dies ! One masters the spirit of life Throujrh love of life to be ; I am not master, O Love, — Thou slayest the will in me ! Give me the dream that is, — Earth like heaven to see ; Or grant the dream that was, — Love's immortality ! George Edward Woodherry [Reprinted by special permission of Messrs Macmillan] ITALY AM I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius ? Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque First saw and loved, and now by him who came That night a stranger, sleeps from age to age ? Such questions hourly do I ask myself; And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed "To Mantua"— "To Ferrara "— but excites Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. O Italy, how beautiful thou art I Yet I could weep— for thou art lying, alas, 8 SKIES ITALIAN Low in the dust ; and we admire thee now As we admire the beautiful in death. Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wast born, The gift of beauty. Would thou hadst it not ; Or wert as once, awing the caitiffs vile That now beset thee, making thee their slave ! Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more ! — But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already ; Twice shone among the nations of the world, As the sun shines among the lesser lights Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come. When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey. Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, And, dying, left a splendour like the day. That like the day diffused itself, and still Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue, Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, God-like example. Echoes that have slept Since Athens, Lacedaemon, were Themselves, Since men invoked " By Those in Marathon I " Awake along the .Egean ; and the dead. They of that sacred shore, have heard the call. And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen Moving as once they were — instead of rage Breathing deliberate valour. Samuel Rogers o THE NORTH % THE NORTH COMO IN APRIL THE wind is Winter, though the sun be Spring ; The icy rills have scarce begun to flow ; The birds unconfidently fly and sing. As on the land once fell the northern foe, The hostile mountains from the passes fling Their vandal blasts upon the lake below. Not yet the round clouds of the Maytime cling Above the world's blue wonder's curving show, And tempt to linger with their lingering. Yet doth each slope a vernal promise know : See, mounting yonder, white as angel's wing, A snow of bloom to meet the bloom of snow. Love, need we more than our imagining To make the whole year May ? What though The wind be W^inter if the heart be Spring ? Robert Underwood Johnson II x* 12 SKIES ITALIAN CADENABBIA (^Lake of Coma) NO sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks The silence of the summer day, As by the loveliest of all lakes I while the idle hours away. I pace the leafy colonnade Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade Impervious to the sun and rain. At times a sudden rush of air Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, And gleams of sunshine toss and flare Like torches down the path I tread. By Somariva's garden gate I make the marble stairs my seat, And hear the water, as I wait, Lapping the steps beneath my feet. The undulation sinks and swells Along the stony parapets, And far away the floating bells Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. Silent and slow, by tower and town The freighted barges come and go, Their pendent shadows gliding down By town and tower submerged below. I GARDENS OF BELLAGGIO 13 The hills sweep upward from the shore, With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellaggio blazing in the sun. And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade. I ask myself, Is this a dream } Will it all vanish into air } Is there a land of such supreme And perfect beauty anywhere ? Sweet vision ! Do not fade away : Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day. And all the beauty of the lake. Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow THE GARDENS OF BELLAGGIO THEIR gardens of enchantment lean So wooingly along the lake ! A Soul of Fragrance — all unseen- Steals forth, its captive souls to take ! m tl 14 SKIES ITALIAN So wooingly those gardens lie Above the dreaming, moonlit lake — And walking there, in days gone by, I lost my heart— and gained heart-ache. Oh, did you pass their open gate ? Or did you fondly pass therethrough ? Say, did you tarry there till late— And did my heart not speak to you ? Edilh M. Thomas li NOCTURNE (Bcllaggio) LT P to her chamber window y A slight wire trellis goes, And up this Romeo's ladder Clambers a bold white rose. 1 lounge in the ilex shadows, I see the lady lean. Unclasping her silken girdle, The curtain's folds between. She smiles on her white-rose lover. She reaches out her hand And helps him in at the window — I see it where I stand ! To her scarlet lips she holds him, And kisses him many a time — Ah, me ! it was he that won her Because he dared to climb ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich STANZAS 15 STANZAS (^Addressed to IV. R. Tunier, R.A.j on his view of the Lago Maggiore from the lown of Arona) TURNER, thy pencil brings to mind a day When from Laveno and the Beuscer Hill I over Lake Verbanus held my way in pleasant fellowship, with wind at will ; Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene. And our heart gladdened with the joyful scene ; — Joyful, for all things ministered delight, — The lake and land, the mountains and the vales ; The Alps their snowy summits raised in light. Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales ; And verdant shores and woods refreshed the eye, That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky. To that elaborate island were we bound, Of yore the scene of Borromean pride, — Folly's prodigious work ; where all around, Under its coronet, and self-belied. Look where you will, you cannot choose but see The obtrusive motto's proud *' Humility ! " Far off the Borromean saint was seen, Distinct, though distant, o'er his native town, Where his Colossus with benignant mien Looks from its station on Arona down ; To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes. From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise. !;! 16 SKIES ITALIAN But no storm threatened on that summer day ; The whole rich scene appeared for joyance made; With many a gliding bark the mere was gay, The fields and groves in all their wealth arrayed ; I could have thought the sun beheld with smiles These towns and palaces and populous isles. From fair Arona, even on such a day, When gladness was descending like a shower. Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey The splendid scene ; and, conscious of its power, Well hath thine hand inimitable given The glories of the lake and land and heaven. Robert Souihey THE STATUE OF ST CARLO BORROMEO TRUE fame is this, — through love, and love alone. To stand thus honoured where we first saw day ; True puissance this,— the hand of lawful sway In love alone to lift, that hand whereon. Dove-like, Eternal Peace hath fixed her throne, And whence her blessing wings o'er earth its way ; True rule to God belongs. Who share it ? They Through whom God's gifts on humankind are strewn. Bless thus thy natal place, great Priest, forever ! And thou, Arona, by thy placid bay. Second thy sleepless shepherd's mute endeavour. The choice is thine, if that high grace, like showers Of sunbeams rained on all thy hearthsand bowers, Shall feed thy growth or quicken thy decay I Aubrey de Vere MOTHER AND POET 17 ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones. Forget not ; in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant ; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learned thy way. Early may fly the Babylonian woe. John Milton MOTHER AND POET {Turin, after Sews from Gaeta, I86I) DEAD ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me ! B f\ I !^ Ill 18 SKIES ITALIAN Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said ; But this woman, this, who is agonised here, —The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. What art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vam ! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain ? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed. And I proud, by that test. What art's for a woman ? To hold on her knees Both darlings ; to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little, to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat ; To dream and to doat. To teach them. . . . It stings there ! /made them indeed Speak plain the word countnj. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. / prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. MOTHER AND POET 19 And when their eyes flashed . . . O my beautiful C y ^r»3 • • • • I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone ! Then one weeps, then one kneels ! God, how the house feels ! At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, — of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me ; and, soon coming home to be sj)oiled. In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. Then was triumph at Turin : *' Ancona was free ! " And someone came out of the cheers in the street. With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead ! 1 fell down at his feet. While they cheered in the street. 1 bore it ; friends soothed me ; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. I 20 SKIES ITALIAN And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to faint,— One loved me for two — would be with me ere long: And Fiva l' Italia ! — he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint." My Nanni would add, '' he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,— was impressed It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear. And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed. To live on for the rest." On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line, Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta : — Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah, " his," " their " mother, — not "mine," No voice says " 3/y mother " again to me. What ! You think Guido forgot ? Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe ? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and Sorrow which recon- ciled so The Above and Below. MOTHER AND POET 21 O Christ of the five wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I pray. How we common mothers stand desolate, mark. Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away And no last word to say ! Both boys dead ? But that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall ; And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done Tf we have not a son ? Ah, ah, ah ! when GaetA's taken, what then ? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crushing souls out of men ? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short ? When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea. When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead) — '^' 22 SKIES ITALIAN It II What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low. And burn your lights faintly ! 3/// country is there. Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow : My Italy's there, with my brave civic Pair, To disfranchise despair ! Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self- scorn ; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into such wail as this — and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me ! (This was Laura Savio, of Turin, poet and patriot, whose sons fell at Ancona and Gaeta. ) Elizabeth Barrett Bronmins o IN A VINEYARD OF ASTI O NYMPH of cheer, that lurks within the vine, You shall not so elude me as you think ! Eyes shall be bright for you, and cheeks be pink. Though cool in clusters lurking, you recline. IV IN A VINEYARD OF ASTI 23 On cheese of Parma, some day we shall dine, Faunian enough to make the Cyclops blink. O Sprite of Asti ! there shall be the clink Of fluted glasses foamed with golden wine : Some eve upon the Corso, down at Rome, Giulio and I shall find you, bottled trim. And, sipping softly, hear the hissing foam Of rising bubbles bursting round the rim : Then walk up to the Pincio for a whim And watch the sunset glorify the Dome. Lloyd Mifflin 'i. r f :il i i .«^ THE LIGURIAN SHORE THE LIGURIAN SHORE VILLA FRANCA (1859) WAIT a little : do we not wait ? Louis Napoleon is not Fate, Francis Joseph is not Time ; There's One hath swifter feet than Crime Gmnon-parliaments settle naught ; V^enice is Austria's, — whose is Thought ? Minie is good, but, spite of change, Gutenberg's gun has the longest range. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in. The silent headsman waits forever. I Wait, we say : our years are long ; Men are weak, but Man is strong ; Since the stars first curved their rings, We have looked on many things ; Great wars come and great wars go. Wolf-tracks light on polar snow ; We shall see him come and gone, This second-hand Napoleon. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in. The silent headsman waits forever. 27 m.^ I 1 28 SKIES ITALIAN We saw the elder Corsican, And Clotho muttered as she span. While crowned lackeys bore the train, Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne : " Sister, stint not length of thread ! Sister, stay the scissors dread ! On Saint Helen's granite bleak, Hark, the vulture whets his beak !" Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist I and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in, The silent headsman waits forever. The Bonapartes, we know their bees That wade in honey red to the knees ; Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound In dreamless garners underground : We know false glory's spendthrift race Pawning nations for feathers and lace ; It may be short, it may be long, "'Tis reckoning-day!" sneers unpaid Wrong. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in. The silent headsman waits forever. The Cock that wears the Eagle's skin Can promise what he ne'er could win ; Slavery reaped for fine words sown. System for all, and rights for none. Despots atop, a wild clan below. Such is the Gaul from long ago ; Wash the black from the Ethiop's face, Wash the past out of man or race ! I \N VILLA FRANCA 29 Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in. The silent headsman waits forever. 'Neath Gregory's throne a spider swings. And snares the people for the kings ; ** Luther is dead ; old quarrels pass ; The stake's black scars are healed with grass ; " So dreamers prate ; did man ere live Saw priest or woman yet forgive ? But Luther's broom is left, and eyes Peep o'er their creeds to where it lies. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! In the shadow, year out, year in. The silent headsman waits forever. Smooth sails the ship of either realm, Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm ; We look down the depths, and mark Silent workers in the dark Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs, Old instincts hardening to new beliefs ; Patience a little ; learn to wait ; Hours are long on the clock of Fate. Spin, spin, Clotho, spin ! Lachesis, twist ! and, Atropos, sever ! Darkness is strong, and so is Sin, But only God endures forever ! James Russell Lowell Mil : i r./^' I- ' I 30 SKIES ITALIAN GENOA I AM where mountains round me shine ; But in sweet vision truer than mine eyes I see pale Genoa's marble crescent rise Between the water and the Apennine. On the sea-bank she couches like a deer, A creature giving light with her soft sheen, While the blue ocean and the mountain green Pleased with the wonder always gaze on her. And day and night the mild sea-murmur fills The corridors of her cool palaces. Taking the freshness from the orange trees, A fragrant gift into the peaceful hills. And from the balustrades into the street, From time to time there are voluptuous showers. Gentle descents, of shaken lemon flowers Snapped by the echo of the passing feet. And when the sun his noonday height hath gained. How mute is all that slumbrous Apennine, Upon whose base the streaks of green turf shine. With the black olive-gardens interveined ! How fair it is when, in the purple bay. Of the soft sea the clear edged moon is drinking, Or the dark sky amid the shipmasts winking With summer lightning over Corsica ! GENOA 31 O Genoa ! thou art a marvellous birth — A clasp which joins the mountains and the sea : And the two powers do homage unto thee As to a matchless wonder of the earth. Can life be common life in spots like these Where they breathe breath from orange gardens wafted ? joy and sorrow surely must be grafted On stems apart for these bright Genoese. The place is islanded amid her mirth. The very girdle of her beauty thrown About her in men's minds, a virgin zone, Marks her a spot unmated on the earth. 1 hear the deep coves of the Apennine, Filled with a gentle trouble of sweet bells : And the blue tongues of sea that pierce the dells. As conscious of the Virgin's feast day shine. For Genoa the Proud for many an age Hath been pre-eminent as tributary Unto the special service of St Mary, The sinless Virgin's chosen appanage. I see the street with very stacks of flowers Choked up, a wild and beautiful array. And in my mind I thread my fragrant way Once more amid the rich and cumbrous bowers. And unforgotten beauty ! by the Bay, I see two boys and the little maiden VV^ith crimson tulips for the Virgin laden. Wending along the road from Spezzia. F. W. Faber ry-' 32 SKIES ITALIAN f ll GENOA AH ! what avails it, Genoa, now to thee That Doria, feared by monarchs, once was thine ? Univied ruin ! in thy sad decline From virtuous greatness, what avails that he Whose prow descended first the Hesperian sea, And gave our world her mate beyond the brine, Was nurtured, whilst an infant, at thy knee ? — All things must perish,— all but things divine. Flowers, and the stars, and virtue,— these alone. The self-subsisting shapes, or self-renewing. Survive. All else are sentenced. Wisest were That builder who should plan with strictest care (Ere yet the wood was felled or hewn the stone) The aspect only of his pile in ruin ! Aubrey dc Fere SONNET (JVrUten in Hohj Week at Genoa) I WANDERED in Scoglietto's green retreat. The oranges on each o'erhanging spray Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day ; Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet \ GENOVA MIA 33 Made snow of all the blossoms, at my feet Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay : And the curved waves that streaked the sapphire bay Laughed i' the sun, and life seemed very sweet. Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear, "Jesus the Son of Mary has been slain, O come and fill his sepulchre with flowers." Ah, God ! Ah, God ! those dear Hellenic hours Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain. The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers, and the Spear. Oscar Wilde GENOVA MIA il' IF still I can behold, and shed no tear Thy beauty, Genoa, mangled thus and torn. Think not thy son disloyal, whom the fear Of treason to thy state forbids to mourn. Thy greatness in these ruins I revere, Trophies of stern resolve and generous scorn ; At every step in every object near I trace thy courage in thy dangers borne. Above all victory is to suffer well ; And such is thine ; with thee it still remains. Thus in the dust and not disconsolate ! Now Freedom loves upon thy form to dwell, And kisses every wound, and cries elate, O yes, the Ruins ever, not the Chains ! G act ana Passerini, tr. James Glassjbrd, of Dougalston C I ■ r 34 SKIES ITALIAN GENOA GENTLY, as roses die, the day declines ; On the charmed air there is a hush the while ; And delicate are the twilight-tints that smile Upon the summits of the Apennines. The moon is up ; and o'er the warm wave shines A faery bridge of light, whose beams beguile The fancy to some far and fortunate isle. Which love in solitude unlonely shrines. The blue night of Italian summer glooms Around us : over the crystalline swell I gaze on Genoa's spires and palace-domes : City of cities, the superb, farewell ! The beautiful, in nature's bloom, is thine : And Art hath made it deathless and divine ! William Gibson SAN TERENZO MID April seemed like some November day, When through the glassy waters, dull as lead, Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead, Slipped down the long shores of the Spezzian bay, Rounded a point,— and San Terenzo lay Before us, that gay village, yellow and red. The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head, — His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray. rii ro SHELLEY 35 The waves broke on the doorstep ; fishermen Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again. Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free, When suddenly the forest glades were stirred With waving pinions, and a great sea bird Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea I Andrew Lang TO SHELLEY SHELLEY I whose song so sweet was sweetest here. We knew each other little ; now I walk Along the same green path, along the shore Of Lerici, along the sandy plain Trending from Lucca to the Pisan pines Under whose shadow scattered camels lie. The old and young, and rarer deer uplift Their knotty branches o'er high-feathered fern. Regions of happiness ! I greet ye well ; Your solitudes, and not your cities, stayed My steps among you ; for with you alone Converst I, and with those ye bore of old. He who beholds the skies of Italy Sees ancient Rome reflected, sees beyond. Into more glorious Hellas, nurse cf Gods And godlike men : dwarfs people other lands. Frown not, maternal England ! thy weak child Kneels at thy feet and owns in shame a lie. Walter Savage Landor |i^ W' X I I |> * III 36 SKIES ITALIAN LINES WRITTEN NEAR SHELLEY'S HOUSE AND here he paced! These glimmering pathways strewn With faded leaves, his light, swift fuotsteps crushed ; The odour of yon pine was o'er him blown : Music went by him in each wind that brushed Those yielding stems of ilex ! Here, alone, He walked at noon, or silent stood and hushed When the ground-ivy flashed the moonlight sheen Back from the forest always green. Poised as on air the lithe elastic bower Now bends, resilient now against the wind Recoils, like Dryads that one moment cower And rise the next with loose locks unconfined. Through the dim roof like gems the sunbeams shower ; Old cypress-trunks the aspiring bay-trees bind. And soon will have them wholly underneath : Types eminent of glory conquering death. Far down the shelves and sands below The respirations of a southern sea Beat with susurrent cadence, soft and slow : Round the gray cave's fantastic imagery, In undulation eddying to and fro. The purple waves swell up or backward flee ; While, dewed at each rebound with gentlest shock. The myrtle leans her green breast on the rock. LINES 37 And here he stood ; upon his face that light. Streamed from some furthest realm of lumin- ous thought, Which clothed his fragile beauty with the might Of suns forever rising ! Here he caught Visions divine. He saw a fiery flight "The hound of Heaven," with heavenly vengeance fraught, " Run down the slanted sunlight of the morn" — Prometheus frown on Jove with scorn for scorn. He saw white Arethusa, leap on leap, Plunge from the Acroceraunian ledges bare With all her torrent streams, while from the steep Alpheus bounded on her unaware : Hellas he saw, a giant fresh from sleep. Break from the night of bondage and despair. Who but Iiad sung as there he stood and smiled, "Justice and truth have found their winged child!" Through cloud and wave and star his insight keen Shone clear, and traced a god in each disguise, Protean, boundless. Like the buskincd scene All nature rapt him into ecstasies : In him, alas ! had reverence equal been With admiration, those resplendent eyes Had wandered not through all her range sublime To miss the one great marvel of all time. A. 38 SKIES ITALIAN The winds sang loud ; from this Elysian nest He rose, and trod yon spine of mountains bleak. While stormy suns descending in the west Stained as with blood yon promontory's beak. That hour, responsive to his soul's unrest, Carrara's marble summits, peak to peak, Sent forth their thunders like the battle-cry Of nations arming for the victory. Aubrey de Fere SHELLEY'S HOUSE THOU, last, O Lerici, receive my song : Ilex and olive on the gleaming steep Gray-green, descend to kiss the brilliant deep Beautiful with clear winds ; the golden leap Of the far-snowing blue, with homed sweep. Pours to yon purple sea-valley asleep. Between fair mountains locked ; and noon's high blaze Turns to one melting sapphire all light's rays, Wherein the wild wind blows, the wild wave strays, While ocean from his azure censer sprays Each scarlet poppy that the shore embays Mid thickets of the rose ; and all day long The nightingales are waking, loud and strong. Warbling unseen their unremitting song Round Shelley's house, lest here I suffer wrong. This day that gave me birth, pierced by the prong Of absence, misery, loss ; and, lest I weep, Colour and light and music round me keep AFTER A LECTURE 39 Life's crystal, and this day of all my days To be a temple of the soul upraise. Where I may breathe and throb and muse, and long Brood on the loves that to my bosom throng ; And from these splendours of earth, sea, and air, Like Uriel issuing from the glorious sphere That hides him with great beauty, everywhere I feel the might of song that once dwelt here, A shadow of loveliness approaching near, A fragrance in the unseen atmosphere. An intimate presence in the darkness dear ; I see, and see not ! O, the sweet, the fair Melodious death my sea-borne soul should bear With yon blue waters whelmed, to meet him there. My poet ! — yet rather life to me belong ! — Sing, nightingales, flood the blind world with song ! George Edward JVoodbeny [Reprinted by special permission of Messrs Macmillan] AFTER A LECTURE ON SHELLEY ONE broad, white sail in Spezzia's treacherous bay; On comes the blast ; too daring bark, beware ! The cloud has clasped her ; lo ! it melts away ; The wide, waste waters, but no sail is there. Morning : a woman looking on the sea ; Midnight : with lamps the long veranda burns ; Come, wandering sail, they watch, they burn for thee ! Suns come and go, alas ! no bark returns. 1^1 ii i I T I 40 SKIES ITALIAN And feet are thronging on the pebbly sands, And torches flaring in the weedy caves. Where'er the waters lay with icy hands The shapes ui)lifted from their coral graves. Vainly they seek ; the idle quest is o'er ; The coarse, dark women, with their hanging locks, And lean, wild children gather from the shore To the black hovels bedded in the rocks. But Love still prayed, with agonizing wail, " One, one last look, ye heaving waters, yield ! " Till Ocean, clashing in his jointed mail, Raised the pale burden on his level shield. Slow from the shore the sullen waves retire ; His form a nobler element shall claim ; Nature baptized him in ethereal fire. And Death shall crown him with a wreath of flame. Fade, mortal semblance, never to return ; Swift is the change within thy crimson shroud ; Seal the white ashes in the peaceful urn ; All else has risen in yon silvery cloud. Sleep where thy gentle Adonais lies. Whose open page lay on thy dying heart, Both in the smile of those blue-vaulted skies, Earth's fairest dome of all divinest art. miiwtMiiffMitliriiiiaaaggw. SHELLEY'S DEATH 41 Breathe for his wandering soul one passing sigh, O happier Christian, while thine eye grows dim, — In all the mansions of the house on high. Say not that Mercy has not one for him ! Oliver Wendell Holmes i! 1 < SHELLEY'S DEATH 'WAS some enamour'd Nereid craved a storm Of Eolus, her minstrel to immerse In blue cold waves and white caresses warm : So the sea whelmed him, whelming not his verse. IVilliam Watson w ii lii THE LOMBARD PLAIN i k\ IJ w I ^ 1 fj: ll THE LOMBxVRD PLAIN LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS {October 1818) MANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery. Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day. Drifting on his weary way, With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track ; Whilst above, the sunless sky. Big with clouds, hangs heavily. And behind the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet. Riving sail, and cord, and plank. Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'er-brimming deep ; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity ; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as ever still Longing with divided will, 45 w IsU 46 SKIES ITALIAN But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. What, if there no friends will greet ; What, if there no heart will meet His with love's impatient beat ; W^ander whereso'er he may. Can he dream before that day To find refuge from distress In friendship's smile, in love's caress? Then 'twill wreak him little woe Whether such there be or no : Senseless is the breast, and cold. Which relenting love would fold ; Bloodless are the veins and chill Which the pulse of pain did fill ; Every little living nerve That from bitter words did swerve Round the tortured lips and brow. Are like sapless leaflets now- Frozen upon December's bough. n On the beach of a northern sea Which tempests shake eternally. As once the wretch there lay to sleep. Lies a solitary heap. One white skull and seven dry bones, On the margin of the stones. Where a few gray rushes stand. Boundaries of the sea and land : Nor is heard one voice of wail But the sea-mews, as they sail THE EUGANEAN HILLS 47 O'er the billows of the gale ; Or the whirlwind up and down Howling, like a slaughtered town. When a king in glory rides Through the pomp of fratricides : Those unburied bones around There is many a mournful sound ; There is no lament for him. Like a sunless vapour, dim. Who once clothed with life and thought What now moves nor murmurs not. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony : To such a one this morn was led My bark by soft winds piloted : Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the paean. With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical ; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Thro' the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Fleckt with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable skv. So their plumes of purple grain. Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods. As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Thro' the broken mist they sail. And the vapours cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming. iiil 48 SKIES ITALIAN Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill. V i Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair; Underneath day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo ! the sun upsprings behind. Broad, red, radiant, half reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline ; And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright. Column, tower, and dome, and spire. Shine like obelisks of fire. Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies ; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt City, thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen ; Now is come a darker day. And thou soon must be his prey. Aa THE EUGANEAN HILLS 49 If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now. With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne, among the waves Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew. O'er thine isles depopulate. And all is in its ancient state. Save where many a palace gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's ow^n. Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way, Wandering at the close of day. Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore. Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep. Lead a rapid masque of death O'er the waters of his path. Those who alone thy towers behold Quivering thro' aerial gold. As I now behold them here. Would imagine not they were Sepulchres, where human forms. Like pollution-nourished worms. To the corpse of greatness cling, Murdered, and now mouldering : But if Freedom should awake In her omnipotence, and shake D m !•«»! :"»! ¥7 50 SKIES ITALIAN From the Celtic Anarch's hold All the keys of dungeons cold, Where a hundred cities lie Chained like thee, ingloriously, Thou and all thy sister band Might adorn this sunny land. Twining memories of old time With new virtues more sublime ; If not, perish thou and they. Clouds which stain truth's rising day By her sun consumed away. Earth can spare ye : while like flowers, In the waste of years and hours. From your dust new nations spring With more kindly blossoming. Perish— let there only be Floating o'er thy heartless sea As the garment of thy sky Clothes the world immortally. One remembrance, more sublime Than the tattered pall of time, Which scarce hides thy visage wan ;— That a tempest-cleaving Swan Of the songs of Albion, Driven from his ancestral streams By the might of evil dreams. Found a nest in thee ; and Ocean Welcomed him with such emotion That its joy grew his, and sprung From his lips like music flung O'er a mighty thunder-fit Chastening terror : — what tho' yet Poesy's unfailing River, Which thro' Albion winds forever THE EUGANEAN HILLS 51 Lashing with melodious wave Many a sacred Poet's grave. Mourn its latest nursling fled? What tho' thou with all thy dead Scarce can for this fame repay Aught thine own ? oh, rather say Tho' thy sins and slaveries foul Overcloud a sunlike soul ? As the ghost of Homer clings Round Scamander's wasting springs ; As divinest Shakspere's might Fills Avon and the world with light Like omniscient power which he Imaged mid mortality ; As the love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn, A quenchless lamp by which the heart Sees things unearthly; — so thou art Mighty spirit — so shall be The City that did refuge thee. Lo, the sun floats up the sky Like thought-winged Liberty, Till the universal light Seems to level plain and height ; From the sea a mist has spread. And the beams of morn lie dead On the towers of Venice now. Like its glory long ago. By the skirts of that gray cloud Many-domed Padua proud Stands, a peopled solitude. Mid the harvest-shining plain. Where the peasant heaps his grain 'M I 52 SKIES ITALIAN In the garner of his foe, And the milk-white oxen slow With the purple vintage strain, Heaped upon the creaking wain, That the brutal Celt may swill Drunken sleep with savage will ; And the sickle to the sword Lies unchanged, tho' many a lord, Like a weed whose shade is poison, Overgrows this region's foison. Sheaves of whom are ripe to come To destruction's harvest-home : Men must reap the things they sow, Force from force must ever flow. Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe That love or reason cannot change The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. Padua, thou within whose walls Those mute guests at festivals. Son and Mother, Death and Sin, Played at dice for Ezzelin, Till Death cried, " I win, I win !" And Sin cursed to lose the wager. But Death promised, to assuage her, That he would petition for Her to be made Vice-Emperor, When the destined years were o'er. Over all between the Po And the eastern Alpine snow. Under the mighty Austrian. Sin smiled so as Sin only can. And since that time, ay, long before. Both have ruled from shore to shore. THE EUGANEAN HILLS 53 That incestuous pair, who follow Tyrants as the sun the swallow. As repentance follows crime. And as changes follow Time. In thine halls the lamp of learning, Padua, now no more is burning ; Like a meteor, whose wild way Is lost over the grave of day, It gleams betrayed and to betray : Once remotest nations came To adore that sacred flame. When it lit not many a hearth On this cold and gloomy earth ; Now new fires from antique light Spring beneath the wide world's might ; But their spark lies dead in thee, Trampled out by tyranny. As the Norway woodman quells, In the depth of piny dells. One light flame among the brakes While the boundless forest shakes, And its mighty trunks are torn By the fire thus lowly born : The spark beneath his feet is dead, He starts to see the flames it fed Howling thro* the darkened sky With a myriad tongues victoriously. And sinks down in fear : so thou O Tyranny ! beholdest now Light around thee, and thou hearest The loud flames ascend, and fearest : Grovel on the earth ! ay, hide In the dust thy purple pride ! I 54 SKIES ITALIAN Noon descends around me now : 'Tis the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved star Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky ; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; And the red and golden vines. Piercing with their trellist lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; The dun and bladed grass no less. Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air ; the flower Glimmering at my feet ; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded : And the Alps, whose snows are spread Hish between the clouds and sun ; And of living things each one ; And my spirit which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, Interpenetrated lie By the glor}- of the sky : Be it love, light, harmony, Odour, or the soul of all W^hich from heaven like dew doth fall, THE EUGANEAN HILLS 55 Or the mind which feeds this verse. Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon. Leading the infantine moon, And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs : And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies. The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot. Pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony : Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf : even now, perhaps. On some rock the wild wave wraps. With folded wings they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove. Where for me, and those I love. May a windless bower be built. Far from passion, pain, and guilt. In a dell mid lawny hills. Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round, liii 7f 111 ! %i I y m SKIES ITALIAN And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine : We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude ; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the wind whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves ; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul supplies With its own deep melodies, And the love which heals all strife Circling, like the breath of life. All things in that sweet abode With its own mild brotherhood : They, not it, would change ; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon W^ould repent its envy vain. And the earth grow young again. Fercy Bysshe Shelley THE CATHEDRAL OF MILAN WITH steps subdued, silence, and labour long I reached the marble roofs. Awe vanquished dread. White were they as the summit of Mont Blanc, When noontide parleys with that mountain's head. \ f THE LAST SUPPER 57 The far-off Alps, by morning tinged with red. Blushed through the spires that round in myriads sprung : A silver gleam the wind-stirred poplars flung O'er Lombardy's green sea below me spread. Of these I little saw. In trance I stood ; Ere death, methought, admitted to the skies ; Around me, like a heavenly multitude Crowning some specular mount of Paradise, Thronged that angelic concourse robed in stone ; The sun, ascending, in their faces shone ! Aubrey de Vere. THE LAST SUPPER {By Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia, Milan) THO' searching damps and many an envious flaw Have marred this Work ; the calm ethereal grace. The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face. The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe The Elements ; as they do melt and thaw The heart of the Beholder — and erase (At least for one rapt moment) every trace Of disobedience to the primal law. The annunciation of the dreadful truth Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek. And hand reposing on the board in ruth Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek Unquestionable meanings — still bespeak A labour worthy of eternal youth ! William Wordsworth f 7^' \m$ % ml 1; *■- h- l|"i « I I 58 SKIES ITALIAN THE PATRIOT IT was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad, The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway. The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day ! The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries. Had I said, " Good folks, mere noise repels. But give me your sun from yonder skies ! " They had answered, " And afterward, what else ? " Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun. To give it my loving friends to keep. Naught man could do have I left undone. And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. There's nobody on the house-tops now, — Just a palsied few at the windows set, — For the best of the sight is, all allow. At the Shambles' Gate, — or, better yet. By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind. And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds. For they fling, whoever has a mind. Stones at me, for my year's misdeeds. THE FORCED RECRUIT 59 Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go ! In such triumphs people have dropped down dead. " Thou, paid by the world, — what dost thou owe Me ? " God might have questioned ; but now instead 'Tis God shall requite ! I am safer so. Robert Brouming THE FORCED RECRUIT {Solferino, 1859) IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him. He died with his face to you all ; Yet bury him here where around him You honour your bravest that fall. Venetian, fair-featured and slender. He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips, over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor. Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart, has a shot sent to rest ! By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file. His musket (see) never was loaded. He facing your guns with that smile ! 60 SKIES ITALIAN As orphans yearn on to their mothers. He yearned to your patriot bands ; — '* Let me die for our Italy, brothers. If not in your ranks, by your hands ! '^ Aim straightly, fire steadily ! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away ! " So thought he, so died he this morning. What then ? many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side : — One tricolour floating above them ; Struck down 'mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazon the brass with their names. But he — without witness or honour. There, shamed in his country's regard. With the tyrants who march in upon her, Died faithful and passive ; 'twas hard. *Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons. With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. That moves you ? Nay, grudge not to show it, While digging a grave for him here : The others who died, says your poet. Have glory, — let him have a tear. Elizabeth Barrett Browning SIRMIO: LAGO DI GARDA 61 SIRMIO: LAGO DI GARDA SWEET Sirmio ! thou, the very eye Of all peninsulas and isles. That in our lakes of silver lie. Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles, — How gladly back to thee I fly ! Still doubting, asking, — can it be That I have left Bithynia's sky. And gaze in safety upon thee .'* O, what is happier than to find Our hearts at ease, our perils past ; When, anxious long, the lightened mind Lays down its load of care at last ; When, tired with toil o'er land and deep. Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep On the long-wished-for bed once more. This, this it is, that pays alone The ills of all life's former track. Shine out, my beautiful, my own Sweet Sirmio ! greet thy master back. And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice, — let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me. CatulluSf tr. Thomas Moore 62 SKIES ITALIAN il PESCHIERA WHAT voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost, *' 'Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all." The Tricolour, a trampled rag, Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track. By sentries' boxes yellow black, Lead up to no Italian flag. I see the Croat soldier stand Upon the grass of your redoubts ; The eagle with his black wing flouts The breadth and beauty of your land. Yet not in vain, although in vain, O, men of Brescia I on the day Of loss past hope, I heard you say Your welcome to the noble pain. You said : " Since so it is, good by. Sweet life, high hope ; but whatsoe'er May be or must, no tongue shall dare To tell, ' The Lombard feared to die.' " You said (there shall be answer fit) : '' And if our children must obey. They must ; but, thinking on this day, 'Twill less debase them to submit." You said (O, not in vain you said) : " Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we may ; The hours ebb fast of this one day. While blood may yet be nobly shed." THE DAISY 63 Ah ! not for idle hatred, not For honour, fame, nor self-applause, But for the glory of the cause, You did what will not be forgot. And though the stranger stand, 'tis true. By force and fortune's right he stands, — By fortune, which is in God's hands. And strength, which yet shall spring in you. This voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost : " 'Tis better to have fought and lost Than never to have fought at all." Arthur Hugh C/ough I THE DAISY OLOVE, what hours were thine and mine In lands of palm and southern pine, — In lands of palm, of orange-blossom. Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. What Roman strength Turbia showed In ruin by the mountain road ; How like a gem, beneath, the city Of little Monaco, basking, glowed. How richly down the rocky dell The torrent vineyard streaming fell To meet the sun and sunny waters. That only heaved with a summer swell. What slender campanili grew By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ; Where, here and there, on sandy beaches A milky-belled amaryllis blew. 64 SKIES ITALIAN How young Columbus seemed to rove. Yet present in his natal grove, Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove. Now pacing mute by ocean s rim Till, in a narrow street and dim, I stayed the wheels at Cogoletto, And drank, and loyally drank to hun. Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; But distant colour, happy hamlet, A mouldered citadel on the coast. Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olive green ; Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. Where oleanders flushed the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten Of ice, far up on the mountain head. We loved that hall, though white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould, A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence, too, what golden hours In those long galleries were ours ; What drives about the fresh Cascine Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. THE DAISY 65 In bright vignettes, and each complete. Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. Or palace, how the city glittered, Through cypress avenues, at our feet. But when we crossed the Lombard plain Remember what a plague of rain ; Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. And stern and sad (so rare the smiles Of sunlight) looked the Lombard piles ; Porch-pillars on the lion resting, And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. O Milan, O the chanting quires. The giant windows' blazoned fires, The height, the space, the gloom, the glory I A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! I climbed the roofs at break of day ; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. I stood among the silent statues. And statued pinnacles, mute as they. How faintly flushed, how phantom-fair. Was Monte Rosa hanging there A thousand shadowy-pencilled valleys And snowy dells in a golden air. Remember how we came at last To Como ; shower and storm and blast Had blown the lake beyond his limit. And all was flooded ; and how we past N 1 66 SKIES ITALIAN THE DAISY 67 hi; I From Como, when the light was j^ray, And in my head, for half the day, The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way, Like ballad-burden music, kept, As on the Lariano crept To that fair port below the castle Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ; Or hardly slept, but watched awake A cypress in the moonlight shake. The moonlight touching o'er a terrace One tall agave above the lake. What more ? we took our last adieu. And up the snowy Splugen drew. But ere we reached the highest summit I plucked a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me. And now it tells of Italy. O love, we two shall go no longer To lands of summer across the sea ; So dear a life your arms enfold Whose crying is a cry for gold : Yet here to-night in this dark city, When ill and weary, alone and cold, I found, though crushed to hard and dry. This nursling of another sky Still in the little book you lent me. And where you tenderly laid it by : And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens heaven and earth. The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance to charm a vacant brain. Perchance to dream you still beside me, My fancy flew to the South again. Alfred Tennyson VENETIA VENETIA AT VERONA HOW steep the stairs within Kings' houses are For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread, And O how salt and bitter is the bread Which falls from this Hound's table,— better far That I had died in the red ways of war. Or that the gate of Florence bare my head, Than to live thus, by all things comraded Which seek the essence of my soul to mar. " Curse God and die ; what better hope than this ? He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss Of his gold city, and eternal day " — Nay peace : behind my prison's blinded bars I do possess what none can take away. My love, and all the glory of the stars. Oscar Wilde 111 BROWNING AT ASOLO THIS is the loggia Browning loved. High on the flank of the friendly town ; These are the hills that his keen eye roved. The green like a cataract leaping down To the plain that his pen gave new renown. 71 I*" 72 SKIES ITALIAN \ There to the West what a range of bhie ! — The very background Titian drew To his peerless Loves ! O tranquil scene ! Who than thy poet fondlier knew The peaks and the shore and the lort* between See ! yonder's his Venice — the valiant Spire, Highest one of the perfect three, Guarding the others : the Palace choir, The Temple flashing with opal fire — Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. Yesterday he was part of it all — Sat here, discerning cloud from snow In the flush of the Alpine afterglow. Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row Meets in a leafy bacchanal. Listen a moment — how oft did he ! — To the bells from Fontalto's distant tower Leading the evening in . . . ah, me ! Here breathes the whole soul of Italy As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower. Sighs were meant for an hour like this When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poet's heart should miss This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss And dream of Asolo ever again ? "EX LIBRIS ' 73 « Part of it yesterday," we moan ? Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. What most we love we are that alone. His body lies under the Minster stone. But the love of the warm heart lingers here. Robert Underwood Johnson DAWN IN ARQUA SICK of mere fame, and of Rome's Laureate leaf His Liitin Epic brought him, up he went To steep Arqueto, where he found content Among the Euganean Hills — alas, too brief! His was an irremediable grief: That heart so loved, that head so opulent Of gold, were long since dust. . . . Silent he bent Above those Sonnets in that Golden Sheaf, Far into midnight, lone he sat, and read — The Rime once again — oh, bitterest tears By age, for love all unrequited, shed ! — Then in that volume slowly sank his head ; Thus, in the mountain cottage, bowed with years. At early morn they found him, cold and dead. Lloyd Mifflin "EX LIBRIS" IN an old book at even as I read Fast fading words adown my shadowy page, I crossed a tale of how, in other age At Arqu^, with his books around him, sped 74 SKIES ITALIAN The word to Petrarch ; and with noble head Bowed gently o'er his volume, that sweet sage To Silence paid his willing seigniorage. And they who found him whispered, " He is dead ! " Thus timely from old comradeships would I To Silence also rise. Let there be night, Stillness and only these staid watchers by, And no light shine save my low study light — Lest of his kind intent some human cry Interpret not the Messenger aright. Arthur Upson PETRARCH'S TOMB THERE is a tomb in Arqu^ ; — reared in air, Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair Many familiar with his well-sung woes. The pilgrims of his genius. He arose To raise a language, and his land reclaim From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes ; Watering the tree which bears his lady's name With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. They kept his dust in Arqua, where he died ; The mountain-village where his latter days Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride, — An honest pride, — and let it be their praise. 111 PETRARCH'S HOUSE 75 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fane. Lord Byron WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE I3ETRARCH ! I would that there might be In this thy household sanctuary No visible monument of thee : The fount that whilom jjlayed before thee, The roof that rose in shelter o'er thee. The low fair hills that still adore thee, — I would no more ; thy memory Must loathe all cold reality, Thought-worship only is for thee. They say thy tomb lies there below ; What want I with the marble show ? I am content, — I will not go : For though by poesy's high grace Thou saw'st, in thy calm resting-place, God, love, and nature face to face ; Yet now that thou are wholly free. How can it give delight to see That sign of thy captivity .'' Lord Houghton 76 SKIES ITxVLIAX TO THE RIV^ER PO, ON QUITTING LAURA THOU Po, to distant realms this frame mayst bear. On thy all-powerful, thy impetuous tide ; But the free spirit that within doth bide Nor for thy might nor any might doth care : Not varying here its course, nor shifting there, Upon the favouring gale it joys to glide : Plying its wings toward the laurel's pride. In spite of sails or oars, of sea or air. Monarch of Hoods, magnificent and strong, That meet'st the sun as he leads on the day. But in the west dost quit a fairer light ; Thy curved course this body wafts along ; My spirit on love's pinions speeds its way. And to its darling home directs its flight I Francesco Petrarca, tr. John Nott STANZAS TO THE PO RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls. Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me ; What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, w here she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee. Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed I STANZAS TO THE PO 77 What do I say,— a mirror of my heart ? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; And such as thou art, were my passions long. Time may somewhat have tamed them, — not forever ; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, But left long wrecks behind, and now again. Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, And I — to loving one I should not love. The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air unharmed by summer's heat. She will look on thee,— I have looked on thee, Full of that thought ; and from that moment ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, Without the inseparable sigh for her ! Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,— Yes ! they will meet the wave I gaze on now : Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repass me in its flow ! ill Y \ li I I li 78 SKIES ITALIAN The wave that bears my tears returns no more : Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep ? — Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore. I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, But the distraction of a various lot. As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land. Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fanned By the black wind that chills the polar flood. My blood is all meridian ; were it not, I had not left my clime, nor should I be, In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love, — at least of thee. 'Tis vain to struggle, — let me perish young, — Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. lA)rd Byron DANTE DANTE am I, — Minerva's son, who knew With skill and genius (though in style obscure) And elegance maternal to mature My toil, a miracle to mortal view. 1 1 BEATRICE 79 Through realms tartarean and celestial flew xMy lofty fancy, swift-winged and secure ; And ever shall my noble work endure. Fit to be read of men, and angels too. Florence my earthly mother's glorious name ; Step-dame to me, — whom from her side she thrust, Her duteous son ; bear slanderous tongues the blame ; Ravenna housed my exile, holds my dust ; My spirit is with him from whom it came, — A j)arent envy cannot make unjust. Giovanni Boccaccio, tr. Francis C. Gray T BEATRICE VV'AS in Ravenna Dante's daughter dwelt. Under the shadow of Saint Stephen's tower, Poor and forlorn, her name the only dower From him beside whose tomb she often knelt. Florence, repenting late, compassion felt, And thence one day a stranger came with gold. Which to the nun, so saintly and so cold. He proffered smiling, while his heart did melt. No other than Boccaccio brought the gift. Who as a son revered and loved her sire ; And when she did her hood all meekly lift To render grateful answer and retire, He by the father's portrait knew the child, And wept, as she returned her thanks and smiled. Henry Sewell Stokes i{ ry- 80 SKIES ITALIAN ON THE TOMB OF GUIDAUELLO GUIDARELLI AT RAVENNA WITH peace at last and silent of all moan Far from the busy crowd that laughs and weeps, In darkness and in stillness and alone, Here Guidarello Braccioforte sleeps ; The secret tale, the polished marble stone Eloquently impenetrable keeps. Walter IVihon Greg VENICE WHITE swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest So wonderfully built among the reeds Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds, As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest ! White water-lily, cradled and caressed By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds, Thy sun-illumined spire, thy crown and crest ! White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of palaces and strips of sky ; I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting In air their unsubstantial masonry. Heniy Wadsivorth Longfellow GOLDONI 81 VENICE THERE seems a long, eternal Oh ! to dwell In the still air that softly breathes around. Wafted from yonder halls, where once the sound Of jest and revelry was wont to swell. She dared the ages, yet Venetia fell ; The wheel of Fortune hath no backward bound ; Her haven is desolate ; few ships are found At the Slavonian Quay, once known so well. How didst thou once, Venetia, gorgeously Flaunt, like a haughty queen in gold array, As Paolo Veronese painted thee ! A poet on the Giant Stair to-day Lingers beside each wondrous balcony, His tribute of a fruitless tear to pay. Graf von Platen, tr. Thomas Davidson GOLDONI GOLDONI — good, gay, sunniest of souls, — Glassing half V^enice in that verse of thine, — What though it just reflect the shade and shine Of common life, nor render as it rolls. Grandeur and gloom ? Sufficient for thy shoals Was Carnival ; Parini's depths enshrine Secrets unsuited to that opaline Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls. 82 SKIES ITALIAN tl ii| There throng the people : how they come and go, Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb, — see, — On Piazza, Calle, under Portico And over Bridge ! Dear king of Comedy, Be honoured ! thou that didst love Venice so, Venice, and we who love her, all love thee ! Robert Broivn'mg A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S OH Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and blind ; But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind ! Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at \'enice where the merchants were the kings, Where St Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings ? Ay, because the sea's the street there ; and 'tis arched by . . . what you call . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival : I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May ? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day. When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say ? \ A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 83 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell- flower on its bed. O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head ? Well, and it was graceful of them — they'd break talk off and afford — She, to bite her mask's black velvet — he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord ? What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something ? Those suspensions, those solutions — " Must we die ? " Those commiserating sevenths — ** Life might last ! we can but try ! " "Were you happy?" — "Yes." — "And are you still as happy ? " — " Yes. And you } " — '* Then, more kisses ! " — " Did / stop them, when a million seemed so few ? " Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to ! So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say ! " Brave Galuppi I that was music ! good alike at grave and gay ! I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play ! " [| 84 SKIES ITALIAN li Then they left you for their pleasure : till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone. Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun. But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve. While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, In you come with your cold music till 1 creep through every nerve. Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was bunied : " Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be discerned. " Yours for instance : you know physics, some- thing of geology, Mathematics are your pastime ; souls shall rise in their degree ; Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it cannot be ! "As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop. Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop : What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop ? FORGOTTEN TUNES 85 '^ Dust and ashes ! " So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and grown old. Robert Browning A BALLADE OF FORGOITEN TUNES {To V. L.) FORGOTTEN seers of lost repute, That haunt the banks of Acheron, Where have you dropped the broken lute You played in Troy or Calydon ? O ye that sang in Babylon By foreign willows cold and grey, Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon, Dead are the tunes of yesterday ! De Coucy, is your music mute, The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone That served so many a lover's suit } Oh, dead as Adam or Guedron ! Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon Your virginals a virelay ; Or play, Orlando, one pavonne — Dead are the tunes of yesterday ! But ye whose praises none refute. Who have the immortal laurel won ; — Trill me your quavering close acute, Astorga, dear unhappy Don ! 86 SKIES ITALIAN One air, Galuppi ! Sarti, one So many fingers used to play ! Dead as the ladies of \'illon, Dead are the times of yesterday ! En\ >oy Vernon, in vain you stoop to con The slender, faded notes to-day — The Soul that dwelt in them is gone : Dead are the tunes of t/esterday ! A. Marif F. Uohinson AN OLD VENETIAN WINE-GLASS ROSE- COLOURED AT THE BRIM DAUGHTER of Venice, fairer than the moon ! From thy dark casement leaning, half divine. And to the lutes of love that low repine Across the midnight of the hushed lagoon Listening with languor in a dreamful swoon — On such a night as this thou didst entwine Thy lily fingers round this glass of wine. Didst clasp thy climbing lover — none too soon ! Thy lover left, but ere he left thy room From this he drank, his warm lips at the brim . Thou kissed it as he vanished in the gloom ; That kiss, because of thy true love for him — Long, long ago, when thou wast in thy bloom — Hath left it ever rosy round the rim ! Lloyd Mifflin ,» ., FEEDING THE PIGEONS 87 VENICE BY DAY THE splendour of the Orient, here of old Throned with the West, upon a waveless sea. Her various-vested, resonant jubilee Maintains, though Venice hath been bought and sold. In their high stalls of azure and of gold Yet stand, above the servile concourse free. Those brazen steeds,— the Car of Victory Hither from far Byzantium's porch that rolled. The winged Lions, Time's dejected thralls, Glare with furled plumes. The pictured shapes that glow Like sunset clouds condensed upon the walls. Still boast old wars, or feasts of long ago ; And still the sun his amplest glory pours On all those swelling domes and watery floors. Aubrey de J 'ere FEEDING THE PIGEONS (^Venice) SHE is a chrysolite ! her manners, too. Are pure Venetian, haughty, yet endearing. Didst ever see, my Claudio, such a bearing ? Just watch her as the pigeons round her woo For more caresses, — voice like some dove's coo ! And with that face so saint-like yet so daring— By Bacchus ! as they say here in your swearings She is as perfect as a drop of dew ! IH 88 SKIES ITALIAN ; '4 Yet she is of the South — the counterpart Of vengeance with its hidden venomed dart . . . Hush ! for the gargoyles hear ! . . . Though white as curds, That sweet soft hand — that hand that feeds the birds — If you should hint about it certain words, Would plunge its poisoned poniard through y^^jr heart. « Lloyd MiJ/lih VENICE IN THE EVENING ALAS ! mid all this pomp of the ancient time, And flush of modern pleasure, dull Decay O'er the bright pageant breathes her shadowy gray. As on from bridge to bridge I roam and climb. It seems as though some wonder-working chime (Whose spell the vision raised and still can sway) To some far source were ebbing fast away ; As though, by man unheard, with voice sublime It bade the sea-born Queen of Cities follow Her sire into his watery realm far down — Beneath my feet the courts sound vast and hollow ; And more than evening's darkness seems to frown On sable barks that, swift yet trackless, fleet Like dreams o'er dim lagune and watery street. Aubrey de Vere IN VENICE 89 IN VENICE " Venite all' agile, Barchetta mia, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia ! " Venetian Song I SAIL adown thy silvery street What time the night and moonlight meet Thy white bare breast heaves soft below. To music's languid overflow, Venezia ! 1 hear the choruses afar, Where palaces and churches are ; Their voices mingle with the hours Pealed forth from thy electric towers, Venezia ! One song they sang night after night Too rapt to 'scape from its delight ; Thy shining ways forever hear How well thou lovest thy Lucia, Venezia ! I know not who this saint may be. And yet her lovely face I see. Bending above me fair and sweet. What time the night and moonlight meet, Venezia ! The gondolas move to and fro, Silenter than thy waters go. They would not breathe because their breath Might send that lovely face to death, Venezia ! * vl I 90 SKIES ITALIAN Thy soul that face will keep and save, Though Tintoret be in his grave ! Because it is the supreme thing Of which thy sons and lovers sing, Venezia ! Forever from thy stately doors This steadfast flood of music pours. Till all thy brooding palaces Cease dreaming of their bygone days, V^enezia ! And high above thy sculptured stairs, Above thy great San Marco's prayers. Rises to put thy prayers to shame, Lucia's name, Lucia's name, Venezia ! Cora Kenned If Aitken WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA WHEN through the Piazzetta Night breathes her cool air, Then, dearest Ninetta, I'll come to thee there. Beneath thy mask shrouded, I'll know thee afar. As Love knows, though clouded. His own Evening Star. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, " Our bark, love, is near : THE PIAZZA OF ST MARK 91 Now, now, while there hover Those clouds o'er the moon, 'Twill waft thee safe over Yon silent Lagoon." Thomas Moore I THE PIAZZA OF ST MARK AT MIDNIGHT HUSHED is the music, hushed the hum of voices ; Gone is the crowd of dusky promenaders— Slender-waisted, almond-eyed Venetians, Princes and paupers. Not a single footfall Sounds in the arches of the Procuratie. One after one, like sparks of cindered paper, Faded the lights out in the goldsmiths' windows. Drenched with the moonlight lies the still Piazza. Fair as the palace builded for Aladdin, Yonder St Mark uplifts its sculptured splendour- Intricate fretwork, Byzantine mosaic, Colour on colour, column upon column. Barbaric, wonderful, a thing to kneel to ! Over the portal stand the four gilt horses. Gilt hoof in air, and wide distended nostril. Fiery, untamed, as in the days of Nero. Skyward, a cloud of domes and spires and crosses * Earthward, black shadows flung from jutting stone-work. High over all the slender Campanile Quivers, and seems a falling shaft of silver ! 92 SKIES ITALIAN ii Hushed is the music, hushed the hum of voices, From coigne and cornice and fantastic gargoyle, At intervals the moan of dove or pigeon. Fairly faint, floats off into the moonlight. This, and the murmur of the Adriatic, Lazily restless, lapping the mossed marble. Staircase or buttress, scarcely breaks the stillness Deeper each moment seems to grow the silence. Denser the moonlight in the still Piazza. Hark ! on the tower above the ancient gateway. The twin bronze V^ulcans, with their ponderous hammers. Hammer the midnight on their brazen bell there ! Thomas Bailey A Id rich VENETIAN NOCTURNE DOWN in the narrow Calle where the moon- light cannot enter. The houses are so high ; Silent and alone we pierced the night's dim core and centre — Only you and I. Clear and sad our footsteps rang along the hollow pavement, Sounding like a bell ; Sounding like a voice that cries to souls in Life's enslavement, ** There is death as well ! " vV VENICE 93 Down the narrow dark we went, until a sudden whiteness Made us hold our breath ; All the white Salute's towers and domes in moon- lit brightness, — Ah ! could this be Death ? A. Mary F. Robinson ROW GENTLY HERE ROW gently here, my gondolier; so softly wake the tide. That not an ear on earth may hear, but hers to whom we glide. Had heaven but tongues to speak, as well as starry eyes to see, O, think what tales 'twould have to tell of wandering youths like me ! Now rest thee here, my gondolier ; hush, hush, for up 1 go. To climb yon light balcony's height, while thou keep'st watch below. Ah ! did we take for heaven above but half such pains as we Take day and night for woman's love, what angels we should be ! Thomas Moore VENICE il , I NIGHT on the Adriatic, night! And like a mirage of the plain, With all her marvellous domes of light. Pale Venice looms along the main. II! il' 94 SKIES ITALIAN No sound from the receding shore, No sound from all the broad lagoon. Save where the light and springing oar Brightens our track beneath the moon ; Or save where yon high campanile Gives to the listening sea its chime ; Or where those dusky giants wheel And smite the ringing helm of Time. 'Tis past, — and Venice droops to rest ; Alas I hers is a sad repose. While in her brain and on her breast Tramples the vision of her foes. Erewhile from her sad dream of pain She rose upon her native flood, And struggled with the Tyrant's chain. Till every link was stained with blood. The Austrian pirate, wounded, sj)urned, Fled howling to the sheltering shore. But, gathering all his crew, returned And bound the Ocean Queen once more. Tis past, — and V^enice prostrate lies, — And, snarling round her couch of woes. The watch-dogs, with the jealous eyes. Scowl where the stranger comes and goes. II Lo ! here awhile suspend the oar ; Rest in the Mocenigo's shade. For Genius hath within this door His charmed, though transient, dwelling made. VENICE 95 Somewhat of " Harold's " spirit yet, Methinks, still lights these crumbling walls ; For where the flame of song is set It burns, though all the temple falls. Oh, tell me not those days were given To Passion and her pampered brood ; Or that the eagle stoops from heaven To dye his talons deep in blood. 1 hear alone his deathless strain From sacred inspiration won. As I would only watch again The eagle when he nears the sun. Ill O, would some friend were near me now. Some friend well tried and cherished long, To share the scene ; but chiefly thou. Sole source and object of my song. By Olivola's dome and tower. What joy to clasp thy hand in mine. While through my heart this sacred hour Thy voice should melt like mellow wine. What time or place so fit as this To bid the gondolier withhold, And dream through one soft age of bliss The olden story, never old ? The domes suspended in the sky Swim all above me broad and fair ; And in the wave their shadows lie, — Twin phantoms of the sea and air. 96 SKIES ITALIAN l Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend) — that little child to pray, Holding the Uttle hands up, each to each Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him. And he was left at Fano by the beach. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content, My angel with me too ; and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower. Fraught with a pathos so magnificent). AT FANO 125 And since he did not work so earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong, I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My Love is here. Where -are you, dear old friend } How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end ? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. Robert Browning AT FANO (7o Robert Browning) DEARLY honoured, great dead poet, still as living speak to me ! This is Fano, world-forgotten little Fano by the sea : I have come to see that angel which Guercino dreamed and drew. Since whate'er you loved and honoured I would hold in honour too. Like some sea-bird's nest the township clusters in its rampart wall, — Such a twilight in the byways, such an autumn over all : Gloomy streets with silent portals, all the pulse of life they hide, Throbbing toward that one piazza where it centres into pride ; House and palace, as their wont is in these Adriatic ports. Turn their backs on darkling alleys and their faces on the courts. ^ V / 126 SKIES ITALIAN Courts beyond each tunnelled entrance, where through vaulted arches seen GHmpses flash of dancing sunlight, jets of fountain, glints of green. — Here I found him, ever watchful for the work of love to do, That white-winged one whose great glory you interpreted so true ; Still he folds the little fingers of that kneeling child to prayer. On the grave which tells the story why it needs the angel's care ; Still above the forehead's glory arch the great wings wide unfurled As alert to shield and succour all the orphans of the world. Yet hath he but little honour in his home at Fano there O'er the cold neglected altar in the chapel blanched and bare ; Few come here to read his message in the little nest of towers, — Few that worship where he watches, none that deck his shrine with flowers. Thence I passed out on the ramparts, high above the olive trees, Skirting roofs and shadowy belfries, overlooking evening seas AT FANO 127 Into such a rose of sunset, such a tender twilight hue Where the orange sails came homeward on the Adriatic blue ; Oh, my poet, had you seen it, you had found the word to fit That sweet world of peace at even with God's love enfolding it ! There across the rose of sunset, through the perfect hush of things Stole a gentle rhythmic motion that might be the beat of wings. — Art thou free, at last, dear angel, art thou free to fly above. Leave that little one to slumber, quit the duty which is love. Through the chiming Ave Mary spread those bird wings white as snow. Whether starwards, whether sunwards, be the way their angels go } One more service yet, dear angel, find him there beyond the blue, Tell him how I loved the message he interpreted so true ! Sir UcnncU Rodd ■\\ vy \.-. ^ \ !■ i f IN TUSCANY li ' "NOW MARBLE APENNINES SHINING" NOW marble Apennines shining Should breathe my spirit bare ; My heart should cease repining In the rainbow-haunted air ; But cureless sorrow carries My heart beyond the sea, Nor comfort in it tarries, Save thoughts of thee. The branch of olive shaken Silvers the azure sea ; Winds in the ilex waken ; O, wert thou here with me. Gray olive, dark ilex, bright ocean. The radiant mountains round. Never for love's devotion W^ere sweeter lodging found ! George Edward Woodberry [Reprinted by special permission of Messrs Macmillan] |t BY THE ARNO THE oleander on the wall Grows crimson in the dawning light, Though the grey shadows of the night Lie yet on Florence like a pall. 131 1* 'I III 132 SKIES ITALIAN The dew is bright upon the hill, And bright the blossoms overhead, But ah I the grasshoppers have fled, The little Attic song is still. Only the leaves are gently stirred By the soft breathing of the gale, And in the almond-scented vale The lonely nightingale is heard. The day will make thee silent soon, O nightingale sing on for love ! While yet upon the shadowy grove Splinter the arrows of the moon. Before across the silent lawn In sea-green mist the morning steals, And to love's frightened eyes reveals The long white fingers of the dawn Fast climbing up the eastern sky To grasp and slay the shuddering night, All careless of my heart's delight. Or if the nightingale should die. Oscar Wilde A SONG OF ARNO IT is the hour when Arno turns Her gold to chrysophrase ; When each low-hanging star outburns Its faint, mysterious rays, As from the prison of faery urns Which faery hands upraise. FLORENTINE MAY 133 It is the hour when life's constraint A moment's ease is given ; When earth is like a holy saint, Stilled, sanctified, and shriven, And the deep-breathing heart grows faint. To be so near to Heaven. Grace Ellerij Clumning-Stehon APPROACH TO FLORENCE BUT Arno wins us to the fair white walls. Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her com and wine and oil, and Plenty leaps To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern luxury of commerce born. And buried learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. Lord Byron FLORENTINE MAY STILL, still is the night; still as the pause after pain ; Still and as dear ; Deep, solemn, immense ; veiling the stars in the clear Thrilling and luminous blue of the moon-shot atmosphere ; Ah, could the night remain ! 134 SKIES ITALIAN Who, truly, shall say thou art sullen or dark or unseen, Thou, O heavenly night, Clear o'er the valley of olives asleep in the quivering light, Clear o'er the pale-red hedge of the rose, and the lilies all white Down at my feet in the green ? Nay, not as the day, thou art light, O Night, with a beam Far more dear and divine ; Never the noon was blue as these tremulous heavens of thine. Pulsing with stars half seen, and vague in a pallid shine. Vague as a dream. Night, clear with the moon, Hlled with the dreamy fire Shining in thicket and close, Fire from the lamp in his breast that the luminous fire-fly throws ; Night, full of wandering light and of song, and the blossoming rose. Night, be thou my desire ! Night, Angel of Night, hold me and cover me so — Open thy wings I Ah, bend above and embrace ! — till I hear in the one bird that sings The throb of thy musical heart in the dusk, and the magical things Only the night can know. A. Mary f. Robinson FLORENCE 135 t I i TO L. T. IN FLORENCE YOU by the Arno shape your marble dream, Under the cypress and the olive trees. While I, this side the wild, wind-beaten seas, Unrestful by the Charles's placid stream, Long once again to catch the golden gleam Of Brunelleschi's dome, and lounge at ease In those pleached gardens and fair galleries. And yet, perhaps, you envy me, and deem My star the happier, since it holds me here. Even so, one time, beneath the cypresses My heart turned longingly across the sea. Aching with love for thee. New England dear ! And I'd have given all Titian's goddesses For one poor cowslip or anemone. Thomas Bailey Aldrich FLORENCE DERIVED from thee, O Florence, and thy son. Be touched, dear land, a little for thy child ! Seem to his woes compassionate and mild. Since in thy arms his life was first begun And cherished. From our birth our fate must run Assigned ; as to the bird his wood-notes wild. And flight !— but of whatever hopes beguiled. In this one instance my request be done : That not in death, as in my griefs, alone. However long estranged from thee I rove, Thee in my ashes I may call my own, Reposing by that father whom I love. By whom so high thy fame and worth have flown. Grant this sole boon, whatever thou remove. Piero de Medici, tr, Capel Lofft 136 SKIES ITALIAN AT FLORENCE UNDER the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that jwissed the while, I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A throne, In just esteem, it rivals ; though no style Be there of decoration to beguile The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown. As a true man, who long had served the lyre, I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. But in his breast the mighty Poet bore A patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate down. And, for a moment, filled that vacant Throne. fiil/iam IVordstvorth THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE TADDEO Gaddi built me. I am old, Five centuries old. I plant my foot of stone Upon the Arno, as St Michael's own Was planted on the dragon. Fold by fold Beneath me as it struggles, I behold Its glistening scales. Twice hath it over- thrown My kindred and companions. Me alone It moveth not, but is by me controlled. 137 GIOTTO'S TOWEJl I can remember when the Medici Were driven from Florence ; longer still ago The final wars of Ghibelline and Guelf. Florence adorns me with her jewelry ; And when I think that Michel Angelo Hath leaned on me, I glory in myself. Henry Wadsivorth Longfello7v GIOTTO'S CAMPANILE ENCHASED with precious marbles, pure and rare, How graciously it soars, and seems the while From every polished stage to laugh and smile. Playing with sportive gleams of lucid air ! Fit resting-place methinks its summit were For a descended angel ! happy isle. Mid life's rough sea of sorrow, force, and guile. For saint of royal race, or vestal fair. In this seclusion, — call it not a prison, — Cloistering a bosom innocent and lonely. O Tuscan Priestess ! gladly would I watch All night one note of thy loud hymn to catch Sent forth to greet the sun, when first, new-risen. He shines on that aerial station only ! Aubrey de fere I GIOTTO'S TOWER HOW many lives, made beautiful and sweet By self-devotion and by self-restraint. Whose pleasure is to run without complaint On unknown errands of the Paraclete, Wanting the reverence of unshodden feet, I 138 ^KTES ITALIAN Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint Around the shining forehead of the saint. And are in their completeness incomplete ! In the old Tuscan town stands Giotto's tower, The lily of Florence blossoming in stone, — A vision, a delight, and a desire, — The builder's jierfect and centennial flower, That in the night of ages bloomed alone. But wanting still the glory of the spire. Henrif Wadsivorlh I Mtig fellow SANTA CROCE IN Santa Croce's holy precincts lie Ashes which make it holier, dust which is Even in itself an immortality, Though there were nothing save the past, and this The particle of those subHmities Which have relapsed to chaos ; — here repose Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his. The starry Galileo's, with his woes ; Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. These are four minds, which, like the elements, Might furnish forth creation ; — Italy ! Time, which hath wronged thee with a thousand rents Of thine imperial garment, shall deny And hath denied, to every other sky. Spirits which soar from ruin : thy decay Is still impregnate with divinity. Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. SANTA CROCE 139 i But where repose the all-Etruscan three,— Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, The Bard of Prose, creative spirit I he Of the Hundred Tales of love,— where did they lay Their bones, distinguished from our common clay In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, And have their country's marbles naught to say ? Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? Did they not to her breast their filial earth intrust ? Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar. Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, Proscribed the bard whose name forevermore Their children's children would in vain adore With the remorse of ages ; and the crown Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled,— not thine own. Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed His dust,— and lies it not her Great among. With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed O'er him who formed the Tuscan's siren tongue, — That music in itself, whose sounds are song. The poetry of speech ? No ; even his tomb Uptorn, must bear the hyena bigots wrong. No more amongst the meaner dead find room. Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom. I 140 SKIES ITALIAN And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; Yet for this want more noted, as of yore The Ciesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, Did but of Rome's best son remind her more. Happier Ravenna I on thy holy sliore, Fortress of falling empire, honoured sleeps The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps. Lord Byron FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS" I HEARD last night a little child go singing 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, O hella /iberto, O bella ! — stringing The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green. And that the heart of Italy must beat. While such a voice had leave to rise serene 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street : A little child, too, who not long had been By mother's finger steadied on his feet, And still O hella I'lberta he sanir. Then I thought, musing, of the innumerous Sweet songs which still for Italy outrang From older singers' lips who sang not thus Exultingly and purely, yet, with pang -CASA GUIDI WINDOWS ' 141 Fast sheathed in music, touched the heart of us So finely that the pity scarcely pained. I thought how Filicaja led on others, Bewailers for their Italy enchained, And how they called her childless among mothers, Widow of empires, ay, and scarce refrained Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers Might a shamed sister's—" Had she been less fair She were less wretched " ;— how, evoking so From congregated wrong and heaped despair Of men and women writhing under blow, Harrowed and hideous in a filthy lair. Some personating Image wherein woe Was wrapt in beauty from offending much, They called it Cybele, or Niobe, Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for such. Where all the world might drop for Italy Those cadenced tears which burn not where they touch, — " Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ? And was the violet crown that crowned thy head So over-large, though new buds made it rough. It slipped down and across thine eyelids dead, O sweet, fair Juliet?" Of such songs enough, Too many of such complaints ! behold, instead, Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough : As void as that is. are all images Men set between themselves and actual wrong, To catch the weight of pity, meet the stress Of conscience,— since 'tis easier to gaze long On mournful masks and sad effigies Than on real, live, weak creatures crushed by strong. ^C li t 142 SKIES ITALIAN For me who stand in Italy to-day Where worthier poets stood and sang before, I kiss their footsteps yet their words gainsay. I can but muse in hope upon this shore Of golden Arno as it shoots away Through Florence' heart beneath her bridges four, Bent bridges, seeming to strain off like bows And tremble while the arrowy undertide Shoots on and cleaves the marble as it goes. And strikes up palace-walls on either side. And froths the cornice out in glittering rows, With doors and windows quaintly multiplied. And terrace-sweeps, and gazers upon all. By whom if flower or kerchief were thrown out From any lattice there, the same would fall Into the river underneath, no doubt, It runs so close and fast 'twixt wall and wall. How beautiful ! the mountains from without In silence listen for the word said next. What word will men say,— here where Giotto planted His campanile like an unperplexed Fine question Heavenward, touching the things granted A noble people who, being greatly vexed In act, in aspiration keep undaunted ? What word will God say? Michael's Night and Day And Dawn and Twilight wait in marble scorn Like dogs upon a dunghill, couched on clay. From whence the Medicean stamp's outwoni, The final putting off of all such sway By all such hands, and freeing of the unborn CASA GUIDl WINDOWS 143 In Florence and the great world outside Flor- ence. Three hundred years his patient statues wait In that small chapel of the dim Saint Lawrence ! , ' . • • • • • Elizabeth Barrett Browning CASA GUIDI WINDOWS SHE came, whom Casa Guidi's chambers knew. And know more proudly, an immortal, now ; The air without a star was shivered through With the resistless radiance of her brow, And glimmering landscapes from the darkness grew. Thin, phantom-like ; and yet she brought me rest. Unspoken words, an understood command. Sealed weary lids with sleep, together pressed In clasping quiet wandering hand to hand. And smoothed the folded cloth above the breast. Now, looking through these windows, where the day Shines on a terrace splendid with the gold Of autumn shrubs, and green with glossy bay, Once more her face, re-made from dust, I hold In light so clear it cannot pass away : — The quiet brow ; the face so frail and fair For such a voice of song ; the steady eye, Where shone the spirit fated to outwear Its fragile house ; — and on her features lie The soft half-shadows of her drooping hair. H !• 144 SKIES ITALIAN Who could forget those features, having known ? Whose memory do his kindling reverence wrong That heard the soft Ionian flute, whose tone Changed with the silver trumpet of her song ? No sweeter airs from woman's lips were blown. Ah, in the silence she has left behind, How many a sorrowing voice of life is still I Songless she left the land that cannot find Song for its heroes ; and the Roman hill. Once free, shall for her ghost the laurel wind. The tablet tells you, '* Here she wrote and died," And grateful Florence bids the record stand : Here bend Italian love and English pride Above her grave, — and one remoter land, Free as her prayers could make it, at their side I will not doubt the vision : yonder see The moving clouds that speak of freedom won I And life, new-lighted, with a lark-like glee Through Casa Guidi windows hails the sun, Grown from the rest her spirit gave to me. Bayard Taylor £. B. B. THE white-rose garland at her feet. The crown of laurel at her head, Her noble life on earth complete. Lay her in the last low bed For the slumber calm and deep : " He giveth His beloved sleep." OLD PICTURES 145 II Soldiers find their fittest grave In the field whereon they died ; So her spirit pure and brave Leaves the clay it glorified To the land for which she fought With such grand impassioned thought. Ill Keats and Shelley sleep at Rome, She in well-loved Tuscan earth ; Finding all their death's long home Far from their old home of birth. Italy, you hold in trust Very sacred English dust. James Thomson OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE THE morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say : As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March day. No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled In the valley beneath where, white and wide And washed by the morning water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain-side. River and bridge and street and square Lay mine, as much at my beck and call. Through the live translucent bath of air. As the sights in a magic crystal ball. 146 SKIES ITALIA^^ And of all I saw and of all I praised, The most to praise and the best to see, Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised : But why did it more than startle me ? On the arch where olives overhead Print the blue sky with twig and leaf, (That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) 'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. And mark through the winter afternoons. By a gift God grants me now and then. In the mild decline of those suns like moons. Who walked in Florence, beside her men. i They might chirp and chatter, come and go, For pleasure or profit, her men alive— My business was hardly with them, I trow. But with empty cells of the human hive ; —With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch. The church's apsis, aisle or nave, Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch. Its face set full for the sun to shave. Wherever a fresco peels and drops. Wherever an outline weakens and wanes Till the latest life in the painting stops. Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick, Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, A lion who dies of an ass's kick. The wronged soul of an ancient Master. ON PORTRAIT OF DANTE 147 For oh, this world and the wrong it does ! They are safe in heaven with their backs to it. The Michaels and Raphaels, you hum and buzz Round the works of, you of the little wit ! Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope. Now that they see God face to face. And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 'Tis their holiday now, in any case. w Robert Browning ON A PORTRAIT OF DANTE BY GIOTTO CAN this be thou, who, lean and pale, With such immitigable eye Didst look upon those writhing souls in bale, And note eacli vengeance, and pass by Unmoved, save when thy heart by chance Cast backward one forbidden glance. And saw Francesca, with child's glee. Subdue and mount thy wild-horse knee And with proud hands control its fiery prance } With half-drooped lids, and smooth, round brow. And eye remote, that inly sees Fair Beatrice's spirit wandering now In some sea-lulled Hesperides, Thou movest through the jarring street. Secluded from the noise of feet By her gift-blossom in thy hand, Thy branch of palm from Holy Land ; — No trace is here of ruin's fiery sleet. I I 148 SKIES ITALIAN Yet there is something round thy lips That prophesies the coming doom, The soft, gray herald-shadow ere the eclipse Notches the perfect disk with gloom ; A something that would banish thee, And thine untamed pursuer be, From men and their unworthy fates, Though Florence had not shut her gates, And Grief had loosed her clutch and let thee free. pH Ah ! he who follows fearlessly The beckonings of a poet-heart Shall wander, and without the world's decree, A banished man in field and mart; Harder than Florence' walls the bar Which with deaf sternness holds him far From home and friends, till death's release. And makes his only prayer for peace, Like thine, scarred veteran of a lifelong war . James Russell LotveU lit ON A BUST OF DANTE SEE, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim. The father was of Tuscan song : There but the burning sense of wrong. Perpetual care and scorn, abide ; Small friendship for the lordly throng ; Distrust of all the world beside. V ON A BUST OF DANTE 149 Faithful if this wan image be. No dream his life was, — but a fight ! Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite ? To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight VVlio would have guessed the visions came Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame ? The lips as Cumae's cavern close. The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose. But for the patient hope within. Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe. Which, through the wavering days of sin. Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book. To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the convent's guest. The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request. Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose ; The sullen warrior sole we trace. The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine. When hell he peopled with his foes. Dread scourge of many a guilty line. I 150 SKIES ITALIAN i i War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth , He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; Plucked Imre hypocrisy and crime ; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of 1 ime. O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own. The only righteous judge art thou ; That poor old exile, sad and lone, Is Latium's other Virgil now : Before his name the nations bow ; His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. The marks have sunk of Dante s mind. ^ Thomas nWiam Parsons THE PATH MASTER (1301-1901) ERE Florence sowed that seed of woe Which yet her vain remorse doth reap The harvest of, and scorned to keep Her Dante in her halls, (for so It is beyond the Apennines He sleeps where foreign Summer shines ,) 'Tis said, before the factious Guelf Grew such a prodigal of spleen His quarrel with the Ghibelline Had bred black schism in himself,— That Alighieri, wise and good. Among the priors of Florence stood. THE PATHMASTER 151 And him a chief the city made Of those whose strict official cares Should be in lanes and thoroughfares To see the skilless builder stayed, To beautify the paths unclean. And render broad the strait and mean. And further we this word do hold From such scant fact as faintly stirs From quills of chary chroniclers, Those self-unconscious scribes of old, — Unto that end his earnest prime Bent Dante through the lotted time. From this and like old writ we deem That somewhere under palace eaves The bard divine some relic leaves Of widened ways : scarce more than dream.— Had Florence not more weighty heeds Than setting down a Dante's deeds } What street of all thine ancient streets, Thou Lily of the Arno, say. Dost thou allure men down to-day What legend not that name repeats } What road but some old memories tell Of walls that serve it sentinel } One road he paved (the records show) " So that unlet at their desires The commons may approach the priors " ; Which was, men said, San Procolo. But what saith one of subtler wit ? Far other Road than this was it ! V n w 152 SKIES ITALIAN O thou fair Dreamer of the Dead, When Night with swift-remembering pan^fs Her pale gold lamp above thee hangs, And round thy windless squares is tread Of phantom feet— oh, whisper low Which way his measured footsteps go. For, maybe, at such magic hour One might slip forth some quiet way While sleeps the body, to the gray. Cold flagstone, thence by font and tower. Till whisper saith : The Road was this And passed the house of Beatrice. Pale Singer of the Song Divine Who toiled and dreamt and sang apart. Unto these latter days thy heart Is better known ; such song as thine And the stern mark upon thy brow. Then dark, are not all riddle now. Six centuries, a hard, steep maze. The world hath climbed since thou in shade To Paradise thy path hast laid Through heart-ache and long, bitter days ; Till now, from loftier plane, it turns Unto thy lore and, wondering, learns Thy Road was that severer Love Outwidening to the place of Law Whereto we commons may withdraw And prove our right to things above,— And over which, as to thy friends. Calm Beatrice her hand extends. Arthur Upson TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI 158 ON THE FLY-LEAF OF DANTE'S ''VITA NUOVA" THERE was a tall stern Exile once of old, Who paced Verona's streets as dusk shades fell. With step as measured as the vesper bell. And face half-hidden by his hood's dark fold ; One whom the children, as he grimly strolled, Would shrink from in the fear of a vague spell. Crying, "The man who has been down Hell," Or hanging in his footsteps, if more bold. This little book is not by that stern man. But by his younger self, such as he seems In Giotto's fresco, holding up the flower, Thinking of her whose hand, by Fate's strange plan. He never touched on earth, but who, in dreams. Oft led him into Heaven for an hour. to Eusene Lee- Hamilton TO GUIDO CAVALCANTI GUIDO, I would that Lapo, thou, and I, Led by some strong enchantment, might ascend A magic ship, whose charmed sails should fly With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might wend. V I 154 SKIES ITALIAN And that no change, nor any evil chance, Should mar our joyous voyage ; but it might be That even satiety should still enhance Between our hearts their strict community, And that the bounteous wizard then would place Vanna and Bice and my gentle love, Companions of our wandering, and would grace With passionate talk, wherever we might rove, Our time, and each were as content and free As I believe that thou and I should be. Dante Alighieri, tr. Percy Bysshe Shelley BE AT A BEATRIX AND was it thine, the light whose radiance shed Love's halo round the gloom of Dante's brow ? Was thine the hand that touched his hand, and thou The spirit to his inmost spirit wed ? O gentle, O most pure, what shall be said In praise of thee to whom Love's minstrels bow ? O heart that held his heart, for ever now Thou with his glory shalt be garlanded. Lo I 'mid the twilight of the waning years, Firenze claims once more our love, our tears : But thou, triumphant on the throne of song— By Mar>' seated in the realm above— O, give us of that gift than death more strong, The loving spirit that won Dante's love. Samuel Waddington ANDREA DEL SARTO 155 ANDREA DEL SARTO {Called '' The Faultless Painter ") BUT do not let us quarrel any more. No, my Lucrezia ; bear with me for once : Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. Y'ou turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear. Treat his own subject after his own way. Fix his own time, accept too his own price. And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it ? tenderly ? Oh, I'll content him,— but to-morrow. Love? I often am much wearier than you think. This evening more than usual, and it seems As if forgive now — should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use. Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! Your soft hand is a woman of itself. And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require : It saves a model. So ! keep looking so— My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds ! How could you ever prick those perfect ears. Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet— ft ii 156 SKIES ITALIAN My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his. And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. While she looks-no one's : very dear, no less^ You smile ? why, there's my picture ready made. There's what we painters call our harmony . A common grayness silvers everything,- All in a twilight, you and I alike —You at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone, you know),-but I, at every point ; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top ; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside ; The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease. And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God s hand. How strange now looks the life he makes us lead ; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie ! This chamber for example— turn your head- All that's behind us ! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak : And that cartoon, the second from the door -It is the thing, Love ! so such thing should be- Behold Madonna !— I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know. What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep— ! Y ANDREA DEL SARTO 157 Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 'tis easy, all of it ! No sketches first, no studies, that's long past : I do what many dream of all their lives, Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do. And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town. Who strive — you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, (I know his name, no matter) — so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men ! at a word- Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame f • SKIES ITALIAN In s 158 Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Mo!" lo-s'outUne there is wrongly raced His hue mistaken ; «hat of that ? or de ^ ^;fai'c;;^:;trxri^^^^^^^ ^rh:^n,a„-s reach should e^ce^^^^^^^^^^^^ Or whafs a heaven for? All s ^'^^'-^ And yet how profitless to know, to s.gh rh^rr^rf :•-- lie wond. vi'ndeta work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. (•Tis copied, George Vasari sent .t me.) w»ll I can fancy how he did it all, P.: i'ng hU soul! with kings and l-pe^ ^ -; Rlchin., that heaven might so replenish him, Abo nd through his art-for it gives way , That arm is wrongly put-and there aga.n- A fault to pardon in the drawing s lines, Us body, so to speaU : *- - '-^^^l^^.^^^^^^,. He means right— that, a cm j Still, what an am. ! and 1 -uld alter it ^ Butallthepl^t^^^^^ We iight have risen to Rafael, I and you^l Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think More than 1 merit, yes, by many times Rat had you-oh, with the same perfect brow S; rfect eyeJ, and more than perfect mouth. ANDREA DEL SARTO 159 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged " God and the glory ! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that } Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three ! " I might have done it for you. So it seems : Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? In this world who can do a thing, will not ; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That 1 am something underrated here. Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, lea^e home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside ; But they speak sometimes ; I must bear it all. Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time. And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 160 SKIES ITALIAN In that humane great monarch's golden look, — One finger in his l>eard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me. All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond. This in the background, waiting on my work. To crown the issue with a last reward ! A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said ; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray. And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way ? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was— to reach and stay there ; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! " Rafael did this, Andrea painted that ; The Roman's is the better when you pray, But still the other's Virgin was his wife" — Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence ; clearer grows ANDREA DEL SARTO 161 My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives. Said one day Agnolo, his very self. To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . . (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace- wall for Rome to see. Too lifted up in heart because of it) *' Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings. Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours ! " To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see. Give the chalk here— quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul ! he's Rafael ! rub it out ! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he ? why, who but Michel Agnolo ? Do you forget already words like those ?) If really there was such a chance, so lost, — Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! This hour has been an hour ! Another smile ? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you comprehend ? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now ; there's a star ; Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall. The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. C ome from the window. Love, — come in, at last, L 162 SKIES ITALIAN Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me : oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with ! Let us but love each other. Must you go ? That Cousin here again ? he waits outside ? Must see you— you, and not with me ? Those loans ? More gaming debts to pay ? you smiled for that ? Well, let smiles buy me I have you more to spend . While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth ? I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more— the Virgin's face. Not yours this time I I want you at my side To hear them— that is, Michel Agnolo— Judge all I do, and tell you of its worth. Will you ? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor. Finish the portraits out of hand— there, there. And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, What's better and what's all I care about. Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you > Ah, but what does he, The Cousin ! what does he to please you more ? ANDREA DEL SARTO 163 I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it.^ The very wrong to Francis ! — it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied. And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own } you see How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died : And I have laboured somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try ! No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed. For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover — the three first without a wife. While I have mine ! So — still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my Love. Robert Browning 164 SKIES ITALIAN ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY IT lieth, gazing on the midnight sky, Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine ; Below, far lands are seen tremblingly ; Its horror and its beauty I divine. Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine. Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath, The agonies of anguish and of death. II Yet it is less the horror than the grace Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone ; Whereon the lineaments of that dead face Are graven, till the characters be grown Into itself, and thought no more can trace ; 'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain. Which humanize and harmonize the strain. Ill And from its head as from one body grow, As grass out of a watery rock. Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow And their long tangles in each other lock. And with unending involutions show Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock The torture and the death within, and saw The solid air with many a ragged jaw. FRA LIPPO LIPPl 165 IV And from a stone beside, a poisonous eft Peeps idly into those Gorgonian eyes ; Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise Out of the cave this hideous light had cleft, And he comes hastening like a moth that hies After a taper ; and the midnight sky Flares, a light more dread than obscurity. 'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror ; For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare Kindled by that inextricable error. Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air Become a [ ] and ever-shifting mirror Of all the beauty and the terror there — A woman's countenance, with serpent locks. Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks. Percy Bysshe Shelley FRA LIPPO LIPPI I AM poor brother Lippo by your leave ! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what's to blame ? you think you see a monk! What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds. And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar ? The Carmine's my cloister : hunt it up. Do, — harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole. And nip each softling of a wee white mouse. 166 SKIES ITALIAN Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company ! Aha, you know your betters ! Then, you'll take Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat. And please to know me likewise. Who am I ? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off— he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? Master— a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, r the house that caps the corner. Boh! you w^ere best I Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe ! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you : Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count lair prize what comes into their net ? He's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I'm not angry ! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbours me (And many more beside, lads ! more beside !) And all's come square again. I'd like his face— His, elbowing on his comrade in the door Witii the pike and lantern,— for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand (" Look you, now," as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped ! It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like ? or you should see ! Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down. You know them and they take you ? like enough ! FRA LIPPO LIPPI 167 I saw the proper twinkle in your eye— 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival. And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night— Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song,— Flower o the broom, Take (iivai) love, and our earth is a tomb ! Flofver o the quince, I let Lisa go, and what good in life since ? Flower o the thi/me—Rnd so on. Round they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skii)ping of rabbits by moonlight,— three slim shapes, And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood. That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet. All the bed-furniture— a dozen knots. There was a ladder ! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped. And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint I^urence, hail fellow, well met,— Flower o the rose. 168 SKIES ITALIAN If Tve been merry ^ ivhat matter who knows ? And so as I was stealing back again To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stones to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head- Mine's shaved— a monk, you say — the sting's in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself. Mum's the word naturally ; but a monk ! Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, now ! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks. Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day. My stomach being empty as your hat. The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month : "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father. Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time, — " To quit this very miserable world ? Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread ? " thought I ; ^\ FRA LTPPO LIPPI 169 By no means ! Brief, they made a monk of me ; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed. Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to— all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'Twas not for nothing— the good bellyful. The warm serge and the rope that goes all round. And day-long blessed idleness beside ! "Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that came next. Not overmuch their way, I must confess. Such a to-do ! They tried me with their books ; Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste ! Flower o the clove, All the Latin I construe is " atno," I love ! But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was. Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires. And who will curse or kick him for his pains, — Which gentleman processional and fine. Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again. Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,— How say I? — nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,— Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike. He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch. I had a store of such remarks, be sure. 170 SKIES ITALIAN Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes. Found eyes and nose and chin to A's and B's, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun. On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out d'ye say ? In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be ! " And hereupon he made me daub away. Thank you ! my head being crammed, the walls a blank. Never was such prompt disemburdening. First, every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,— To the breathless fellow at the altar foot. Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head. FRA LIPPO LIPPI 171 (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf. Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried, " 'Tis ask and have ; Choose, for more's ready ! "—laid the ladder flat. And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, Being simple bodies,-" That's the very man ! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog ! That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes To care about his asthma ! it's the life ! " But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked ; Their betters took their turn to see and say : The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. ^^ How ? what's here ? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all ! Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea ! it's devil's-game ! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men— ^ Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke ... no, it s not . . . It's a vapour done up like a new-bom babe— (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's . . well, what matter's talking, it's the soul ! 172 SKIES ITALIAN Give us no more of body than shows soul ! Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, That sets us praising, — why not stop with him ? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colours, and what not ? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms ! Rub all out, try at it a second time. Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts. She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say, — Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! Have it all out ! " Now, is this sense, I ask ? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse ! Thus yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black. And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks naught. Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn. Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order ? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear. Sorrow or joy r won't beauty go with these ? Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue. Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash. And then add soul and heighten them three-fold } Or say there's beauty with no soul at all — (I never saw it — put the case the same — ) If you get simple beauty and naught else. You get about the best thing God invents : FRA LIPPO LIPPI 173 That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed. Within yourself, when you return Him thanks. « Rub all out ! " Well, well, there's my life, in short. And so the thing has gone on ever since. I'm grown a man no doubt. I've broken bounds : You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls. I'm my own master, paint now as I please- Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house ! Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front— Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse ! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work. The heads shake still— " It's art's decline, my son ! You're not of the true painters, great and old ; Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find ; Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer : Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third ! " Flofver o the pine, You keep your mistr . . . uianners, and Vll stick to mine . I'm not the third, then : bless us, they must know ! Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, They with their Latin ? So, I swallow my rage, Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them— sometimes do and sometimes don't ; For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come t 174 SKIES ITALIAN A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints— A laugh, a cry, the business of the world — (^Flower o the peachy Death for us ally and his onm life J or each !) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, The world and life's too big to pass for a dream. And I do these wild things in sheer despite. And play the fooleries you catch me at. In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have ? Do they like grass or no — May they or mayn't they ? all I want's the thing Settled forever one way. As it is. You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: You don't like what you only like too much. You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable. For me, I think I speak as I was taught ; 1 always see the garden and God there A-making man's wife : and, my lesson learned. The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. You understand me : I'm a beast, I know. But see, now — why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine. What will hap some day. We've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do. Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop : His name is Guidi — he'll not mind the monks — FRA LIPPO LIPPI 175 They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk- He picks my practice up— he'll paint apace, I hope so— though I never live so long, 1 know what's sure to follow. You be judge ! You speak no Latin more than I, belike ; However, you're my man, you've seen the world— The beauty and the wonder and the power. The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades. Changes, surprises,— and God made it all ! For what ? Do you feel thankful, ay or no. For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above. Much more the figures of man, woman, child. These are the frame to ? What's it all about ? To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt upon. Wondered at ? oh, this last, of course !- you say. But why not do as well as say,— paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it .> God's works— paint any one, and count it crime To let a truth sUp. Don't object, '^ His works Are here already ; nature is complete : Suppose you reproduce her— (which you can't) There's no advantage ! you must beat her, then." For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see ; And so they are better, painted— better to us. Which is the same thing. Art was given for that ; God uses us to help each other so. Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, Your cullion's hanging face } A bit of chalk. 176 SKIES ITALIAN And trust me but you should, though ! How much more, If I drew higher things with the same truth ! That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves ! This world's no blot for us, Nor blank ; it means intensely, and means good : To find its meaning is my meat and drink. '* Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer ! " Strikes in the Prior: " when your meaning's plain It does not say to folk — remember matins, Or, mind you fast next Friday ! " Why, for this What need of art at all ? A skull and bones. Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a Saint Laurence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style : "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down? " I ask a brother: " Hugely," he returns— " Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content. The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage : We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. Expect another job this time next year. For pity and religion grow i' the crowd— Your painting serves its purpose ! " Hang the fools ! That is — you'll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot. FRA LIPPO LIPPI 177 Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine ! Oh, the church knows ! don't misreport me, now ! It's natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me : I shall paint a piece . . . There's for you ! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! Bless the nuns ! They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint God in the midst. Madonna and her babe. Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to church at midsummer. And then i' the front, of course a saint or two — Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day. And Job, I must have him there past mistake. The man of Uz (and Us without the z. Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect. As one by a dark stair into a great light. Music and talking, who but Lippo ! I ! — Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck — I'm the man ! Back I shrink — what is this I see and hear ? I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake. My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, M 178 SKIES ITALIAN I, in this presence, this pure company ! Where's a hole, there's a comer for escape ? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a th.ng ^ Forward, puts out a soft palm-" Not so fast! —Addresses the celestial presence, nay- He made you and devised you, after all, Though he's none of you ! Could Sa.nt John there draw— His camel-hair make up a painting-brush . We come to brother Lippo for all that, Iste per fecit opus!- So, all smile- I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wuigs Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you re gay And play hot cockles, all the doors bemg shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick Like the Prior s niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would AnTso all's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six --"^^^^ ^^"^^^ Your hand, sir, and good-bye : no lights, no Th?str^^^ hushed, and I know my own way Do'^n'fVear me! There's the gray beginning. ^'''''^' • Bobert Bronming SPRING 179 THE MADONNA With the Christ Child and John the Baptist {An Old Painting) BY premonitions, Mary, art thou stirred, While the young babe looks upward to thy face? For thou so fondly pensive, seem'st to trace An unknown grief impending, yet deferred. Thy mouth is sweet with silence, — not a word Parts the pure lips ; that calm brow doth erase All look of suffering by its saintly grace, And yet,— some voice prophetic thou hast heard ! Doth a dim prescience of the invading years Cause thee, with such solicitude, to bend Above the innocent pair about thy knee } Dost thou divine the anguish deep— the tears— For these two little ones the pitiful end — The shadow of Herod and of Calvary ? Lloyd Mifflin SPRING {By Sandro Botticelli, in the Accademia of Florence) w Honours this Lady ? Flora, wanton-eyed For birth, and with all flowrets prankt and pied : Aurora, Zephyrus, with mutual cheer 180 SKIES ITALIAN Of clasp and kiss : the Graces circling near, 'Neath bower-linked arch of white arms glori- fied : , 1 . And with those feathered feet which hovering glide O'er Spring's brief bloom, Hermes the harbinger. Birth-bare, not death-bare yet, the young stems stand. This Lady's temple-columns : o'er her head Love wings his shaft. What mystery here is read Of homage or of hope ? But how command Dead springs to answer ? And how question here These mummers of that wind-withered New- Year ? Dante Gabriel Rossetti UCCEIJ.O 181 MASACCIO (/» the Brancacci Chapel) HE came to Florence long ago, And painted here these walls, that shone For Raphael and for Angelo, With secrets deeper than his own. Then shrank into the dark again, And died, we know not how or when. The shadows deepened, and I turned Half sadly from the fresco grand ; « And is this," mused I, "all ye earned. High-vaulted brain and cunning hand. That ye to greater men could teach The skill yourselves could never reach } " ^' And who were they," I mused, "that wrought Through pathless wilds, with labour long. The highways of our daily thought ? Who reared those towers of earliest song That lift us from the throng to peace Remote in sunny silences ? " Out clanged the Ave Mary bells, And to my heart this message came : Each clamorous throat among them tells What strong-souled martyrs died in flame To make it possible that thou Shouldst here with brother-sinners bow. Thoughts that great hearts once broke for, we Breathe cheaply in the common air ; The dust we trample heedlessly Throbbed once in saints and heroes rare. Who perished, opening for their race New pathways to the commonplace. Henceforth, when rings the health to those Who live in story and in song, O nameless dead, that now repose Safe in Oblivion's chambers strong. One cup of recognition true Shall silently be drained to you ! James Russell Lowell UCCELLO THIS is the house where once Uccello lived, Through this same doorway passed his trembling feet. Beyond the gates of Florence took their way,— A quaint, sad figure in the busy street. i 182 SKIES ITALIAN Upon these walls, now dark and dim with age (Yet to all time some touches may endure), Live the dumb creatures that he loved so well, Each with its own poetic jwrtraiture. PICTOR IGNOTUS 183 Yet now she crowns him proudly as her son, And gives to him at last immortal fame, And all can read who pass the crowded way Engraved upon this door Uccello's name. Sarah D. Clarke t A meek, most fanciful, and timid soul. Daily to loving birds he talked and read. While they, with tender warbling soft and low, Fluttered forever round his patient head. And often did these feathered songsters bring (As to St Francis in the days of yore). When all the world looked dark and drear to him. Most heavenly solace from their bounteous store. With the celestial melody there grew Strange computations working in his brain ; Dimensions visible of airy lines. Dreamed of, and thought, and dreamed of o'er again. He took from heaven immeasurable gifts, And gave them to the world, before untaught ; He held his soul harmonious with the spheres, And problems solved, unknown to mortal thought. Yet for all this, gay Florence loved him not. Victorious, bright with laughter and with song ; In him she only saw a meek, sad soul. Of little worth amid her brilliant throng. PICTOR IGNOTUS (Florence, 15 — ) I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's Ye praise so. How my soul springs up ! No bar Stayed me— ah, thought which saddens while it soothes ! —Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night with all my gift Of fires from God : nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant ; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The license and the limit, space and bound. Allowed to truth made visible in man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw. Over the canvas could my hand have flung. Each face obedient to its passion's law, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue ; Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace. Or rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place ; 184 SKIES ITALIAN ii Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved, — O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup ? What did ye give me that I have not saved ? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well !) Of going — I, in each new picture, — forth. As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell. To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went. Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet ! — Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend, — The thought grew frightful, /twas so wildly dear ! But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites ! This world seemed not the world it was before : Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped . . . Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me ? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun. PICTOR IGNOTUS 185 They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough ! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness. Discussed of, — " This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less !" Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series. Virgin, Babe and Saint, With the same cold calm beautiful regard, — At least no merchant traffics in my heart ; The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart : Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke. They moulder on the damp wall's travertine, 'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. So, die my pictures ! surely, gently die ! O youth, men praise so, — holds their praise its worth ? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry ? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth ? Robert Browning fr 186 SKIES ITALIAN THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE TIS morning. Let us wander through the fields, Where Cimabue found a shepherd-boy Tracing his idle fancies on the ground ; And let us from the top of Fiesole, Whence Galileo's glass by night observed The phases of the moon, look round below On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer Is ploughing up and down among the vines, While many a careless note is sung aloud. Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee, Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls. Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers. Drawn to our feet. From that small spire, just caught By the bright ray, that church among the rest By One of Old distinguished as The Bride, Let us in thought pursue (what can we better?) Those who assembled there at matin-time ; Who, when vice revelled and along the street Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell Rang to demand the dead at every door, Came out into the meadows ; and, awhile Wandering in idleness, but not in folly. Sate down in the high grass and in the shade Of many a tree sun-proof, day after day, When all was still and nothing to be heard But the cicala's voice among the olives. Relating in a ring, to banish care, Their hundred tales. CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE 187 Round the green hill they went. Round underneath, — first to a splendid house, Gherardi, as an old tradition runs. That on the left, just rising from the vale : A place for luxury, — the painted rooms. The open galleries, and middle court. Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. Then westward to another, nobler yet ; That on the right, now known as the Palmieri, Where art with nature vied, — a paradise With verdurous walls, and many a trellised walk All rose and jasmine, many a twilight-glade Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale ; And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed To lift up to the surface every stone Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold. Now motionless, now glancing to the sun. Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day } The morning-banquet by the fountain-side, While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ; The dance that followed, and the noontide slumber ; Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay On carpets, the fresh water murmuring. And the short interval of pleasant talk Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky. The torches, planted in the sparkling grass. And everywhere among the glowing flowers, Burnt bright and brighter. He, whose dream it was, (It was no more), sleeps in a neighbouring vale ; Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween. 186 SKIES ITALIAN THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE TIS morning. Let us wander through the fields, Where Cimabue found a shepherd-boy Tracing his idle fancies on the ground ; And let us from the top of Fiesole, Whence Galileo's glass by night observed The phases of the moon, look round below On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer Is ploughing up and down among the vines, While many a careless note is sung aloud, Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee. Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers, Drawn to our feet. From that small spire, just caught By the bright ray, that church among the rest By One of Old distinguished as The Bride, Let us in thought pursue (what can we better?) Those who assembled there at matin-time ; Who, when vice revelled and along the street Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell Rang to demand the dead at every door. Came out into the meadows ; and, awhile Wandering in idleness, but not in folly. Sate down in the high grass and in the shade Of many a tree sun-proof, day after day. When all was still and nothing to be heard But the cicala's voice among the olives, Relating in a ring, to banish care, Their hundred tales. CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE 187 Round the green hill they went. Round underneath,— first to a splendid house, Gherardi, as an old tradition runs. That on the left, just rising from the vale ; A place for luxury, — the painted rooms. The open galleries, and middle court. Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. Then westward to another, nobler yet ; That on the right, now known as the Palmieri, Where art with nature vied, — a paradise With verdurous walls, and many a trellised walk All rose and jasmine, many a twilight-glade Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale ; And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed To lift up to the surface every stone Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold. Now motionless, now glancing to the sun. Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day ? The morning-banquet by the fountain-side. While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ; The dance that followed, and the noontide slumber ; Then the Ules told in turn, as round they lay On carpets, the fresh water murmuring. And the short interval of pleasant talk Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky. The torches, planted in the sparkling grass, And everywhere among the glowing flowers, Burnt bright and brighter. He, whose dream it was, (It was no more), sleeps in a neighbouring vale ; Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween. ^ \ s 188 SKIES ITALIAN j.» The friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ; A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone To the wise men ; a vialful of sounds, The musical chimes of the great bells that hung In Solomon's Temple ; and, though last not least, A feather from the angel Gabriel's wing. Dropped in the Virgin's chamber. That dark ridge, Stretching south-east, conceals it from our sight ; Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm. His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach. With calm, unclouded mind. The glimmering tower On the gray rock beneath, his landmark once. Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate His bread with cheerfulness. Who sees him not ('Tis his own sketch— he drew it from himself) Laden with cages from his shoulder slung, And sallying forth, while yet the morn is gray. To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there ; Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ; Or in the tavern by the highway-side At tric-trac with the miller ; or at night, Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad. Entering his closet, and among his books. Among the great of every age and clime, A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, Questioning each why he did this or that, And learning how to overcome the fear Of poverty and death ? Nearer we hail Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE 189 For its green wine ; dearer to me, to most. As dwelt on by that great astronomer. Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate. Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be His villa, justly was it called The Gem !) Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars I Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines. Chanting aloud in gayety of heart Some verse of Ariosto ! There, unseen. In manly beauty Milton stood before him. Gazing with reverent awe,— Milton, his guest. Just then come forth, all life and enterprise ; He in his old age and extremity. Blind, at noonday, exploring with his staff; His eyes upturned as to the golden sun, His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then Did Galileo think whom he received ; That in his hand he held the hand of one Who could requite him,— who would spread his name O'er land and seas,— great as himself, nay, greater; Milton as little that in him he saw. As in a glass, what he himself should be. Destined so soon to fall on evil days And evil tongues,— so soon, alas, to live In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, And solitude. Samuel Bosers [tt I t 190 SKIES ITALIxVN THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO OF late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate alone : And, from the numbing spell to win relief, Called on the Past for thought of glee or grief. In vain ! bereft alike of grief or glee, I sate and cowered o'er my own vacancy ! And as I watched the dull continuous ache. Which, all else slumbering, seemed alone to wake ; Friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal, And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, 1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine Place on my desk this exquisite design. Boccaccio's Garden and its fa*ry. The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm. Framed in the silent poesy of fonn. Like Hocks adown a newly-bathed steep Emerging from a mist : or like a stream Of music soft that not dispels the sleep. But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream. Gazed by an idle eye with silent might The picture stole upon my inward sight. A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest. As though an infant's finger touched my breast. And one by one (I know not whence) were brought GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 191 AH spirits of power that most had stirred my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from above, Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ; Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves ; Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, That called on Hertha in deep forest glades ; Or minstrel lay, that cheered the baron's feast; Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array. To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. And many a verse which to myself I sang, That woke the tear yet stole away the pang Of hopes which in lamenting I renewed. And last, a matron now, of sober mien. Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen. Whom as a fary child my childhood wooed Even in my dawn of thought— Philosophy ; Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, She bore no other name than Poesy ; And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee. That had but newly left a mother's knee. Prattled and played with bird and flower, and stone. As if with elfin playfellows well known. And life revealed to innocence alone. Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, m I V- "r 192 SKIES ITALIAN And all awake ! And now in fixed gaze stand, Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; And with that serviceable nymph I stoop The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. I see no longer ! I myself am there, Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings ; Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possessed, And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. The brightness of the world, O thou once free, And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills. And famous Arno, fed with all their rills ; Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! Rich, ornate, i)opulous, all treasures thine. The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. And forests, where beside his leafy hold The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, And whets his tusks against the guarded thorn ; Palladian palace with its storied halls ; Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls ; Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span, And Nature makes her happy home with man ; Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, FIESOLAN IDYL 193 And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn Weeps liquid gems, the presents of Ihe dawn; Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; And more than all, the embrace and intertwine Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees The new-found roll of old Maeonides ; But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart ! O all-enjoying and all-blending sage. Long be it mine to con thy mazy page. Where, half concealed, the eye of fancy views Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse ! Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, And see in Dian's vest between the ranks Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! Samuel Taylor Coleridge FIESOLAN IDYL HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires. And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, And softer sighs that know not what they want. Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree. Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones N ^i 194 SKIES ITALIAN Of sights in Fiesole right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seemed to show me with their nods, Their frequent whispers and their pointmg shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden-steps And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. I heard the branches rustle, and stepped forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, Such I believed it must be. How could I Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind or rain Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me. And I (however they might bluster round) Walked off? ' Twere most ungrateful: for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones of love. And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (W^hene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproached me ; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; FIESOLAN IDYL 195 I saw the foot that, although half-erect From its gray slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted : I held down a branch And gathered her some blossoms ; since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way through And scattering them in fragments under foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved. Others, ere broken off*, fell into shells. Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow. And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun : Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care. I said, " You find the largest." "This indeed," Cried she, "is large and sweet." She held one forth. Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt. I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a part Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tendered, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropped it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. Walter Savage Landor m 196 SKIES ITALIAN w EVENING AT FIESOLE HERE three huge dogs are ramping yonder Before that vilhi with its tower, No braver boys, no father fonder, Ever prolonged the moonUght hour. Often, to watch their sports unseen. Along the broad stone bench he lies, The oleander-stems between And citron-boughs to shade his eyes. The clouds now whiten far away, And villas glimmer thick below, And windows catch the quivering ray, Obscure one minute's space ago. Orchards and vine-knolls maple-propt Rise radiant round : the meads are dim, As if the milky-way had dropt And filled Valdarno to the brim. Unseen beneath us, on the right. The abbey with unfinished front Of checkered marble, black and white, And on the left the Doccia's font. Eastward, two ruined castles rise Beyond Maiano's mossy mill. Winter and Time their enemies. Without their warder, stately still. It FIG-TREES 197 The heaps around them there will grow Higher, as years sweep by, and higher. Till every battlement laid low Is seized and trampled by the briar. That line so lucid is the weir Of Rovezzano : but behold The graceful tower of Giotto there. And Duomo's cross of freshened gold. We can not tell, so far away. Whether the city's tongue be mute, We only hear some lover play (If sighs be play) the sighing flute. Walter Savage Landor THE FIG-TREES OF GHERARDESCA YE brave old fig-trees ! worthy pair ! Beneath whose shade I often lay To breathe awhile a cooler air. And shield me from the dusts of day. Strangers have visited the spot. Led thither by my parting song ; Alas ! the stranger found you not, And curst the poet's lying tongue. Vanished each venerable head. Nor bough nor leaf could tell them where To look for you, alive or dead ; Unheeded was my distant prayer. 198 SKIES ITALIAN I might have hoped (if hope had ever Been mine) that time or storm alone Your firm alhance would dissever, — Hath mortal hand your strength o'erthrown ? Before an ax had bitten through The bleeding bark, some tender thought, If not for me, at least for you. On younger bosoms might have wrought. Age after age your honeyed fruit From boys unseen through foliage fell On lifted apron ; now is mute The girlish glee ! Old friends, farewell ! Walter Savage Landov MICHAEL ANGELO AT FORTY-SEVEN NINE years !— nine years the Pope hath bade me stay Stone-quarrying in these mountains, — kept me here Road-making round Pietra, like a mere Dull drudge, who, still reluctant, nmst obey. I watch the sunset burn the hours away ; Visions immortal, frescoed tier on tier. Arise before me ! Sculptured forms austere Leap into life from the imagined clay ! 'Twould seem the Pontiff values but my brawn ; Fettered am I within this mountain lair : I who, with David and the laughing Faun, Lilied, with poesy, my Florence fair ; I who have dreams of carving Night and Dawn, And building domes, unparalleled, in air ! Lloyd Mifflin X- CASTELLO 199 TO VERNON LEE ON Bellosguardo, when the year was young. We wandered, seeking for the daffodil And dark anemone, whose purples fill The peasant's plot, between the corn-shoots sprung. Over the gray, low wall the olive flung Her deeper grayness ; far off, hill on hill Sloped to the sky, which, pearly-pale and still, Above the large and luminous landscape hung. A snowy blackthorn flowered beyond my reach ; You broke a branch and gave it to me there ; I found for you a scarlet blossom rare. Thereby ran on of Art and Life our speech ; And of the gifts the gods had given to each — Hope unto you, and unto me Despair. Amy Levy m CASTELLO THE Triton in the ilex-wood Is lonely at Castello. The snow is on him like a hood. The fountain-reeds are yellow. But never Triton sorrowed yet For weather chill or mellow : He mourns, my Dear, that you forget The gardens of Castello ! A, Mary F. Robinson w I 200 SKIES ITALIAN AFTER READING "AN ITALIAN GARDEN " TO him no more an inward hate Shall speak, nor aught but beauty sing, Who walks within this Garden late, And hears its fountain murmuring. A vestige of some other day Once lived, but dim-remembered now. Goes in the moon's familiar way Beneath the stately ilex-bough. The parterre — I but half forget — The Tuscan melancholy night — Too faintly I regain them, yet Too keenly to have lost them quite. Was I the Other of some song That many a year hath left the lips Of her who walks alone along The water where the Triton dips ? And she — how her rispetti claim The sad-bewildered heart of me That ever almost saith her name, Yet loseth it continually ! Slow moving down her marble stair. Or leaned on sculptured balustrade, Her face is shadowed by her hair. Her arms are buried in its shade. THE WHITE PEACOCK 201 Oh, might she lift that face, or free Those hidden hands, I know that soon My faint old faded Italy Again would blossom to the moon ! Arthur Upson THE WHITE PEACOCK HERE where the sunlight Floodeth the garden. Where the pomegranate Reareth its glory Of gorgeous blossom ; Where the oleanders Dream through the noontides; And, like surf o' the sea Round cliffs of basalt, The thick magnolias In billowy masses Front the sombre green of the ilexes ; Here where the heat lies Pale blue in the hollows, Where blue are the shadows On the fronds of the cactus, Where pale blue the gleaming Of fir and cypress. With the cones upon them Amber or glowing With virgin gold : Here where the honey-flower Makes the heat fragrant. As though from the gardens Of Gulistfin, Where the bulbul singeth ir 1 202 SKIES ITALIAN Through a mist of roses, A breath were borne : Here where the dream-flowers, The cream-white poppies Silently waver, And where the Scirocco, Faint in the hollows, Foldeth his soft white wings in the sunlight. And lieth sleeping Deep in the heart of A sea of white violets : Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers : White as the foam o' the sea that is driven O'er billows of azure agleam with sun-yellow : Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a girl, Moves the White Peacock, as though through the noontide A dream of the moonlight were real for a moment. Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sunlight, Dim on the cream-white are blue adumbrations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing violets, The fragrant white violets veined with azure. Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in far woodlands. Here, as the breath, as the soul of this beauty, White as a cloud through the heats of the noon- tide Moves the White Peacock. Williain Sharp V^ AT VALLOMBROSA 203 AT VALLOMBROSA " Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades High over-arched eir.lwwer. " ** Paradise Lost " ^ 7ALLOMBROSA— I longed in thy shadiest V wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor!" Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood That lulled me asleep bids me listen once more. Its murmur how soft ! as it falls down the steepi Near that Cell— yon sequestered Retreat high in air — Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep For converse with God, sought through study and prayer. The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride. And its truth who shall doubt? for his Spirit is here ; In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide, In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty austere ; In the flower-besprent meadows his genius we trace Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might confide, That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place Where, if Sin had not entered. Love never had died. r 204 SKIES ITALIAN When with life lengthened out came a desolate time. And darkness and danger had compassed him round, With a thought he would flee to these haunts of his prime And here once again a kind shelter he found. And let me believe that when nightly the Muse Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, Here also, on some favoured height, he would choose To wander, and drink inspiration at will. 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 I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, While your leaves I behold and the brooks they will strew. And the realized vision is clasped to my heart. Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense ; Unblamed — if the Soul be intent on the day When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence. For he and he only with wisdom is blest Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow. Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest. To the fountain whence Time and Eternity flow. William Wordsfvorth LASTRA A SIGNA 205 LASTRA A SIGNA SHE is old I she is old, our Lastra ! Old with thousands of years ; Yet her bold, brave gates stand up to-day As in years agone, when her Tuscan spears From the sunny hill-top drove at bay Foe after foe, in reddening lines, Over the crest of the Apennines. She is old I she is old, our Lastra I Her noble walls are rent ; Yet they stand to-day on the great highway. With the ruined battlement. And the beacon tower, dark and gray : She sees, like a dream, the Arno flow By beautiful Florence, far below. She is old ! she is old, our Lastra ! Yet Ferruchio held her dear ; He gave her his heart, his sword, his life. Yet she wasted never a tear. With head unbowed in the bitter strife, As on, through her gateway, the hosts of France Passed at the traitor Baldini's glance. They stormed at her walls, our Lastra ! They pierced her with fire and steel ; Orange came down from the hills of Spain, — " He trampled her turf with his iron heel. Pillaged, and slew to her hurt and pain. Till she fought no more ; her banners were rent, And the warder gone from her battlement. ' ! I I if 206 SKIES ITALIAN But they left her the gray old mountains^ And the green of her olive-fields ; The blessed cross and the holy shrine, And her marvellous carven shields, Painted in colours rare and fine, On the beautiful gateway, her crown and pride, Dear to the hearts, where Amalfi died. On the stones of her mighty watch-tower Women spin in the sun ; Pilgrims tread on her broad highway ; Her days of battle are done. Soft breezes blow o'er the scented hay. And scarlet poppies bloom large and sweet, By the blowing barley and fields of wheat. She is older, our pride, our lustra, Than the tombs of Etruscan kings ; She is wise with the wisdom of sages, — For her living she smiles and sings, As she looks to the coming ages ; And her dead, they whisper, " Waste no tear, W^e only sleep, — we are waiting here ! " Sarah D. Clarke ETRUSCAN TOMBS TO think the face we love shall ever die. And be the indifferent earth, and know us not ! To think that one of us shall live to cry On one long buried in a distant spot I ETRUSCAN TOMBS 207 O wise Etruscans, faded in the night Yourselves, with scarce a rose-leaf on your trace, You kept the ashes of the dead in sight, And shaped the vase to seem the loved one's face. But, O my Love, my life is such an urn That tender memories mould with constant touch. Until the dust and earth of it they turn To your dear image that I love so much : A sacred urn, filled with the sacred past. That shall recall you while the clay shall last. P i II Beneath the branches of the olive-yard Are roots where cyclamen and violet grow ; Beneath the roots the earth is deep and hard. And there a king was buried long ago. The peasants digging deeply in the mould Cast up the autumn soil about the place. And saw a gleam of unexpected gold. And underneath the earth a living face. With sleeping lids and rosy lips he lay Among the wreathes and gems that mark the king One moment ; then a little dust and clay Fell shrivelled over wreath and urn and ring. A carven slab recalls his name and deeds, Writ in a language no man living reads. I ^v 208 SKIES ITALIAN III Here lies the tablet graven in the past, Clear-charactered and firm and fresh of line. See, not a word is gone ; and yet how fast The secret no man living may divine ! What did he choose for witness in the grave ? A record of his glory on the earth ? The wail of friends ? The Picans of the brave ? The sacred promise of the second birth ! The tombs of ancient Greeks in Sicily Are sown with slender discs of graven gold Filled with the praise of Death : " Thrice happy he Wrapt in the milk-soft sleep of dreams untold ! " They sleep their patient sleep in altered lands, The golden promise in their Heshless hands. A. Man/ F. Robinson AN ETRUSCAN RING **Sive trans altas gradietur Alpes, Gallicum Rhenum horribile sequor uUimosque Britannos." I WHERE, girt with orchard and with olive- yard. The white hill-fortress brooded on the hill, Day after day an ancient goldsmith's skill Guided the copper graver, tempered hard By some lost secret, while he shaped the sard Slowly to beauty, and his tiny drill. Edged with corundum, ground its way, until The gem lay perfect for the ring to guard. TUSCAN LACHRYMATORY 209 Then seeing the stone complete to his desire. With mystic imagery carven thus, And dark Egyptian symbols fabulous, He drew through it the delicate golden wire. And bent the fastening ; and the Etrurian sun Sank over Ilva, and the work was done. II What dark-haired daughter of a Lucumo Bore on her slim white finger to the grave This the first gift her Tyrrhene lover gave Those five-and-twenty centuries ago .'' What shadowy dreams might haunt it, lying low So long, while kings and armies, wave on wave. Above the rock-tomb's buried architrave Went million-footed trampling to and fro .'* Who knows ? but well it is so frail a thing, Unharmed by conquering Time's supremacy. Still should be fair, though scarce less old than Rome. Now once again, at rest from wandering. Across the high Alps and the dreadful sea. In utmost England let it find a home. J. W. Mackail A TUSCAN LACHRYMATORY THY sweet brow low above thy lover bends- For he is dead — thou loveliest of all maids That lived and loved in glad Etrurian glades Where Vallombrosa now her vale extends. \ / 210 SKIES ITALIAN To thee no comfort from the sky descends ; Thy fingers, ringed with jasper and with jades, Clasp this small vase of sorrow. In the shades Cold lies thy love, and so for thee all ends. Thou weep* St, and dost endure such grief as sears The soul. No solace for thy heart in years To come. . . . Dead Tuscan by the Umbrian sea ! Thou who art dust this many a century, What lover shall I leave to weep for me— What amphora wan, filled with what woman's tears } Lloyd Mifflin CAMPIELLO BARBRRO TO-DAY I came To a place I know ; The echoes still Repeat at will My foreign name, Learned long ago. A little court Where acacias grow ; Against the sky Grey roofs piled high, Some steep, some short ; And the sea below. I PISA 211 For the sea is there In the streets, you know. The sea-weed falls From the basement walls In the little square Called Barbero. 'Twas there I came As the sun went low. A girl passed by Singing loud and high — 'Tis — O God ! — the same ; I am altered so. A, Mary F. Robinson PISA ON the Lung' Arno, in each stately street. The silence is a hunger and craves food Like Ugolino cowering o'er his brood. Sad Pisa ! in thy garments obsolete Still grand, the sceptre fallen at thy feet, An impuissant queen of solitude. Thine inconsolable gaze speaks widowhood Fixed on the river, voiceless and deplete. A trance more lovely — lo ! not many rods From the shrunk Arno, a more slumbrous air, A dream of heaven in marble rich and rare ! Oppressed with sleep the Campanile nods ; But in the Campo Santo's hush of breath, Orcagna's pathos paints, not Sleep but Death ! William Gibson 212 SKIES ITALIAN THE CAMPO SANTO AT PISA THERE needs not choral song, nor organ's pealing : — This mighty cloister of itself inspires Thoughts breathed like hymns from spiritual choirs ; While shades and lights, in soft succession stealing, Along it creep, now veiling, now revealing Strange forms, here traced by painting's earliest sires, — Angels with palms ; and purgatorial fires ; And saints caught up, and demons round them reeling. Love, long remembering those she could not save, Here hung the cradle of Italian Art : Faith rocked it : like a hermit child went forth From hence that power which beautified the earth. She perished when the world had lured her heart From her true friends. Religion and the Grave. II Lament not thou : the cold winds, as they pass Through the ribbed fretwork with low sigh or moan. Lament enough : let them lament alone, Counting the sear leaves of the innumerous grass EVENING 213 With thin, soft sound like one prolonged —alas ! Spread thou thy hands on sun-touched vase, or stone That yet retains the warmth of sunshine gone, And drink warm solace from the ponderous mass. Gaze not around thee. Monumental marbles, Time-clouded frescos, mouldering year by year. Dim cells in which all day the night-bird warbles, — These things are sorrowful elsewhere, not here : A mightier Power than Art's hath here her shrine : Stranger ! thou tread'st the soil of Palestine ! Auhrei/ de Fere EVENING : PONTE A MARE, PISA THE sun is set ; the swallows are asleep ; The bats are flitting fast in the gray air ; The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep. And evening's breath, wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream. n There is no dew on the dry grass to-night. Nor damp within the shadow of the trees ; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light ; And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down. And whirled about the pavement of the town. 214 SKIES ITALIAN III Within the surface of the fleeting river The wrinkled image of the city lay. Immovably quiet, and for ever It trembles, but it never fades away ; Go to the . . . You, being changed, will find it then as now IV The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud. Like mountain over mountain huddled — but Growing and moving upwards in a crowd. And over it a space of watery blue. Which the keen evening star is shining through. Percy Bysshe Shelley THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm sways idly, hither and thither ; Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, And the oars and the sails ; but 'tis sleeping fast. Like a beast, unconscious of its tether. The stars burnt out in the pale blue air. And the thin white moon lay withering there. To tower, and cavern, and rift and tree. The owl and the bat fled drowsily. BOAT ON THE SERCHIO 215 Day had kindled the dewy woods, And the rock above and the stream below. And the vapours in their multitudes. And Apennine's shroud of summer snow, And clothed with light of aery gold The mists in their eastern caves uproUed. Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe, And the matin-bell and the mountain bee : Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn. Glow-worms went out on the river's brim. Like lamps which a student forgets to trim : The beetle forgot to wind his horn. The crickets were still in the meadow and hill : Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun Night's dreams and terrors, every one. Fled from the brains which are their prey From the lamp's death to the morning ray. All rose to do the task He set to each. Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ; The million rose to learn, and one to teach What none yet ever knew or can be known. And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire ;— Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; They from the throng of men had stepped aside. And made their home under the green hillside. It was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, \ 'III M I ! ( 216 SKIES ITALIAN Like a wide lake of green fertility, With streams and fields and marshes bare, Divided from the far Apennines — which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air. " What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ? " " If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness. And of the miles of watery way We should have led her by this time of day. "— " Never mind," said Lionel, " Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops ; and see I The white clouds are driving merrily. And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night. — How it whistles, Dominic's long black hair ! List my dear fellow ; the breeze blows fair : Hear how it sings into the air." " Of us and of our lazy motions," Impatiently said Melchior, " If I can guess a boat's emotions ; And how we ought, two hours before, To have been the devil knows where." And then in such transalpine Tuscan As would have killed a Delia Cruscan, • • • . . . . So, Lionel according to his art Weaving his idle words, Melchior said : " She dreams that we are not yet out of bed ; We'll put a soul into her, and a heart Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat." BOAT ON THE SERCHIO 217 " Ay, heave the ballast overboard. And stow the eatables in the aft locker." " Would not this keg be best a little lowered } " "No, now all's right." "Those bottles of warm tea — (Give me some straw) — must be stowed tenderly : Such as we used, in summer after six. To cram in great-coat pockets, and to mix Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, And, couched on stolen hay in those green harbours Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called arbours. Would feast till eight." , • • • • • • With a bottle in one hand. As if his very soul were at a stand, Lionel stood — when Melchior brought him steady : — " Sit at the helm — fasten this sheet — all ready ! " The chain is loosed, the sails are spread. The living breath is fresh behind, As with dews and sunrise fed. Comes the laughing morning wind ; — The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Serchio's torrent fierce. Then flags with intermitting course. And hangs upon the wave, and stems The tempest of the . . . Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth and strong doth come, — Swift as fire, tempestuously It sweeps into the affrighted sea ; 218 SKIES ITALIAN i;i i In morning's smile its eddies coil. Its billows sparkle, toss and boil. Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright. The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought ; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling. But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, then wandering Down one clear path of effluence crystalline, Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine. Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine. It rushes to the ocean. Percy Bysshe Shelley SIENA I THE DAISIES ONCE I came to Siena, Travelling waywardly ; I sought not church nor palace ; I did not care to see. In the little park at Siena, Her famous ways untrod, I laid me down in the springtime Upon the daisied sod. SIENA 219 New, but not unfamiliar, Of my boyhood seemed the scene — The hillsides of Judaea, And Turner's pines between ; And tenderly the rugged. Volcanic rock-lands bare. Warm in the April weather. Slept in the melting air. Twas April in the valleys ; 'Twas April in the sky ; And from the tufted locusts The sweet scent wandered by ; But strange to me the sunshine. And strange the growing grass ; To the branch that cannot blossom How cold doth April pass ! As lovers, when love is over. Remembering seem men dead, Down on the warm bright daisies, Earth's lover, I laid my head ; And whence or why I know not. At the touch my eyes were dim. And I knew that these were the daisies That Keats felt grow o'er him. f ti II CHRIST SCOURGED I saw in Siena pictures. Wandering wearily ; I sought not the names of the masters Nor the works men care to see ; 220 SKIES ITALIAN SIENA 221 But once in a low-ceiled passage I came on a place of gloom, Lit here and there with halos Like saints within the room. The pure, serene, mild colours The early artists used Had made my heart grow softer. And still on peace I mused. Sudden I saw the Sufferer, And my frame was clenched with pain ; Perchance no throe so noble V^isits my soul again. Mine were the stripes of the scourging ; On my thorn-pierced brow blood ran ; In my breast the deep compassion Breaking the heart for man. I drooped with heavy eyelids, Till evil should have its will ; On my lips was silence gathered ; My waiting soul stood still. I gazed, nor knew I was gazing ; I trembled, and woke to know Him whom they worship in heaven Still walking on earth below. Once have I borne his sorrows Beneath the flail of fate ! Once, in the woe of his passion, I felt the soul grow great ! I turned from mv dead Leader ; I passed the silent door ; The gray-walled street received me ; On peace I mused no more. in THE RESURRECTION After days of waiting. Rambling still elsewhere, I took the narrow causeway, CHmbed the broad stone stair ; Round the angle turning With uplifted gaze In the high piazza — O, the wasted days ! There the great cathedral Came upon my eyes ; Nevermore may marvel Bring to me surprise ! In the light of heaven Builded, heaven's delight. Never sculptured beauty Hallowed so my sight I On the silent curbstone Long I sat, and gazed. With the sainted vision Ever more amazed ; Rose, and past the curtain Trod the pictured floor, Read Siena's story, Saw her glory's store. In the high piazza Once again I turned ; Clear in heaven's sunlight Prophet and angel burned. P 222 SKIES ITALIAN I 1 Still, whene'er that vision Comes upon my eyes, I seem to see triumphant The Resurrection rise. George Edward Woodberry Reprinted by special permission of Messrs Macmillan] JULY IN SIENA FOR July, in Siena, by the willow-tree, I give you barrels of white Tuscan wine In ice far down your cellars stored supine ; And morn and eve to eat in company Of those vast jellies dear to you and me ; Of partridges and youngling pheasants sweet, Boiled capons, sovereign kids : and let their treat Be veal and garlic, with whom these agree. Let time slip by, till by and by, all day ; And never swelter through the heat at all. But move at ease at home, sound, cool, and gay ; And wear sweet-coloured robes that lightly fall ; And keep your tables set in fresh array. Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal. Folgore da San Gemignano, tr. Dante Gabriel Rossetii PIA DEI TOLOMEI TO LOVE AND DEATH (1295) THE distant hills are blue as lips of death ; Between myself and them the hot swamps steam In fetid curls, which, in the twilight, seem Like gathering phantoms waiting for my breath ; ODE TO WEST WIND 223 While in the August heat with chattering teeth I sit, and icy limbs, and let the stream Of recollection flow in a dull dream ; Or weave, with marish blooms, my own death- wreath. O Love that hast undone me, and through whom I waste in this Maremma : King of Sighs, Behold thy handmaid in her heavy doom ! Send me thy brother Death who so oft flies Across these marshes in the semi-gloom, To bear me to thy amber-tinted skies. Eusene Lee-Haniilton ODE TO THE WEST WIND {This poem was conceived and chiejiy written in a wood which skirts the A mo, near Florence) o WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being. Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red. Pestilence-stricken multitudes : O thou. Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 224 SKIES ITALIAN Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill : Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ; Destroyer and preserver ; hear, O, hear ! II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed. Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, Angels of rain and lightning : there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce M»nad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height. The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain and fire and hail will burst : O, hear ! Ill Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay. Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, ODE TO WEST WIND 225 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay. And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet the sense faints picturing them ! thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear ! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear ; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable ! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven. As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed Scarce seemed striven a vision, I would ne'er have it As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! I fall upon the thorns of life ; I bleed ! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee ; tameless and swift and proud. 226 SKIES ITALIAN IV I Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are falling like its own . The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an inextinguishable hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankmd I Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! O wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind ? Percif Bijsshe Shellci/ UMBRIA .1 A. UMBRIA UMBRIA DEEP Italian day with a wide-washed splen- dour fills Umbria green with valleys, blue with a hundred hills. Dim in the south Soracte, a far rock faint as a cloud Rumours Rome, that of old spoke over earth, " Thou art mine ! " Mountain shouldering mountain circles us forest- browed Heaped upon each horizon in fair uneven line ; And white as on builded altars tipped with a ves- tal flame City on city afar from the thrones of the mountains shine, Kindling for us that name them, many a me- moried fame. Out of the murmuring ages, flushing the heart like wine. Pilgrim-desired Assisi is there ; Spoleto proud With Rome's imperial arches, with hanging woods divine ; Monte Falco hovers above the hazy vale Of sweet Clitumnus loitering under iK)plars pale ; O'er Foligno, Trevi clings upon Apennine. 229 1 1 230 SKIES ITALIAN And over this Umbrian earth— from where with bright snow spread Towers abrupt Lernessa, huge, like a dragon's chine, To western Ammiata's mist-apparelled head, Ammiata that sailors watch on wide Tyrrhenian waves — Lie in the jealous gloom of cold and secret shrine Or Gorgon-sculptured chamber hewn in old rock caves, Hiding their dreams from the light, the austere Etruscan dead. O lone forests of oak and little cyclamens red Flowering under shadowy silent boughs benign ! Streams that wander beneath us over a pebbly bed! Hedges of dewv hawthorn and wild woodbine ! Now as the eastern ranges flush and the high air chills Blurring meadowy vale, blackening heaths of pine. Now as in distant Todi, loftily towered— a sign To wearying travellers — lights o'er hollow Tiber gleam. Now our voices are stilled and our eyes are given to a dream. As Night, upbringing o'er us the ancient stars anew. Stars that triumphing Caesar and tender Francis knew. With fancied voices mild, august, immortal, fills Umbria dim with valleys, dark with a hundred hills. Laurence Hitii/on PER GL' OCCHI 231 PER GL' OCCHI ALMENO NON V'fc CLAUSURA PERUGIA holds a picture wrought by one Whose cunning hand, rich heart, and master eyes Have drawn their mellow forces from the sun That ripens all things 'neath Etruscan skies ; A convent wall it is that tells his tale. Crag-built, breast-high ; a grey nun leans on it, Ga/ing across a sweet home-teeming vale ; And underneath for keynote has he writ— Per *, 242 SKIES ITALIAN He knew not if the brotherhood His homily had understood ; He only knew that to one ear The meaning of his words was clear. Henry Wadstvorlh Longfellow LUCA SIGNORELLI 243 Morn wore to noon, and noon to eve, when shyly A little maid peeped in, and saw the painter Painting his dead son with unerring hand-stroke. Firm and dry-eyed before the lordly canvas. John Addington Symonds ' L' AN EPISODE VASARI tells that Luca Signorelli, The morning star of Michael Angelo, Had but one son, a youth of seventeen summers. Who died. That day the master at his easel Wielded the liberal brush wherewith he painted At Orvieto, on the Duomo's walls. Stem forms of Death and Heaven and Hell and Judgment. Then came they to him, and cried : " Thy son is dead, Slain in a duel : but the bloom of life Yet lingers round red lips and downy cheek." Luca spoke not, but listened. Next they bore His dead son to the silent painting-room, And left on tiptoe son and sire alone. Still Luca spoke and groaned not ; but he raised The wonderful dead youth, and smoothed his hair. Washed his red wounds, and laid him on a bed. Naked and beautiful, where rosy curUins Shed a soft glimmer of uncertain splendour Life-like upon the marble limbs below. Then Luca seized his palette : hour by hour Silence was in the room ; none durst approach : LUCA SIGNORELLI TO HIS SON (1500) THEY brought thy body back to me quite dead. Just as thou hadst been stricken in the brawl. I let no tear, I let no curses fall. But signed to them to lay thee on the bed ; Then, with clenched teeth, I stripped thy clothes soaked red And taking up my pencil at God's call, All through the night I drew thy muscles all. And writhed at every beauty of thy head ; For I required the glory of thy limbs To lend it to archangel and to saint. And of thy brow, for brows with halo rims ; And thou shalt stand, in groups which I will paint Upon God's walls, till, like procession hymns Lost in the distance, ages make them faint. Eugene Lee-Hamilton -r^ THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA ROME UNVISITED THE corn has turned from grey to red, Since first my spirit wandered forth From the drear cities of the north, And to Italia's mountains fled. And here I set my face towards home, For all my pilgrimage is done, Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun Marshals the way to Holy Rome. O Blessed Lady, who dost hold Upon the seven hills thy reign ! Mother without blot or stain. Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold ! O Roma, Roma, at thy feet 1 lay this barren gift of song ! For, ah ! the way is steep and long That leads unto thy sacred street. II And yet what joy it were for me To turn my feet unto the south, And journeying towards the Tiber mouth To kneel again at Fiesole ! 247 248 SKIES ITALIAN And wandering through the tangled pines That break the gold of Arno's stream, To see the purple mist and gleam Of morning on the Apennines. • By many a vineyard-hidden home. Orchard, and olive-garden grey, Till from the drear Campagna's way The seven hills bear up the dome ! Oscar Wilde \ / ROMAN MAY {To F. M.) A WOMAN said to me : If I Might choose my heaven when I die, I would not seek for some new height Of undiscoverable delight. Nor, upon earth, seek to surprise An undiscovered paradise, If but my un forgetting ghost Might come again and find what most It loved on earth, and, living, lost ; And I would ask that it might come Only in May, only in Rome. Arthur SyjnoJis ROME OROME ! my country ! city of the soul ! The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires ! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. ROME 249 What are our woes and sufferance ? Come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye Whose agonies are evils of a day, — A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy du^ was scattered long ago. The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; The very sepulchres lie tenantless Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, O Tiber, through a marble wilderness ? Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. Alas, the lofty city ! and alas, The trebly hundred triumphs ! and the day When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! Alas for TuUy's voice and Virgil's lay And Livy's pictured page ! But these shall be Her resurrection ! all beside — decay. Alas for earth, for never shall we see That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free ! Lord Byron ROME YE hills superb, ye ruins which retain Of Rome the name august, and but the name, What relics of the height of human fame, What traces of exalted souls remain ! W ^ 250 SKIES ITALIAN Those statues, arches, theatres ;— in vain Those works divine, that splendour which became The Queen of cities. Time,— devouring flame Have sunk in dust ! Pomp, joy, long and trium - phal reign, A theme of vulgar scorn !— If works like these Can for some space with Time the conflict dare. Slowly the victor marches, sure to seize, — Content my own distress shall I not bear ? Since all on earth must yield to Time's decrees, Time will relieve my anguish, end my care. Baldassar Castigliofie, tr. Capet Lojfl NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST PETER'S LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn : O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon ; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn. Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat. Save that the cock is crowing, a shrill note. Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the note as from a mistimed thing. Oft for a holy warning it may serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting. His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear. IVilliavi IVordsworth SONNET ST PETER'S BY MOONLIGHT 251 LOW hung the moon when first I stood in Rome ; Midway she seemed attracted from her sphere. On those twin fountains shining broad and clear Whose floods, not mindless of their mountain home, Rise there in clouds of rainbow mist and foam. That hour fulfilled the dream of many a year : Through that thin mist, with joy akin to fear, The steps I saw, the pillars, last, the dome. A spiritual empire there embodied stood ; The Roman church there met me face to face : Ages, sealed up, of evil and of good Slept in that circling colonnade's embrace. Alone I stood, a stranger and alone, Changed by that stony miracle to stone. Aubrei/ de Vere SONNET {On hearing the Dies Iroi sung in the Sistine Chapel) m NAY, Lord, not thus ! white lilies in the spring. Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove. Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love Than terrors of red flame and thundering. The empurpled vines dear memories of Thee bring : A bird at evening flying to its nest. Tells me of One who had no place of rest : I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing. 252 SKIES ITALIAN Come rather on some autumn afternoon, When red and brown are burnished on the leaves, And the fields echo to the gleaner's song, Come when the splendid fulness of the moon Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves. And reap Thy harvest : we have waited long. ^ Oscar Wilde THE SISTIXE CHAPEL THE MISERERE THOSE sounds expiring on mine ear, mine eye Was by a corresponding impress spelled : A vision of the angels that rebelled Still hung before me through the yielding sky. Sinking on plumes outstretched imploringly. Their tempter's hopes and theirs forever quelled, They sank, with hands upon their eyes clos^ held. And longed, methought, for death, yet could not die. Down, ever down, a mournful pageant streamuig With the slow, ceaseless motion of a river, Inwoven chords to ruin blindly tending. They sank. I wept as one who weeps while dreaming To see them, host on host, by force de- scending Down the dim gulfs, forever and forever. .1 THE BISHOFS TOMB 253 II From sadness on to sadness, woe to woe. Searching all depths of grief ineffable, Those sighs of the forsaken sink and swell, And to a piercing shrillness, gathering, grow. Now one by one, commingling now they flow ; Now in the dark they die, a piteous knell. Lorn as the wail of exiled Israel, Or Hagar weeping o'er her outcast. No, — Never hath loss external forced such sighs ! O ye with secret sins that inly bleed, And drift from God, search out, if ye are wise. Your unrepented infelicities : And pray, whate'er the punishment decreed. It prove not exile from your Maker's eyes. Aubrey de Verc N THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH {Rome, 15 — ) VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity ! Draw round my bed : is Anselm keeping back } Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I know not ! Well- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! What's done is done, and she is dead beside. Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. / 254 SKIES ITALIAN Life, how and what is it ? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees. Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace ; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know*: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care ; Shrewd was that snatch from out the comer South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same ! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side. And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats. And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk : And I shall fill my slab of basalt there. And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselra stands : Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. —Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him ! True peach. Rosy and flawless : how I earned the prize ! Draw close : that conflagration of my church What then ? So much was saved if aught were missed ! My sons, ye would not be my death ? Go dig The white-grape where the oil-press stood. Drop water gently till the surface sink. And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I ! . . . Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft. And corded up in a tight olive-frail, THE BISHOP'S TOMB 255 Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . Sons, all I have bequeathed you, villas, all. That brave Frascati villa with its bath. So, let the blue lump poise between my knees. Like God the Father s globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst ! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years : Man goeth to the grave, and where is he ? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons } Black — 'Twas ever antique-black I meant ! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath ? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so. The Saviour at his sermon on the mount. Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off. And Moses with the tables . . . but I know Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggars' mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb- top chuckles at ! Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then ! 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. My bath must needs be left behind, alas ! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut. There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world — And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs ? I III 256 SKIES ITALIAN —That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase. Tally's every word. No gaudy ware like Gandolfs second line— Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his need ! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. And see God made and eaten all day long. And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke ! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook. And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point. And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into ^reat laps and folds of sculptor's-work : And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears. About the life before I lived this life. And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests. Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Y^our tall pale mother with her talking eyes. And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons ! Else 1 give the Pope My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul. Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze. Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, THE LACHRYMATORY 257 And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask " Do I live, am I dead ? " There, leave me, there ! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! Stone — Gritstone, a-crumble I Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through — And no more lapis to delight the world ! Well, go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there. But in a row : and, going, turn your backs — Ay, like departing altar-ministrants. And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers — Old Gandolf — at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was ! Robert Bronming THE LACHRYMATORY FROM out the grave of one whose budding years Were cropped by death, when Rome was in her prime, I brought the phial of his kinsman's tears. There placed, as was the wont of ancient time ; Round me, that night, in meads of asphodel. The souls of the early dead did come and go. Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a spell, That long-imprisoned shower of human woe. I' ' !!' i^ 258 SKIES ITALIAN As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood The heroes thronged, those spirits flocked to me, - J , Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I stood , Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ; The young Marcellus, young, but great and good. And Tully's daughter, mourned so tenderly. Charles Tennyson Tur umer ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR BORGIA, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration ; now thou'rt dust ; All that remains of thee these plaits unfold. Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. Walter Savage Landor VILLA BORGHESE A GRACE of winter breathing like the spring ; Solitude, silence, the thin whispering Of water in the fountains, that all day Talk with the leaves ; the winds, gentle as they, Rustle the silken garments of their speech Rarely, for they keep silence, each by each, The dim green silence of the dreaming trees, Cypress and pine and the cloaked ilexes. That winter never chills ; and all these keep A sweet and grave and unawakening sleep, Reticent of its dreams, but hearing all The babble of the fountains as they fall. Chattering bright and irresponsible words As in a baby-speech of liquid birds. Arthur Symons NAME WRIT IN WATER 259 AN INSCRIPTION IN ROME SOMETHING there is in Death not all unkind ; He hath a gentler aspect, looking back ; For flowers may bloom in the dread thunder's track, And even the cloud that struck with light was lined. Thus, when the heart is silent, speaks the mind ; For there are moments when comes rushing, black And fierce upon us, the old, awful lack, And Death once more is cruel, senseless, blind. So when I saw beside a Roman portal *' In this house died John Keats" — for tears that sprung 1 could no further read. O bard immortal ! Not for thy fame's sake — but so young, so young ; Such beauty vanished ; spilled such heavenly wine ; All quenched that power of deathless song divine ! Richard Watson Gilder THE NAME WRIT IN WATER {Piazza di Spagfia, Rome) The Spirit of the Fountain speaks : \7'ONl)ER'S the window my })oet would sit in While my song murmured of happier days ; Mine is the water his name has been writ in, Sure and immortal my share in his praise. 260 SKIES ITALIAN Gone are the pilgrims whose green wreaths here hung for him, — Gone from their fellows like bubbles of foam ; Long shall outlive them the songs have been sung for him ; Mine is eternal— or Rome were not Rome. Far on the mountain my fountain was fed for him, Bringing soft sounds that his nature loved best : Sighing of pines that had fain made a bed for him ; Seafaring rills, on their musical quest. Bells of the fairies at eve, that I rang for him ; Nightingale's glee, he so well understood ; Chan't of the dryads at dawn, that I sang for him ; Swish of the snake at the edge of the wood. Little he knew 'twixt his dreaming and sleeping. The while his sick fancy despaired of his fame. What glory I held in my loverly keeping : Listen ! my waters will whisper his name. Robert Undent ood Johnson THE GRAVE OF KEATS RID of the world's injustice, and his pain, He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue : Taken from life when life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain. No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew, But gentle violets weeping with the dew Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain. GRAVE OF SHELLEY 261 O proudest heart that broke for misery ! O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene ! O poet-painter of our English land ! Thy name was writ in water — it shall stand : And tears like mine shall keep thy memory green. As Isabella did her Basil-tree. Oscar Wilde THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY [Rome) LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypresses stand round the sun- bleached stone ; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red. In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, (jrim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. Ah ! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of earth, great mother of eternal sleep. But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue caveni of an echoing deep, Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep. Oscar Wilde 262 SKIES ITALIAN SONNET SANT' ONOFRIO 263 AMONG the cypresses young Shelley lies, Rests Adonais in his violet bed : Their frail dust mingles with the heroic dead— Scipio's and Cesar's. Joy! In the radiant skies, Hid in the quivering dawn, the skylark flies ; From out the sun its silver notes are shed. But all the pale stars tremble overhead When from the dark the nightingale replies. Roma of Ruins, Roma of antique day, Imperious Mistress of the historic page. Gaze on thy treasures of the Appian Way Exult in relics of thy golden age ; Yet look upon these strangers' graves and say, What more august in thy proud heritage ? Sina Morais Cohen THREE FLOWERS {To Bayard Taylor) HEREWITH I send you three pressed withered flowers : This one was white, with golden star; this, blue As Capri's cave ; that, purple and shot through With sunset-orange. Where the Duomo towers In diamond air, and under hanging bowers The Arno glides, this faded violet grew On Landor's grave ; from Landor's heart it drew Its magic azure in the long spring hours. Within the shadow of the pyramid Of Caius Cestius was the daisy found. White as the soul of Keats in Paradise. The pansy — there were hundreds of them, hid In the thick grass that folded Shelley's mound. Guarding his ashes with most lovely eyes. Thomas Bailey Aldrich SANT* ONOFRIO THE tepid air bespeaks repose. The noonday city sleeps ; No shadow from the cypress groves Athwart the Tiber creeps. This seems the very land of rest To wondering wanderers from the West, Who walk as if in dreams ; English ambition's onward cry. To all beneath this opiate sky Yet untranslated seems. Here is the goal ; here ended all His tragedy of life ! The honours, banishment, recall, The love, the hate, the strife ! A weary man, the poet came To light a funeral-torch's flame At yonder chancel light ; When here he summed up all his days. Heedless of human blame or praise. And turned him to the Night ! O holy Jerome ! at thy shrine. Who could hope better meed, Than he who sang the song divine Of crusade and of creed ! m 264 SKIES ITALIAN Who loved upon Jerusalem, As thou didst when at Bethlehem, The Master's steps to trace I Who burned to tread the very sod Imprinted by the feet of God In the first years of grace I W>apt in the shade of Tasso's Oak, I breathe the air of Rome : He found his final home Where, freed from every patron's yoke. The Alban and the Sabine range Down yonder, seeming nothing strange. Although first seen by me ; Firm as those storied highlands stand. So, deep-laid in Italian land. Shall Tasso's glory be. Calm here, within his altar-grave, The restless takes his rest ; Besculptured, as becomes the brave, With nodding casque and crest. And shield, on which we trace the line. The key-note of his song divine, " Pro Fide ! " Tasso lies. So may we find our legend writ. What time the Crucified shall sit For judgment, in the skies. Thomas D\ircy McGee THE CAPITOL HILLS OF ROME 265 SHE, whose high top above the starres did sore, One foote on Thetis, th' other on the Morning, One hand on Scythia, th' other on the More, Both heaven and earth in roundnesse com- passing ; Love fearing, least if she should greater growe. The Giants old should once againe uprise. Her whelm'd with hills, these Seven Hills, which be nowe Tombes of her greatness which did threate the skies : Upon her head he heapt Mount Saturnal, Upon her bellie th' antique Palatine, Upon her stomacke laid Mount Quirinal, On her left hand the noysome Esquiline, And Caelian on the right : but both her feete Mount Viminal and Aventine doo meete. Joachim dit Bellay, tr. Edmund Spenser THE CAPITOL: TASSO'S CORONATION {Tasso died at Rome on the day before that set for his coronation in the Capitol) A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky,— in the glorious Roman sky. Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of victory ; 266 SKIES ITALIAN There is crowding to the Capitol the imperial streets along, For again a conqueror must be crowned,— a kingly child of song : Yet his chariot lingers, Yet around his home Broods a shadow silently, Midst the joy of Rome. A thousand, thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and far, To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car ; A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of flowers. To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike showers. Peace ! Within his chamber Low the mighty lies, — With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, And a wandering in his eyes. Sing, sing for him, the lord of song,— for him, whose rushing strain In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main ! Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for- ever there to dwell, As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell. Yes ! for him, the victor, Sing,— but low, sing low ! A soft, sad miserere chant For a soul about to go ! PHILOSOPHIC FLIGHT 267 The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day ; Streaming through every haughty arch of the Caesars' past renown,— Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown ! Shut the proud, bright sunshine From the fading sight ! There needs no ray by the bed of death, Save the holy taper's light. The wreath is twined, the way is strewn, the lordly train are met, The streets are hung with coronals, — why stays the minstrel vet ? Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief, — Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief! Silence ! forth we bring him, In his last array ; From love and grief the freed, the flown, — Way for the bier ! — make way ! Felicia Hemans THE PHILOSOPHIC FLIGHT NOW that these wings to speed my wish ascend, The more I feel vast air beneath my feet. The more toward boundless air on pinions fleet. Spurning the earth, soaring to heaven, I tend : 268 SKIES ITALIAN Nor makes them stoop their flight the direful end Of Daedal's son ; but upward still they beat. What life the while with this death could compete. If dead to earth at last 1 must descend ? My own heart's voice in the void air 1 hear. Where wilt thou bear me, O rash man ! Recall Thy daring will ! This boldness waits on fear ! Dread not, I answer, that tremendous fall : Strike through the clouds, and smile when death is near. If death so glorious be our doom at all ! Giordano Bruno, tr. John Addington Symonds THE RUINS OF ROME I THOU stranger, which for Rome in Rome here seekest. And nought of Rome in Rome perceivst at all, These same olde walls, olde arches, which thou seest, Olde palaces, is that which Rome men call. Beholde what wreake, what ruine, and what wast. And how that she, which with her mightie powre Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herself at last ; The pray of Time, which all things doth devowre ! Rome now of Rome is th' onely funerall, And onely Rome of Rome hath victorie ; Ne ought save Tyber hastning to his fall Remaines of all : O worlds inconstancie ! That which is firme doth flit and fall away. And that is flitting doth abide and stay. THE RUINS OF ROME 269 II These heapes of stones, these old walls, which ye see. Were first enclosures but of salvage soyle ; And these brave pallaces, which maystred bee Of Time, were shepheards cottages somewhile. Then tooke the shepheards kingly ornaments. And the stout hynde anned his right hand with Steele : Eftsoones their rule of yearely Presidents Grew great, and sixe months greater a great deele ; Which, made perpetuall, rose to so great height, That thence th' Imperiall Eagle rooting tooke, Till th' heaven it selfe, opposing gainst her might, Her powers to Peters successor betooke ; Who, shepheardlike, (as Fates the same fore- seeing), Doth shew that all things turne to their first being. ni O that I had the Thracian Poets harpe, For to awake out of th* infernall shade Those antique Ca?sars, sleeping long in darke. The which this auncient City whilome made ! Or that I had Amphions instrument. To quicken, with his vitall notes accord. The stonie ioynts of these old walls now rent. By which th' Ausonian light might be restor'd ! 270 SKIES ITALIAN Or that at least I could, with pencill fine, Fashion the pourtraicts of these palacis, By paterne of great Virgils spirit divine I I would assay with that which in me is, To builde, with levell of my loftie style, That which no hands can evermore compyle. Joachim du Bellay, tr. Edmund Spenser THE COLISEUM ARCHES on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build uj) all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine As 'twere its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to illume This long explored but still exhaustless mine Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement, For which, the palace of the j)resent hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. THE COLISEUM 271 And here the buzz of eager nations ran. In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. And wherefore slaughtered ? Wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not } What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms, — on battle-plains or listed spot } Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. I see before me the Gladiator lie : He leans upon his hand, — his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low, — And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now The arena swims around him : he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not : his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away ; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. There were his young barbarians all at play. There was their Dacian mother, — he, their sire. Butchered to make a Roman holiday, — All this rushed with his blood, — shall he expire, And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 272 SKIES ITALIAN But here, where murder breathed her bloody steam ; ' And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. And roared or murmured like a mountain-stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much, — and fall the star's faint rays On the arena void, — seats crushed, walls bowed. And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. A ruin, — yet what ruin ! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared ; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ? Alas ! developed, opens the decay, When the colossal fabric's form is neared : It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air. The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear. THE COLISEUM 273 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; When the light shines serene, but doth not glare. Then in this magic circle raise the dead : Heroes have trod this spot, 'tis on their dust ye tread. Lord Byron THE COLISEUM TYPE of the antique Rome ! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power ! At length, at length, after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie), I kneel, an altered and a humble man. Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory ! Vastness, and age, and memories of eld ! Silence, and desolation, and dim night ! I feel ye now,— I feel ye in your strength,— O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars ! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat ! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle ! I i<: 274 SKIES ITALIAN Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled. Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones ! But stay ! these walls, these ivy-clad arcades. These mouldering plinths, these sad and blackened shafts, These vague entablatures, this crumbling frieze. These shattered cornices, this wreck, this ruin, These stones,— alas ! these gray stones,— are they all. All of the famed and the colossal left By the corrosive hours to fate and me ? " Not all," the echoes answer me,—" not all ! Prophetic sounds and loud arise forever From us and from all ruin unto the wise. As melody from Memnon to the sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men, we rule With a despotic sway all giant minds. We are not impotent,— we pallid stones. Not all our power is gone, not all our f?ime, Not all the magic of our high renown, Not all the wonder that encircles us. Not all the mysteries that in us lie. Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Clothing us in a robe of more than glory." Edsfir Allan Poe BATHS OF DIOCLETIAN 275 ROMAN BATHS THERE were some Roman baths where we spent hours : Immense and lonely courts of rock-like brick. All overgrown with verdure strong and thick, And girding sweet wild lawns all full of flowers. One day, beneath the turf, green with the showers Of all the centuries since Genseric, They found rich pavements hidden by Time's trick. Adorned >^ith tritons, dolphins, doves like ours. So, underneath the surface of To-day, Lies Yesterday, and what we call the Past, The only thing which never can decay. Things bygone are the only things that last : The Present is mere grass, quick-mown away ; The Past is stone, and stands forever fast. Eugene Lee- Hamilton BIRDS IN THE BATHS OF DIOCLETIAN EGERIAN warbler! unseen rhapsodist ! Whose carols antedate the Roman spring; ^^ho, while the old gray walls, thy playmates, ring. Dost evermore on one deep strain insist ; Flinging thy bell-notes through the sunset mist I Touched by thy song rich weeds and wall- flowers swing As in a breeze, the twilight crimsoning That sucks from them aerial amethyst, — 11^ r : Ii 276 SKIES ITALIAN O for a sibyl's insight to reveal That lore thou sing'st of! Shall I guess it? nay ! Enough to hear thy strain,— enough to feel O'er all the extended soul the freshness steal Of those ambrosial honeydews that weigh Down with sweet force the azure lids of day. Anhrey de fere THE ARCH OF TITUS I STOOD beneath the arch of Titus long ; On Hebrew forms there sculptured long 1 pored ; Till fancy, by a distant clarion stung, Woke ; and raethought there moved that arch toward A Roman triumph. Lance and helm and sword Glittered; white coursers tramped and trum- pets rung : Last came, car-borne amid a captive throng, The laurelled son of Rome's imperial lord. As though by wings of unseen eagles fanned, The Conqueror's cheek, when first that arch he saw, Burned with the flush he strove in vain to quell. Titus ! a loftier arch than thine hath spanned Rome and the world with empery and law ; Thereof each stone was hewn from Israel ! Anhrey de Fere ..x CECILIA METELLA'S TOMB 277 THE APPIAN WAY AWE-STRUCK I gazed upon that rock-paved way. The Appian Road ; marmorean witness still Of Rome's resistless stride and fateful will, Which mocked at limits, opening out for aye Divergent paths to one imperial sway. The nations verily their parts fulfil ; And war must plough the fields which law shall till ; Therefore Rome triumphed till the appointed day. Then from the Catacombs, like waves, upburst The host of God, and scaled, as in an hour. O'er all the earth the mountain-seats of power. Gladly in that baptismal flood immersed The old Empire died to live. Once more on high It sits ; now clothed with immortality ! Aubrey de Vere THE TOMB OF CECILIA METELLA STOP on the Appian Way, In the Roman Campania. Stop at my tomb. The tomb of Cecilia Metella : To-day, as you see it, Alaric saw it ages ago When he, with his pale-visaged Goths, Sat at the gates of Rome, Reading his Runic shield. Odin ! thy curse remains. 278 SKIES ITALIAN Beneath these battlements My bones were stirred with Roman pride, Though centuries before my Romans died. Now my bones are dust, the Goths are dust, The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king : My tomb remains. When Rome commanded the earth. Great were the Metelli. I was Metella's wife : I loved him, — and I died. Then with slow patience built he this memorial. Each century marks his love. Pass by on the Appian Way The tomb of Cecilia Metella : Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter, Wild buffaloes tramp at its base,— Deep is its desolation, Deep as the shadow of Rome. Mrs R. H. Stoddard GROTTO OF EGERIA EGERIA ! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast ; what'er thou art Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air. The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth. Who found a more than common votary there Too much adoring,— whatsoe'er thy birth. Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth. GROTTO OF EGERIA 279 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled With thine Elysian water-drops : the face Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- wrinkled, Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place. Whose green, wild margin now no more erase Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, Prisoned in marble, bubbling from the base Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, and ivy creep, Fantastically tangled ; the green hills Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass ; Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes. Kissed by the breath of heaven, seem coloured by its skies. Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, Egeria ! thy all-heavenly bosom beating For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting With her most starry canopy, and, seating Thyself by thine adorer, what befell ? This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting Of an enamoured goddess, and the cell Haunted by holy love, — the earliest oracle ! Lord Byron \i i 280 SKIES ITALIAN RUINS OF CORNELIA'S HOUSE I TURN from ruins of imperial power, Tombs of corrupt delight, old walls the pride Of statesmen pleased for respite brief to hide Their laurelled foreheads in the Muses' bower, And seek Cornelia's home. At sunset's hour How oft her eyes, that wept no more, descried Yon purpHng hills ! How oft she heard that tide Fretting as now low cave or hollow tower! The mother of the Gracchi ! Scipio's child ! — 'Twas virtue such as hers that built her Rome ! Never towards it she gazed ! Far off her home She made, like her great father self-exiled. Woe to the nations when the souls they bare, Their best and bravest, choose their rest else- where ! Aubrey de Fere THE CAMPAGNA SEEN FROM ST JOHN LATERAN WAS it the trampling of triumphant hosts That levelled thus yon plain, sea-like and hoary ; Armies from Rome sent forth to distant coasts. Or back returning clad with spoils of glory ? Around it loom cape, ridge, and promontory Above it sunset shadows fleet like ghosts. Fast-borne o'er keep and tomb, whose ancient boasts. By Time confuted, name have none in story. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 281 Fit seat for Rome ! for here is ample space. Which greatness chiefly needs, — severed alone By yonder aqueducts, with queenly grace That sweeps in curves concentric ever on (Bridging a world subjected as a chart) To that great city, head of earth, and heart. Aubrey de Fere TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This mom of Rome and May .'* For me, I touched a thought, I know. Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go. Help me to hold it ! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed Took up the floating weft, W'here one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, — blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal : and last. Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast ! 282 SKIES ITALIAN The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere ! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air — Rome's ghost since her decease. Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers. Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers ! How^ say you ? Let us, O my dove. Let us be unashamed of soul. As earth lies bare to heaven above ! How is it under our control To love or not to love ? I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! Where does the fault lie ? What the core C the wound, since wound must be ? I would I could adopt your will. See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs,— your part my part In life, for good and ill. No. I yearn upward, touch you close. Then stand away. I kiss your cheek. Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak — Then the good minute goes. SPRING ON ALBAN HILLS 283 Already how am I so far Out of that minute ? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star ? Just when I seemed about to leani I Where is the thread now ? Off again ! The old trick ! Only I discern — Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. Robert Browning SPRING ON THE ALBAN HILLS O'ER the Campagna it is dim warm weather ; The Spring comes with a full heart silently. And many thoughts : a faint flash of the sea Divides two mists: straight falls the falling feather. With wild Spring meanings hill and plain together Grow pale, or just flush with a dust of flowers. Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers. Floats in the midst, a little cloud at tether. I fain would put my hands about thy face. Thou with thy thoughts, who art another Spring, And draw thee to me like a mournful child. Thou lookest on me from another place ; I touch not this day's secret, nor the thing That in the silence makes thy sweet eyes wild. Alice Meynell 284 SKIES ITALIAN NEMI ** Nemi, imbedded in wood, Nemi, inurned in the hill." dough FROM lone Castello's torrid shore, Here, Nemi, to thy shrine. Where Thyrsis wandering came of yore, I come to make thee mine ; With myrtle sweet and eglantine, O lake, beloved for evermore, Take thou my soul, and yield me thine. Spirit of Beauty ! is it here. Secluded and alone. Thou dwellest by these waters clear. These Alban hills thy throne } Here still, unwitnessed and unknown, To thee we kneel, and thee revere. And thine all-hallowing presence own. • ••••• Nay, closer now ! nay, closer yet ! Would my soul cleave to thine ; Here by thy mantling beauty met. Transfigured, made divine ; — Here as of old in Palestine Love is the true heart's amulet, And joy of love the sacred sign. Back to Albano, back to Rome, We go, but still with thee, O lake, of love-lit dreams the home. Our thoughts, our heart shall be ; And still, far off, we yet shall see Beneath the Night's star-spangled dome Thy grove-encircled sanctuary. Samuel IVaddifigton MONTE CASSINO 285 MONTE CASSINO (Terra di Lavoro) BEAUTIFUL valley ! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along ; — The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds. The river taciturn of classic song. The Land of Labour and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall. There is Alagna, where Pope Boniface Was dragged with contumely from his throne ; Sciarra Colonna, was that day's disgrace The Pontiff's only, or in part thine own ? There is Ceprano, where a renegade Was each Apulian, as great Dante saith. When Manfred by his men-at-arms Spurred on to Benevento and to death. There is Aquinum, the old Volscian town, Where Juvenal was born, whose lurid light Still hovers o'er his birthi)lace like the crown Of splendour seen o'er cities in the night. Doubled the splendour is, that in its streets The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy played. And dreamed perhaps the dreams, that repeats In ponderous folios for scholastics made. he 286 SKIES ITALIAN And there, uplifted, like a passing cloud That pauses on a mountain summit high, Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud And venerable walls against the sky. Well I remember how on foot I climbed The stony pathway leading to its gate ; Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed, Below, the darkening town grew desolate. Well I remember the low arch and dark, The courtyard with its well, the terrace wide, From which, far down, the valley like a park Veiled in the evening mists, was dim descried. The day was dying, and with feeble hands Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales between Darkened ; the river in tlie meadow-lands Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. The silence of the place was like a sleep. So full of rest it seemed : each passing tread Was a reverberation from the deep Recesses of the ages that are dead. For, more than thirteen centuries ago, Benedict Heeing from the gates of Rome, A youth disgusted with its vice and woe. Sought in these mountain solitudes a home. He founded here his Convent and his Rule Of prayer and work, and counted work as prayer ; The pen became a clarion, and his school Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air. MONTE CASSINO 287 What though Boccaccio, in his reckless way. Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores The illuminated manuscripj;s, that lay Torn and neglected on the dusty floors ? Boccaccio was a novelist, a child Of fancy and of fiction at the best ! This the urbane librarian said, and smiled Incredulous, at some idle jest. Upon such themes as these, with one young friar I sat conversing late into the night. Till in its cavernous chimney the wood-fire Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite. And then translated, in my convent cell. Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay, And, as a monk who hears the matin bell, Started from sleep ; already it was day. From the high window I beheld the scene On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed, — The mountains and the valley in the sheen Of the bright sun, — and stood as one amazed. Oray mists were rolling, rising, vanishing ; The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns ; Far off the mellow bells began to ring For matins in the half-awakened towns. The conflict of the Present and the Past, The ideal and the actual in our life. As on a field of battle held me fast. Where this world and the next world were at strife. I 288 SKIES ITALIAN For, as the valley from its sleep awoke, I saw the iron horses of the steam Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke, And woke, as one awaketh from a dream. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow LOVE AMONG THE RUINS WHERE the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles Miles and miles On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop As they cro|) — Was tiie site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince Ages since Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. \ow,— the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one,) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 289 O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all. Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest. Twelve abreast. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was ! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone. Stock or stone — Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago ; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame ; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. Now, — the single little turret that remains On the plains. By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks — Marks the basementwhencea tower inancient time Sprang sublime. And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced. And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. T II 290 SKIES ITALIAN And I know, while thus the quiet coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away — That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,— and then. All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand. Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, AT TIBER MOUTH 291 Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — Gold, of course. Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood that bums ! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! Shut them in. With their triumphs and their glories and the rest ! Love is best. Robert Brorvnijig AT TIBER MOUTH {Rome, 1881) THE low plains stretch to the west with a glimmer of rustling weeds, Where the waves of a golden river wind home by the marshy meads ; And the strong wind born of the sea grows faint with a sickly breath, As it stays in the fretting rushes and blows on the dews of death. We came to the silent city in the blaze of the noontide heat. When the sound of a whisper rang through the length of the lonely street ; No tree in the clefted ruin, no echo of song nor sound, But the dust of a world forgotten lay under the barren ground. There are shrines under these green hillocks to the beautiful gods that sleep. Where they prayed in the stormy season for lives gone out on the deep ; 292 SKIES ITALIAN And here in the grave street sculptured, old record of loves and tears, By the dust of the nameless slave, forgotten a thousand years. Not ever again at even shall ship sail in on the hreeze Where the hulls of their gilded galleys came home from a hundred seas, For the marsh plants grow in her haven, the marsh birds breed in her bay. And a mile to the shoreless westward the water has passed away. But the sea-folk gathering rushes come up from the windy shore, So the song that the years have silenced grows musical there once more ; And now and again unburied, like some still voice from the dead, They light on the fallen shoulder and the lines of a marble head. But we went from the sorrowful city and wandered away at will. And thought of the breathing marble and the words that are music still. How full were their lives that laboured, in their fetterless strength and far From the ways that our feet have chosen as the sunlight is from the star, They clung to the chance and promise that once while the years are free, Look over our life's horizon as the sun looks over the sea, But we wait for a day that dawns not, and cry for unclouded skies. AT TIBER MOUTH 293 And while we are deep in dreaming the light that was o'er us dies ; We know not what of the present we shall stretch out our hands to save Who sing of the life we long for, and not of the life we have ; And vet if the chance were with us to gather the days misspent. Should we change the old resting-places, the wandering ways we went } They were strong, but the years are stronger; they are grown but a name that thrills, And the wreck of their marble glory lies ghost- like over their hills. So a shadow fell o'er our dreaming for the weary heart of the past. For the seed that the years have scattered, to reap so little at last. And we went to the sea-shore forest, through a long colonnade of pines. Where the skies peep in and the sea, with a Hitting of silver lines. And we came on an open place in the green deep heart of the wood. Where I think in the years forgotten, an altar of Faunus stood ; From a spring in the long dark grasses two rivulets rise and run By the length of their sandy borders where the snake lies coiled in the sun. And the stars of the white narcissus lie over the grass like snow, And beyond in the shadowy places the crimson cyclamens grow. 294 SKIES ITALIAN Far up from the wave home yonder the sea-winds murmuring pass, The branches quiver and creak and the lizard starts in the grass. And we lay in the untrod moss and pillowed our cheeks with flowers, While the sun went over our heads, and we took no count of the hours ; From the end of the waving branches and under the cloudless blue. Like sunbeams chained for a banner, the thread- like gossamers flew. And the joy of the woods came o'er us, and we felt that our world was young With the gladness of years unspent, and the sorrow of life unsung. So we passed with a sound of singing along to the seaward way, Where the sails of the fishermen folk came home- ward over the bay ; For a cloud grew over the forest, and darkened the sea-god's shrine. And the hills of the silent city were only a ruby line. But the sun stood still on the waves as we passed from the fading shores, And shone on our boat's red bulwarks, and the golden blades of the oars ; And it seemed as we steered for the sunset that we passed through a twilit sea. From the gloom of a world forgotten to the light of a world to be. Sir Rennell Rodd TIVOLI 295 ROMAN VILLEGGIATURA ALL shun the raging dog-star's sultry heat. And from the half-unpeopled town retreat ; Some hid in Nemi's gloomy forests lie ; To Palestrina some for shelter fly ; Others, to catch the breeze of breathing air, To Tusculum or Algido repair. Or in moist Tivoli's retirements find A cooling shade and a refreshing wind. Silius Italicus, tr. Joseph Addison TIVOLI MIDST Tivoli's luxurious glades, Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades, Where dwelt, in days departed long. The sons of battle and of song. No tree, no shrub, its foliage rears ; But o'er the wreck of other years. Temples and domes, which long have been The soil of that enchanted scene. There the wild fig-tree and the vine O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine ; The cypress, in funereal grace, Usurps the vanished column's place ; O'er fallen shrine and ruined frieze \ The wall-flower rustles in the breeze ; Acanthus leaves the marble hide They once adorned in sculptured pride. And Nature hath resumed her throne O'er the vast works of ages flown. 296 SKIES ITALIAxX Was it for this that many a pile, Pride of Ilissus and the Nile, To Anio's banks the image lent Of each imperial monument ? Now Athens weeps her shattered fanes, Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains ; And the proud fabrics Hadrian reared From Tiber's vale have disappeared. We need no prescient sibyl there The doom of grandeur to declare ; JEach stone, where^eeds and ivy climb. Reveals some oracle of time r Each relic utters Fate's decree, — The future as the past shall be. Halls of the dead ! in Tiber's vale Who now shall tell your lofty tale ? Who trace the high patrician's dome, The bard's retreat, the hero's home ? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world's departed lord. In scenes where verdure's rich array Still sheds young beauty or decay. And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still. Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, Hadrian ! hath shared a j)rouder doom. Though vanished with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould ; Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought. Each bodying some immortal thought. Which o'er the temple of the dead Serene but solemn beauty shed. r» THE CITY OF MY LOVE 297 Have found, like glory's self, a grave In time's abyss or Tiber's wave ; Yet dreams more lofty and more fair Than Art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, Hif'h thoughts of many a mortal mind Expanding when all else declined. In twilight years, when only they Recalled the radiance passed away. Have made that ancient pile their home. Fortress of freedom and of Rome. Felicia Hemans THE CITY OF MY LOVE NC SHE sits among the eternal hills. Their crown, thrice glorious and dear. Her voice is as a thousand tongues Of silver fountains, gurgling clear ; Her breath is prayer, her life is love. And worship of all lovely things ; ^ Her children have a gracious port. Her beggars show the blood of kings. By old Tradition guarded close, None doubt the grandeur she has seen ; Upon her venerable front Is written : " I was born a Queen ! '' She rules the age by Beauty's power, As once she ruled by arm^d might ; The Southern sun doth treasure her Deep in his golden heart of light. »^ 298 SKIES ITALIAN Awe strikes the traveller when he sees The vision of her distant dome, And a stranf^e spasm wrings his heart As the guide whispers, "There is Rome ! Rome of the Romans ! where the gods Of Greek Olympus long held sway ; Rome of the Christian, Peter's tomb, The Zion of our later day. Rome, the mailed Virgin of the world. Defiance on her brows and breast ; Rome, to voluptuous pleasure won, Debauched, and locked in drunken rest. Rome, in her intellectual day, Europe's intriguing step-dame grown ; Rome, bowed to weakness and decay, A canting, mass-frequenting crone. Then the unlettered man plods on. Half chiding at the spell he feels, The artist pauses at the gate, And on the wondrous threshold kneels. The sick man lifts his languid head For those soft skies and balmy airs ; The pil grim tries a quicker pace, And hugs remorse, and patters prayers. For even the grass that feeds the herds Methinks some unknown virtue yields ; The very hinds in reverence tread The precincts of the ancient fields. ROME 299 But wrapt in gloom of night and death, I crept to thee, dear mother Rome ; And in thy hospitable heart Found rest and comfort, health and home. And friendships, warm and living still. Although their dearest joys are fled ; True sympathies, that bring to life That better self, so often dead. For all the wonder that thou wert. For all the dear delight thou art. Accept a homage from my lips. That warms again a wasted heart. And, though it seem a childish prayer, I've breathed it oft, that when I die, As thy remembrance dear in it, That heart in thee might buried lie. Julia Ward Howe ROME " T F ever I in Rome should dwell, — 1 Rome, the desired of all my heart, — Amidst that world loved long and well, The infinite world of ancient art ; *^ And there, by graves so dear to fame, A dreaming poet, cast my lot ; What voice within would whisper shame. Were England and her needs forgot ! " 300 SKIES ITALIAN So to myself, with museful mouth, I said long since, the while I paced, With heart that trembled towards the south. Through London's coiled and stony waste. How doubly dreary seemed the smoke, The sunless noon, the starless even, When o'er my dream a vision broke, — Italy ! or the courts of Heaven ! Now, walking on this Pincian Hill, And watching where the day declines (Gilding the Cross of Peter still) By Monte Mario's fringe of pines. Almost, I think, the heart might grow Forgetful of its earlier ties. And all its life-blood learn to flow Familiar with Italian skies. Not with the love of brain or soul. But with that fiery strength we use In leaning towards the strong control Of what we must, not what we choose. As mother for child, as wife for spouse. As one long exiled yearns for home, As sinner for the Heavenly House, So yearned, so loved I thee, O Rome ! Now I have seen thee, — seen the plains, The desolate plains where thou dost lie ; W^here many a rock-built tomb complains Of some great name or race gone by, ROME 301 And past the walls that round thee sweep Have daily ridden,— walls sublime ! Which girdle in thy power, and keep Inviolate from the hands of Time. Just touched and softened by decay. Each gate some glorious year recalls ; Kings! Consuls! Emperors! Saints! were they Who mile by mile linked walls to walls. All ancient cities, though great they be (And London counts by tens of tens). Seem pygmy towns compared to thee ; While Lincoln, throned amidst her fens. And York upon her meadow-side (A thousand milestones on her road), Are footprints, just to show the stride With which the giant C«sar strode ! Yet here, where Caesar lies in state. Amidst the cypress and the rose, A lovelier mountain mourns his fate, A nobler river swiftlier flows. starlit streets of ancient Rome, Baptized in blood of Christian men I Happy the hearts that call ye home. And feet that toward ye turn again ! 1 oft in dreams shall seem to see Hills where the olive and the vine Fall rippling down to meet the sea ; Or underneath the branching pine :1-| 302 SKIES ITATJAN Shall watch the storm-clouds sweeping by, Down from the Alban Mount in swirls, And, blackening all the vaulted sky, Rush tangling through our sculptor's curls. Ah ! not too distant fall that day When I, a pilgrim far from home, Shall hear upon the Aurelian Way, ** A I Ions f postilion, vite ! a Rome." Bessie Rayner Parkes THE FOUNTAIN OF TREVI THE Coliseum lifts at night Its broken cells more proudly far Than in the noonday's naked light. For every rent enshrines a star : On Casar's hill the royal Lar Presides within his mansion old : Decay and Death no longer mar The moon's atoning mist of gold. Still lingering near the shrines renewed, We sadly, fondly, look our last ; Each trace concealed of spoilage rude From old or late iconoclast. Till, Trajan's whispering forum passed, We hear the waters, showering bright, Of Trevi's ancient fountain, cast Their woven music on the night. The Genius of the Tiber nods Benign, above his tilted urn : Kneel down and drink ! the beckoning gods This last libation will not spurn. ROME 303 Drink, and the old enchantment learn That hovers yet o'er Trevi's foam, — The promise of a sure return, Fresh footsteps in the dust of Rome ! Kneel down and drink ! the golden days Here lived and dreamed shall dawn again ; Albano's hill, through purple haze. Again shall crown the Latin plain. Whatever stains of Time remain. Left by the years that intervene, Lo ! Trevi's fount shall toss its rain To wash the pilgrim's forehead clean. Drink, and depart ! for Life is just ; She gives to Faith a master-key To ope the gates of dream august. And take from joys in memory The certainty of joys to be ; And Trevi's basins shall be bare Ere we again shall fail to see Their silver in the Roman air. Bayard Tat/ lor ROME A HIGH and naked square, a lonely palm ; Columns thrown down, a high and lonely tower ; The tawny river, ominously fouled ; Cypresses in a garden, old with calm ; Two monks who pass in white, sandalled and cowled ; Empires of glory in a narrow hour it i 304 SKIES ITALIAN From sunset into starlight, when the sky Wakened to death behind St Peter's dome : That, in an eyehd's hfting, you and I Will see whenever any man says *' Rome." Arthur Symons THE SOUTH u w ■m THE SOUTH CAPUA FIRST of old Oscan towns ! Prize of triumphs, pearl of crowns ; Half a thousand years have fled, Since arose thy royal head, Splendour of the Lucumoes. Tuscan fortress, doomed to feel Sharpest edge of Samnite steel, Flashing down the Liris tide ; Re-arisen, in richer pride. Cynosure of Italy ! Let the Gaurian echoes say How, with Rome, we ruled the fray ; Till the fatal field was won By the chief who slew his son, 'Neath the vines of Vesulus. Siren city, where the plain Glitters twice with golden grain. Twice the bowers of roses blow. Twice the grapes and olives flow. Thou wilt chain the conqueror ; 308 SKIES ITALIAN Home of war-subduing eyes, Shining under softest skies, Gleaming to the silver sea, Liber, Venus, strive for thee, Empress of Ausonia ! Glorious in thy martial bloom, Glorious still in storm and gloom. We thy chiefs who dare to die Raise again thy battle-cry,— Charge with Capuan chivalry ' John ^lchol ■; I NAPLES DELIGHTFUL city of Parthenope, Still the soft airs that fan thee seem en- chanted; By song and beauty crescent shores still haunted Along thy bright bay, once the siren's sea . Well I remember, gazing now on thee, The wishful dreams, with which my childhood panted. Of charms, in volumes of dumb Latin vaunted , Or vowelled in rich Italian melody. From Capri's rocky isle, where ruins gray The memory of the first proud Caesars rear To where Misenus overlooks the bay,— Rome's galley-navy used to anchor near,— The shades of yore, the lights of yesterday, Hallow each wall and wave and headland here. William Gibson STANZAS 309 STANZAS {Written in Dejection^ near Naples) / THE sun is warm, the sky is clear. The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon's transparent might. The breath of the moist earth is light. Around its unexpanded buds ; Like many a voice of one delight. The winds, the birds, the ocean floods. The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. II I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore. Like lights dissolved in star-showers, thrown : I sit upon the sands alone. The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion. How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. Ill Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. Nor peace within nor calm around. Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found. 310 SKIES ITALIAN And walked with inward glory crowned— Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround ; — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;— To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. IV Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a tired child. And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear. Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold. As I, when this sweet day is gone. Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan ; They might lament— for I am one Whom men love not,— and yet regret. Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. Percy Bysshe Shelley VIRGIL'S TOMB 311 THE SIBYL'S CAVE AT CUMAE CUMEAN Sibyl ! from thy sultry cave Thy dark eyes level with the sulphurous ground Through the gloom flashing, roll in wrath around. What see they? Coasts perpetual earthquakes pave With ruin ; piles half buried in the wave ; Wrecks of old times and new in lava drowned ;— And festive crowds, sin-steeped and myrtle- crowned ; Like idiots dancing on a parent's grave. And they foresee. Those pallid lips with pain Suppress their thrilling whispers. Sibyl, spare ! Could Wisdom's voice divide yon sea, or rear A new Vesuvius from its flaming plane. Futile the warning ! Power despised ! forbear To deepen guilt by counsel breathed in vain ! Aubrey de Fere VIRGIL'S TOMB WE seek, as twilight saddens into gloom, A poet's sepulchre ; and here it is,— The summit of a tufa precipice. Ah ! precious every drape of myrtle bloom And leaf of laurel crowning Virgil's tomb ! The low vault entering, hark ! what sound is this? The night is black beneath us in the abyss. Through one damp port disclosed, as from earth's womb, 11 III 312 SKIES ITALIAN That rumbling sound appals us ! Through the steep Is hewn Posilipo's most marvellous grot ; And to the prince of Roman bards, whose sleep Is in this singular and lonely spot, Doth a wild rumour give a wizard's name, Linking a tunnelled road to Virgil's fame ! IVilliam Gibson VIRGIL'S TOMB *'Cecini pascua, nira, duces, ♦» ON an olive-crested steep Hanging o'er the dusty road, Lieth in his last abode, Wrapped in everlasting sleep, He who in the days of yore Sang of pastures, sang of farms, Sang of heroes and their arms. Sang of passion, sang of war. When the lark at dawning tells, Herald like, the coming day. And along the dusty way Comes the sound of tinkling bells. Rising to the tomb aloft, While some modern Corydon Drives his bleating cattle on From the stable to the croft : Then the soul of Virgil seems To awaken from its dreams, To sing again the melodies VESUVIUS 313 Of which he often tells,— The music of the birds, The lowing of the herds, The tinkling of the bells. Robert Cameron Bogers VESUVIUS 1 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, 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 ? O, vain belief!, for here, our records tell, RomVs understanding tyrant from men's sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel. The shame of his dishonourable age. Ill II As when unto a mother, having chid Her child in anger, there have straight ensued Repentings for her quick and angry mood. Till she would fain see all its traces hid ir 314 SKIES ITALIAN Quite out of sight,— even so has Nature bid Fair flowers, that on the scarred earth she has strewed. To blossom, and called up the taller wood To cover what she ruined and undid. O, and her mood of anger did not last More than an instant, but her work of peace. Restoring and repairing, comforting The Earth, her stricken child, will never cease : For that was her strange work, and quickly past ; To this her genial toil no end the years shall bring. Ill That her destroying fury was with noise And sudden uproar ; but far otherwise. With silent and with secret ministries. Her skill of renovation she employs ; For Nature, only loud when she destroys, Is silent when she fashions ; she will crowd The work of her destruction, transient, loud. Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys. Yea, every power that fashions and upholds Works silently, — all things, whose life is sure. Their life is calm; silent the light that moulds And colours all things ; and without debate The stars, which are forever to endure, Assume their thrones and their unquestioned state. Richard Cheienlv Trench POMPEII 315 il^ VESUVIUS BUT, lo ! the burning mountain's lava cone Fill's up the vision ! Ever does it breathe From its hot chasms thick sulphur-clouds, which wreathe Its summit when the still air is unblown. Mid-height, the mount, with luscious grape o'ergrown. Swarms with live villages ; while underneath The surface do the no less live flames seethe The Titan's heart ; convulsed agony shown In quake and rending of the solid earth ! Not seldom, with a throe more terrible, He bursts his bonds, and blazes armed forth With vengeance engined in his lurid hell ! Beautiful in thy play, O Spirit of Fire, Mountains may crush not thine unconquerable ri I ire William Gibson POMPEII BRIGHT was the sky and blue the sea, when I On the paved causeway of Pompeii stood. Perplexed at my amazing solitude : The silent forum, open to the sky, The empty barracks of the soldiery, The stone mills fixed to grind the daily food, The houses of the rich and poorer brood, Bath, temple, theatre, I sauntered by. >i|: 316 SKIES ITALIAN Surely, methought, the folk hath left its home But for excursion or high holiday ; And soon shall I behold them swarming back, Like busy bees that buzz about their comb. Or those gregarious birds whose aery track Instinctive, nestward, points their evening way. Jolm Bruce Norton POMPEII THE silence there was what most haunted me. Long speechless streets, whose stepping- stones invite Feet which shall never come ; to left and right Gay colonnades and courts,— beyond the glee. Heartless, of that forgetful Pagan sea ; On roofless homes and waiting streets the light Lies with a pathos sorrowfuUer than night. Fancy forbids this doom of Life with Death Wedded, and with her wand restores the Life. The jostling throngs swarm, animate, beneath The open shops, and all the tropic strife Of voices, Roman, Greek, Barbarian, mix. The wreath Indolent hangs on far Vesuvius* crest ; And over all the glowing town and guiltless sea, sweet rest. Thomas Gold Appleton POMPEII I TROD old footprints in their streets, their halls,— The people of Pompeii ! and I heard — As, along pillared vistas, light winds stirred The natural-leaved Corinthian capitals — SORRENTO 317 Rustlings,like wide-waved skirts,and plaintive calls And answers, as though gods were disinterred With these, their antique altars, sepulchred Long as the Csesars. How came perfect walls Of fresco thus unroofed ? As falls the foot On rich mosaic, in domestic courts. The marble echo with vain reason sports ; The Lares are all too vivid to be mute ! Plash on,Ofount,— they told me thou wast dried! Was thine that lyre, lone ?— Glaucus calls his William Gibson =lf^^ Land SORRENTO SORRENTO ! Bright star ! Of myrtle and vine, I come from a far land To kneel at thy shrine ; Thy brow wears a garland, O, weave one for mine ! Her mirror thy city Fair finds in the sea, — A youth sings a pretty Song, tempered with glee,— ^ The mirth and the ditty Are mournful to me. Ah, sea boy, how strange is The carol you sing ! Let Psyche, who ranges The gardens of Spring, Remember the changes December will bring. Frederick Locker-Lampson 318 SKIES ITALIAN M if I- $ SORRENTO MIDWAY betwixt the present and the past, Naples and Paestum, look ! Sorrento lies : Ulysses built it, and the Sirens cast Their spell upon the shore, the sea, the skies. If thou hast dreamed, in any dream of thine, How Paradise appears, or those Elysian Immortal meadows which the gods assign Unto the pure of heart,— behold thy vision ! These waters, they are blue beyond belief. Nor hath green England greener fields than these : The sun,— 'tis Italy's ; here winter's brief And gentle visit hardly chills the breeze. Here Tasso dwelt, and here inhaled with spring The breath of passion and the soul of song. Here young Boccaccio plumed his early wing, Thenceforth to soar above the vulgar throng. AH charms of contrast — every nameless grace That lives in outline, harmony, or hue — So heighten all the romance of the place. That the rapt artist maddens at the view. And then despairs, and throws his pencil by, And sits all day and looks upon the shore And the calm ocean with a languid eye, As though to labour were a law no more. TASSO'S HOUSE 319 Voluptuous coast ! no wonder that the proud Imperial Roman found in yonder isle Some sunshine still to gild Fate's gathering clcud And lull the storm of conscience for a while. What new Tiberius, tired of lust and life, May rest him here to give the world a truce, — A little truce from perjury and strife. Justice adulterate and power's misuse? Might the gross Bourbon,— he that sleeps in spite Of red Vesuvius ever in his eye. Yet, if he wake, should tremble at its light, As 'twere Heaven's ve ngeance, promised from on high, — Or that poor gamester, of so cunning play, Who, up at last, in Fortune's fickle dance. Aping the mighty in so mean a way. Makes now his dice the destinies of France, — Might they, or any of Oppression's band, Sit here and learn the lesson of the scene. Peace might return to many a bleeding land. And men grow just again, and life serene. Thomas William Parsons \^ WRITTEN IN TASSO'S HOUSE AT SORRENTO O LEONORA, here thy Tasso dwelt. Secure, ere yet thy beauty he had seen : Here with bright face and unterrestrial mien He walked, ere yet thy shadow he had felt. 320 SKIES ITALIAN From that green rock he watched the sunset melt, On through the waves; yon cavern was his screen, When first those hills, which gird the glowing scene. Were thronged with heavenly warriors, and he knelt To hail the vision ! Siren baths to him Were nothing ; Pagan grot, or classic fane. Or glisteningpavementseen through billowsdim. Far, far o'er these he gazed on Judah's plain ; And more than manhood wrought was in the boy, — Why did the stranger meddle in his joy ? Aubrey de Vere SORRENTO THE midnight, thick with cloud. Hangs o'er the city's jar. The spirit's shell is in the crowd. The spirit is afar ; Far, where in shadowy gloom Sleeps the dark orange grove, My sense is drunk with its perfume. My heart with love. The slumbrous, whispering sea Creeps up the sands to lay Its sliding bosom fringed with pearis Upon the rounded bay. List ! all the trembling leaves Are rustling overhead. Where purple grapes are hanging dark On the trellised loggia spread. ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY 321 Far off, a misted cloud. Hangs fair Inarime. The boatman's song from the lighted boat Rises from out the sea. We listen, — then thy voice Pours forth a honeyed rhyme ; Ah ! for the golden nights we passed In our Italian time. There is the laugh of girls That walk along the shore. The marinaio calls to them As he suspends his oar. Vesuvius rumbles sullenly. With fitful lurid gleam. The background of all Naples life. The nightmare of its dream. O lovely, lovely Italy, I yield me to thy spell ! Reach the guitar, my dearest friend, We'll sing, '' Home ! fare thee well ! " world of work and noise, What spell hast thou for me ? The siren Beauty charms me here. Beyond the sea. ^^ William Wetmore Story THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY {Piano di Sorrento) FORTU, Fortii, my beloved one. Sit here by my side. On my knees put up both little feet ! I was sure, if I tried, 1 could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, X 322 SKIES ITALIAN Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads ; All the Plain saw me gather, 1 garland The flowers or the weeds. Time for rain ! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches. Marked Uke a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,— speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back As I told you last night,— Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree : And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side. Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting. Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets, Which woke me before 1 could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone. And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY 323 Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net- poles. While, busy beneath. Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying. The girls took the frails under cover : Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing. For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No seeing our skiff* Arrive about noon from Amalfi, — Our fisher arrive. And pitch down his basket before us, All trembHng alive With pink and gray jellies, your sea fruit ; You touch the strange lumps. And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps ; Himself too as bare to the middle — You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended. That saves him from wreck. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, So back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vine- yards Grape-harvest began. m fi! ^ # i 324 SKIES ITALIAN In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins. While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master,- In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder. And eyes shut against the rain's driving ; Your girls that are older, — For under the hedges of aloe. And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red. All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,— Your best of regales. As to-night will be proved to my sorrow. When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen. Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes. And gourds fried in great purple slices. That colour of popes. Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your Ups Still follows with fretful persistence : ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY 325 Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake. Like an onion, each smoother and whiter ; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine ; And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves through its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose ! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track. Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Though not yet half black ! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all. For here comes the whole of the tempest ! No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep. Oh, how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows ? Last eve, I rode over the mountains ; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,— Or strip from the sorbs ^^ 326 SKIES ITALIAN A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs ! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognised down in the valley His mates on their way With the faggots and barrels of water ; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow ; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged. Though the wild path grew wilder each insUnt, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath — Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume- weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, spite the wind's wrath. So loves the salt rock's face to seaward. And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And . . . what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale sea-green leaves ; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves. Still, foot after foot like a lady, Till, round after round. ^^^ ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY 327 He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains. And under, the sea. And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be. Oh, heaven and terrible crystal ! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement ! Still moving with you ; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder ; you see it If quickly you turn And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) —Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches. The wild fruit-trees bend, F;en the myrtle-leaves curi, shrink and shut : All is silent and grave : 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair ! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea ; and there slumbered As greenly as ever. Those isles of the siren, your Galli ; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,— halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses- No farther to-day. f MM n 328 SKIES ITALIAN Though the small one, just launched in the wave Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already. Fortu, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides ? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, though unseen, That ruffle the gray glassy water To glorious green ? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore. On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards ; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear ? —The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago. He heard and he knew this life's secret 1 hear and I know. I; I ij Ah, see I The sun breaks o'er Calvano ; He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see the gypsy, Our tinker and smith. Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY 329 To his hammering, under the wall there ; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews' -harp to proof. While the other, through locks of curled wire. Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall —Chew abbot's own cheek! All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go. And see the fine things got in order At church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening ; To-morrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least. As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers ; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar Ablaze with long tapers ; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold. Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse. Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp 141 W ' Pit 330 SKIES ITALIAN Through the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters. Religiously popped ; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. At all events, come— to the garden As far as the wall ; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers ! — " Such trifles ! " you say ? Fortu, in my England at home. Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise —If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies ! Robert Browning 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. Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. AMALFI In the middle of the town. From its fountains in the hills. Tumbling through its narrow gorge. 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, 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. Stately figures tall and straight. What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil ? 331 Lord of vineyards and of lands. Far above, the convent stands. 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; 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. And as indolent as he. \ .f f >1 \m\ » II 332 SKIES ITALIAN Where are now the freighted barks From the mart of east and west ? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, 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, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines ? Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast. 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 ; 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 ! 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 On the dim discovered coast AMALFI 333 Pgestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. 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, 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 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. 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. Comes this memory of delight. Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea. Henry Wadsnorth Longfellow a 334 SKIES ITALIAN M DRIFTING Y soul to-day Is far away. Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat, A bird afloat. Swims round the purple peaks remote Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duphcated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim. The mountains swim ; While on Vesuvius' misty brim With outstretched hands The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles ; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits. Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. DRIFTING I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. 335 Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals. At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day so mild, Is Heaven's own child. With earth and ocean reconciled ; — The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail. O joy intense. The cooling sense (jlides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies, — O'erveiled with vines. She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. 336 SKIES ITxVLIAN Her children hid The cliffs amid. Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; Or down the walls With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks Ifke waterfalls. The fisher s child With tresses wild. Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. With glowing lips, Sings as she skips. Or gazes at the far-off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows. From lands of sun to lands of snows ;— This happier one. Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip ! O happy crew. My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise ! Thomas Buchanan Read CAPRI 337 CAPRI THERE is an isle, kissed by a smiling sea, Where all sweet confluents meet : a thing of heaven, A spent aerolite, that well may be The missing sister of the starry Seven. Celestial beauty nestles at its knee. And in its lap is naught of earthly leaven. Tis girt and crowned with loveliness; its year. Eternal summer ; winter comes not near. 'Tis small, as things of beauty ofttimes are, And in a morning round it you may row. Nor need a tedious haste your bark debar From gliding inwards where the ripples flow Into strange grots whose roofs are azure spar. Whose pavements liquid silver. Mild winds blow Around your prow, and at your keel the foam. Leaping and laughing, freshly wafts you home. They call the island Capri,— with a name Dulling an airy dream, just as the soul Is clogged with body palpable,— and Fame Hath long while winged the word from pole to pole. Its human story is a tale of shame, Of all unnatural lusts a gory scroll, Record of what, when pomp and power agree, Man once hath been, and man again may be. Y 338 SKIES ITALIAN Terrace and slope from shore to summit show Of all rich climes the glad-surrendered spoil. Here the bright olive's phantom branches glow, There the plump fig sucks sweetness from the soil. 'Mid odorous flowers that through the Zodiac blow, Returning tenfold to man's leisured toil, Hesperia's fruit hangs golden. High in air, The vine runs riot, spurning human care. And flowers of every hue and breath abound, Charming the sense ; the burning cactus glows, Like daisies elsewhere dappling all the ground, And in each cleft the berried myrtle blows. The playful lizard glides and darts around. The elfin fireflies flicker o'er the rows Of ripened grain. Alien to pain and wrong, Men fill the days with dance, the nights with ^''"^- Alfred Austin THE AZURE GROTTO BENEATH the vine-clad slopes of Capri's Isle, Which run down to the margin of that sea Whose waters kiss the sweet Parthenope, There is a grot whose rugged front the while Frowns only dark when all is seen to smile. But enter, and behold ! surpassing fair The magic sight that meets your vision there,— Not heaven ! with all its broad expanse of blue, Gleams coloured with a sheen so rich, so rare. So changing in its clear, translucent hue ; IXARIME 339 1 Glassed in the lustrous wave, the walls and roof Shine as does silver scattered through the woof Of some rich robe, or bright as stars whose light Inlays the azure concave of the night. II You cannot find throughout this world, I ween. Waters so fair as those within this cave, Colour like that which flashes from the wave, Or which is steeped in such cerulean sheen As here gleams forth within this grotto's screen. And when the oar the boatman gently takes And dips it in the flood, a fiery glow. Ruddy as phosphor, stirs in depths below; Each ripple into burning splendour breaks As though some hidden fires beneath did lie Waiting a touch to kindle into flame. And shine in radiance on the dazzled eye. As sparkling up from wells of light they came. To make this grot a glory far and nigh. Charles D. Bell INARIME {Vitloria Colonna, after the death of her hushavd, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at hchia (^Inarime), and there trrote the ode upon his death which gained her the title of Divine) ONCE more, once more, Inarime, I see thy purple hills ! — once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. I 340 SKIES ITALIAN High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A mouldering landmark of the Past. Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro ; It is Colonna,— it is she Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life. That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom. The weariness, the endless pain Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees. The odour of the orange-blooms. The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms ; The respiration of the sea, The soft caresses of the air. All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair ; PiESTUM 341 Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Imprisoned in itself, found vent And voice in one impassioned song Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight. Transmutes to gold the leaden mist. Her life was interfused with light. From realms that, though unseen, exist. Inarim^ ! Inarime ! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay. But not the memory of her love. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow P.^STUxM THERE, down Salerno's bay. In deserts far away. Over whose solitudes The dread malaria broods, No labour tills the land, — Only the fierce brigand, Or shepherd, wan and lean O'er the wild plains is seen. Yet there, a lovely dream, Theje Grecian temples gleam. Whose form and mellowed tone Rival the Parthenon. The Sybarite no more Comes hither to adore, With perfumed offering. The ocean god and king. The deity is fled Long since, but, in his stead, m 1 IP 11 342 SKIES ITALIAN The smiling sea is seen, The Doric shafts between ; And round the time-worn base Climb vines of tender grace, And Paestum's roses still The air with fragance fill. Christopher Pearce Cranch MARE MEDITERRANEUM ALINE of light I it is the inland sea, The least in compass and the first in fame ; The gleaming of its waves recalls to me Full many an ancient name. As through my dreamland float the days of old, The forms and features of their heroes shine : I see Phoenician sailors bearing gold From the Tartessian mine. Seeking new worlds, storm-tossed Ulysses ploughs Remoter surges of the winding main ; And Grecian captains come to pay their vows, Or gather up the slain. I see the temples of the Violet Crown Burn upward in the hour of glorious flight ; And mariners of uneclipsed renown, Who won the great sea-fight. I hear the dashing of a thousand oars. The angry waters take a deeper dye ; A thousand echoes vibrate from the shores With Athens' battle-cry. MARE MEDITERRANEUM 343 Again the Carthaginian rovers sweep. With sword and commerce, on from shore to shore ; In visionary storms the breakers leap Round Syrtes, as of yore. Victory, sitting on the Seven Hills, Had gained the world when she had mastered thee ; Thy bosom with the Roman war-note thrills. Wave of the inland sea. H Then, singing as they sail in shining ships, I see the monarch minstrels of Romance, And hear their praises murmured through the lips Of the fair dames of France. Across the deep another music swells. On Adrian bays a later splendour smiles ; Power hails the marble city where she dwells Queen of a hundred isles. Westward the galleys of the Crescent roam. And meet the Pisan ; challenge on the breeze. Till the long Dorian palace lords the foam With stalwart Genoese. But the light fades ; the vision wears away ; I see the mist above the dreary wave. Blow, winds of Freedom, give another day Of glory to the brave ! John Nichol I 344 SKIES ITALIAN TAORMINA GARDENS of olive, gardens of almond, gardens of lemon, down to the shore, Terrace on terrace, lost in the hollow ravines where the stony torrents pour ; Spurs of the mountain-side thrusting above them rocky capes in the quiet air, Silvery-green with thorned vegetation, sprawling lobes of the prickly pear ; High up, the eagle-nest, small Mola's ruin, cling- ing and hanging over the fall ; Nobly the lofty, castle-cragged hilltop, famed Taormina, looketh o'er all. Southward the purple Mediterranean rounds the far-shimmering, long-fingered capes ; Twenty sea-leagues has the light travelled ere out of azure yon headland it shapes ; Purple the distance, deep indigo under, save by the beach the emerald door. Save just below where, ever emerging, lakes of mother-of-pearl drift o'er ; Deep purple northward, over the Straits, as far as the long Calabrian blue ; Front more majestic of sea-mountains nowhere is there uplifted the whole earth through. Seaward so vast the prospect envelops one-half of the w^orld of the wave and the sky : Landward the ribbon of hill-slanted orchards blossoming down from the mountains high ; Beautiful, mighty ; — yet ever I leave it, lose and forget it in yon awful clime, i ETNA 345 iEtna, out of the sea-floor raising slowly its long- skied ridge sublime ; Heavily snow-capped, bossed and sculptured, massive, immense, alone, entire ; Clear are the hundred white-coped craters sunk in the wrinkled winter there ; Smoke from the summit cloud-like trailing lessens and swells and drags on the air ; JEtna, the snow, the fire, the forest, lightning and flood and ashy gale ; Terrible out of thy caverns flowing, the burning heaven, the dark, hot hail ! .Etna, the garden-sweet mother of vineyard, corn-tilth, and fruits that hang from the sky ; Bee-pastured .Etna ; it charms me, it holds me, it fills me — than life is it more nigh ; Till into darkness withdrawn, dense darkness; and far below from the deep-set shore Glimmers the long white surf, and uprises the old Trinacrian roar. George Edward Woodberry [Reprinted by special permission of Messrs Macmillan] ETNA THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts Thick breaks the red flame ; All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame. Not here, O Apollo ! Are haunts meet for thee. But where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea. ? i ii I 346 SKIES ITALIAN Where the moon-silvered inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O, speed, and rejoice ! On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks ; On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks ; In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lulled by the rills. Lie wrapt in their blankets, Asleep on the hills. What forms are these coming So white through the gloom ? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom ? What sweet-breathing presence Outperfumes the thyme ? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime ? 'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine. The leader is fairest, But all are divine. They are lost in the hollows ! They stream up again ! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train ? ARETHUSA 347 They bathe on this mountain. In the spring by their road ; Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode ! Whose praise do they mention ? Of what is it told ? What will be forever ; What was from of old. First hymn they the Father Of all things ; and then The rest of immortals, The action of men. The day in his hotness. The strife with the palm ; The night in her silence. The stars in their calm Matthew Arnold Al ARETHUSA RETHUSA arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains ; From cloud and from crag With many a jag. Shepherding her bright fountains. She leapt down the rocks, With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams ; Her steps paved with green The downward ravine Which slopes to the western gleams ; 348 SKIES ITALIAN And gliding and springing, She went, ever singing, In murmurs as soft as sleep. The earth seemed to love her. And heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep. Then Alpheus bold, On his glacier cold. With his trident the mountains strook ; And opened a chasm In the rocks ; — with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south-wind It concealed behind The urns of the silent snow. And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below ; The beard and the hair Of the river-god were Seen through the torrent's sweep. As he followed the light Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep. I " O, save me ! O, guide me. And bid the deep hide me. For he grasps me now by the hair ! " The loud ocean heard. To its blue depths stirred, And divided at her prayer ; ARETHUSA 349 And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam ; Behind her descended Her billows, unblended With the brackish Dorian stream ; Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main Alpheus rushed behind, — As an eagle pursuing A dove to its ruin Down the streams of the cloudy wind. Under the bowers Where the ocean powers Sit on their pearled thrones ; Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones ; Through the dim beams Which amid the streams Weave a network of coloured light ; And under the caves. Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night ; — Outspeeding the shark. And the sword-fish dark. Under the ocean foam. And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts They passed to their Dorian home. And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks. 1 350 SKIES ITALIAN Like friends once parted, Grown single-hearted. They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill ; At noontide they flow Through the woods below And the meadows of asphodel ; And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore ; — Like spirits that lie In the azure sky When they love but live no more. Percy Bysalic S/icllcy MEDITATIONS MEDITATIONS BIRTHRIGHT YOU pelt me for barbarian. Little son of Italy, Your laughing sister cries you on, Mischief-dancing, prettily. Yet to your cerulean sky Which more native, you or I ? You peasant, in your stage-land cloak, Turning out so charily To let me pass, below your brow Though you eye me warily. To your cypress-pillared sky Which more native, you or I ? My scornful goatherd — while your flock Clips the young flowers fragrantly — Up the long hill to Tusculum Loitering, singing vagrantly. Where that green path meets the sky Which has birthright, you or I ? You will but sit and take the sun On the warm stones prosily ; For me will come old dreams, old loves, Old Pan piping dozily. Ah, to this memorial sky Which more native, you or I .'' Maud Caldwell Perry z 353 354 SKIES ITALIAN TO ITALY OLAND of beauty, garlanded with pine And luscious grape-vines, 'neath whose vaulted skies Of blue eternal, marble mansions rise. And roseate flowers from every lattice shine ! Still have the nations striven from of yore For thy fair fields, lovely as Eden's plain ; Thy temples, and thy cities by the main Throned hoar and gray upon the rocky shore. Who hath seen thee, O, never in his breast The heart grows wholly old ! Some youthful zest Of life still lingers : some bright memory ! And when the nightingales in autumn chill Fly forth, a yearning stirs his spirit still To fly with them toward sunny Italy ! Anonymous TO ITALY (^Frotn Filicaja) ITALY ! Italy ! thou who'rt doomed to wear The fatal gift of beauty, and possess The dower funest of infinite wretchedness Written upon thy forehead by despair ; Ah ! would that thou wert stronger, or less fair. That they might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who in the splendour of thy loveliness Seem wasting, yet to mortal combat dare ! TO ITALY 355 Then from the Alps I should not see descending Such torrents of armed men, nor Gallic horde Drinking the wave of Po, distained with gore. Nor should I see thee girded with a sword Not thine, and with the stranger's arm con- tending, Victor or vanquished, slave for evermore. Henry Wadsivorth Longfellow TO ITALY O ITALY, my country ! I behold Thy columns, and thine arches, and thy walls. And the })roud statues of our ancestors ; The laurel and the mail with which our sires Were clad, these I behold not, nor their fame. Why thus unarmed, with naked breast and brow ? What means that livid paleness, those deep wounds.^ To heaven and earth I raise my voice, and ask What hand hath brought thee to this low estate. Who, worse than all, hath loaded thee with chains. So that, unveiled and with dishevelled hair. Thou sittest on the ground disconsolate. Hiding thy weeping face between thy knees .^ Ah, weep, Italia I thou hast cause to weep ! Degraded and forlorn. Yes, were thine eyes Two living fountains, never could thy tears Equal thy desolation and thy shame ! Fallen .'—ruined !— lost ! who writes or speaks of thee. But, calling unto mind thine ancient fame. Exclaims, " Once she was mighty ! Is this she } " Where is thy vaunted strength, thy high resolve .- 356 SKIES ITALIAN Who from thy belt hath torn the warrior sword ? How hast thou fallen from thy pride of place To this abyss of misery ! Are there none To combat for thee, to defend thy cause ? To arms ! Alone I'll fight and fall for thee ! Content if my best blood strike forth one spark To fire the bosoms of my countrymen. Where are thy sons ! I hear the clang of arms, The din of voices, and the bugle-note ; Sure they are fighting for a noble cause ! Yes, one faint hope remains, — I see, — I see The fluttering of banners in the breeze ; I hear the tramp of horses and of men. The roar of cannon, and, like glittering lamps Amid the darkening gloom, the flash of swords. Is there no comfort ? And who combat there In that Italian camp ? Alas, ye gods, Italian brands fight for a foreign lord ! O, miserable those whose blood is shed Not for their native land, for wife or child, But for a stranger lord, — who cannot say With dying breath, " My country I [ restore The life thou givest, and gladly die — for thee ! " Giacomo Leopard i, tr. Anon. TO ITALY FAIR land, once loved of Heaven o'er all beside, Which blue waves gird and lofty mountains screen Thou clime of fertile fields and sky serene. Whose gay expanse the Apennines divide ! CITTA D'lTALIA 357 What boots it now, that Rome's old warlike pride Left thee of humbled earth and sea the queen ? Nations, that served thee then, now fierce con- vene To tear thy locks and strew them o'er the tide. And lives there son of thine so base at core, Who, luring foreign friends to thy embrace, Stabs to the heart thy beauteous, bleeding frame ? Are these the noble deeds of ancient fame .'* Thus do ye God's almighty name adore } O hardened age ! O false and recreant race ! Pietro BemhOf tr. Anon. CITTA D'ITALIA [" The following lines of some unknown author, descriptive of Italian towns, are taken from James Howell's ' Signorie of Yenice,' 1 65 1 . The orthog- raphy has been modernized." — " Poems of Places," ed. Longfellow.] FAM A tra noi ; Roma pomposa e santa ; Yenezia ricca, saggia, signorile ; Napoli odorifera e gentile ; Fiorenza bella tutto il mondo canta ; Grande Milano in Italia si vanta ; Bologna grassa, e Ferrara civile ; Padova dotta, e Bergamo sottile ; Genova di superbia altiera pianta ; Verona degna, e Perugia sanguigna ; Brescia I'armata, e Mantova gloriosa ; 358 SKIES ITALIAN Rimini buona^ e Pistoja ferrigna ; Cremona antica, e Lucca industriosa ; Furli bizzarro, e Ravenna benigna ; E Sinigaglia dell' aria nojosa ; E Capua I'amorosa ; Pisa frondente, e Pesaro giardino ; Ancona bel porto al pellegrino ; Fedelissimo Urbino ; Ascoli tondo, e lungo Recanate ; Foligno delle strade inzuccherate, E par dal cielo mandate Le belle donne di Fano si dice ; Ma Siena poi tra I'altre piii felice. ^ LOVE AND ITALY ADIEU ! THEY halted at the terrace wall ; Below, the towered city lay ; The valley in the moonlight's thrall Was silent in a swoon of May. As hand to hand spake one soft word Beneath the friendly ilex-tree, They knew not, of the flame that stirred, What part was Love, what Italy. They knew what makes the moon more bright Where Beatrice and Juliet are, — The sweeter perfume in the night. The lovelier starlight in the star ; And more that glowing hour did prove Beneath the sheltering ilex-tree, — That Italy transfigures Love, As Love transfigures Italy. Robert Underwood Johnson V ADIEU ! IN ITALY NOT Nemi charms me with her olive trees, Nor fair Frascati — at the close of day Gemming the Alban Mount — a pearl astray : The rampant Centaurs of the ruined frieze ; The immemorial Caryatides ; The marvels of the famed Flaminian Way ; The wide Campagna's reaches, lone and gray ; — All unallured I still can look on these. Unalienated yet by spire or dome, By clifT-built citadel, or stately pine, Or all the Naiads of Italian rills. My heart leaps westward o'er the rolling brine To bask once more upon the purple hills — The Appalachian ridges round my home I Lloyd Mifflin LINES ON LEAVING ITALY ONCE more among the old gigantic hills With vapours clouded o'er ; The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, The rocks ascend before. They beckon me, the giants, from afar. They wing my footsteps on ; Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, Their cuirasses of stone. 361 362 SKIES ITALIAN My heart beats high, my breath comes freer forth, — Why should my heart be sore ? I hear the eagle and the vulture's cry, The nightingale's no more. Where is the laurel, where the myrtle's blossom ? Bleak is the path around : Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's cooing ? Hoarse is the torrent's sound. Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded bosom A weight appears to flow ? Methinks the Muses come to call me home From yonder rocks of snow. I know not how. hut in yon land of roses My heart was heavy still. I startled at the warbling nightingale. The zephyr on the hill. They said the stars shone with a softer gleam, — It seemed not so to me ; In vain a scene of beauty beamed around. My thoughts were o'er the sea. A(ia?n Gottloh Oehlvnschlaser. tr. Anon. TTrHATt V \ wear. L'ADIEU though a mourning garment now she This land that twice hath swerved Earth's destinies : Spite of disgraces and long miseries, We may not quit her save with pain and care. FAREWELL TO ITALY 363 So at the gateway of her gardens rare 1 turn, upon this topmost ridge, once more To view the horizon's sun-enchanted shore, And drug my spirit on the beauties there. Then the north grips me ; it chills all my veins ; And this fond heart contracts, as it had seen On the Italian hillsides and wide plains My leafy youth stripped of its freshest green — As if on that dark goddess' glowing breast I had outlived of my brief years the best. August e Barbier, tr. Ruth Shepard Phelps FAREWELL TO ITALY T LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more From thy 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 cypresses Bordering the channel of the milky way. Fiesole and V^aldarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poet's song. I did believe (what have I not believed }) Weary with age, but unoppressed with pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade. Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherished thee so little ; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised ; But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceased, when the lone heart 364 SKIES ITALIAN Can lift no aspiration — reasoning As if the sight were unimpaired by death, Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheered corruption I Over all The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave. Walter Savage Landor FAREWELL TO THE LAND OF THE SOUTH FAREWELL to the Land of the South ! Farewell to the lovely clime. Where the sunny valleys smile in light, And the piny mountains climb ! Farewell to her bright blue seas ! Farewell to her fervid skies ! O, many and deep are the thoughts which crowd On the sinking heart, while it sighs, " Farewell to the Land of the South ! " As the look of a face beloved. Was that bright land to me I It enchanted my sense, it sank on my heart Like music's witchery ! In every kindling pulse I felt the genial air, For life is life in that sunny clime, 'Tis death of life elsewhere : Farewell to the Land of the South ! The poet's splendid dreams Have hallowed each grove and hill. And the beautiful forms of ancient Faith Are lingering round us still. ITALIA 365 And the spirits of other days. Invoked by fancy's spell, Are rolled before the kindling thought, While we breathe our last farewell To the glorious Land of the South ! A long, a last adieu. Romantic Italy ! Thou land of beauty and love and song. As once of the brave and free ! Alas for thy golden fields ! Alas for thy classic shore ! Alas for thy orange and myrtle bowers ! I shall never behold them more, — Farewell to the Land of the South ! Anna Jameson V "ITALIA, lO TI SALUTO TO come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die ; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play — Amen, amen, say I. To see no more the country half my own. Nor hear the half familiar speech. Amen, I say, I turn to that bleak North Whence I came forth — The South lies out of reach. 366 SKIES ITALIAN But when the swallows fly back to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again hito my eyes On the old wise. The old name to my mouth. Christina G. Rossetti % I ACKNOWLEDGMENT GRATEFUL acknowledgment of permission to include in this collection, in both its English and American Editions, poems held under copyright, is tendered to the following : — For their own poems : To Mr Andrew Lang, Mr Arthur Symons, Sir Rennell Rodd, Mr Robert Underwood Johnson, Mr Lloyd Mifflin, Mr Robert Cameron Rogers, Mr Samuel Waddington, Mr E. H. Pember, Mrs Grace Ellery Channing-Stetson, Miss Edith M. Thomas, Mme. fimile Duclaux (A. Mary F. Robinson), Mrs Julia Ward Howe, Mr William Dean Howells, Mr J. W. Mackail, Mr Alfred Austin, Mr George Edward Woodberry, Mrs Alice Meynell, Mrs Nina Morais Cohen and the late Richard Watson Gilder. For poems under their control : To Messrs Houghton, Mifflin ^ Co. for poems by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, Thomas William Parsons, Bayard Taylor, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Mrs R. H. Stoddard, W. W. Story, C. P. Cranch and Mr Laurence Binyon, and for confirming the permissions of Mr Howells and Mrs Howe ; to Messrs Forbes & Co. for poems by Sir Rennell Rodd, from the volume entitled "Myrtle and Oak"; to Messrs Little, Brown & Co. for poems by Thomas Gold Appleton and Helen Hunt Jackson ; to the Century Co. for a 367 I i 368 SKIES ITALIAN poem by Miss Maude Caldwell Perry, and for con- firming the permissions of Mr R. U. Johnson and Mr R. VV. Gilder ; to Messrs Burns & Oates for a poem by Father Faber ; to Mr T. Fisher Unwin for a poem by Amy Levy ; to Messrs Kegan Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co. for a poem by Archbishop Trench ; to Mr Horatio Brown for poems by John Addington Symonds, and to Messrs Smith, Elder & Co. for confirming his permission ; to Messrs Lothrop, Lee & Shepard for poems by William Gibson ;,to Mr Ellis for poems by Dante Gabriel Rossetti ; to Messrs George Allen Si Co. for a poem by Ruskin ; to Messrs Lippincott for poems by Thomas Buchanan Read ; to The John Lane Co, for a poem by Mr William Watson ; to Messrs Mac- millan for a poem by Matthew Arnold, for confirm- ing the permission of Mr G. Locker-Lampson for a poem by Frederick Locker-Lampson, and that ol' Mr Alfred Austin for a poem of his own, and for confirming with special permission the consent of Mr G. E. Woodberry to use certain poems of his ; to Mrs William Sharp and Mrs Eugene Lee- Hamilton ; to Mr Robert Ross for poems by Oscar Wilde ; to Lord Tennyson for poems by the late Lord Tennyson and Charles Tennyson Turner ; to Mr E. D. Brooks and the estate of Arthur Upson for poems by Arthur Upson ; to Mr Bertram Dobell for a poem by James Thomson ; and to the Earl of Crewe for poems by Lord Houghton. THB RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH t 11 .i-f M. COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 0032200 53 ^ rt^"^^^^ " -GO 1337