Round the green hill they went,'
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, 10
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 waters 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 1 whose dream it was
(It was no more) sleeps in a neighboring vale;
Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween,
The friar poured out his wondrous catalogue;
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone
To the Wise Men; a vial-full 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,
Dropt 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
('T is his own sketch-he drew it from himself) 170
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,17
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
And learning how to overcome the fear
Thy sunny slope, ARCETRI, sung of old
For its green
wine;
As dwelt on by that great astronomer,'
172 dearer to me, to most,
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!) 175
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars!
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! 176 - 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 noon-day 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 lands and seas 17 great as himself, nay, greater;
MILTON as little that in him he saw,
As in a glass, what he himself should be, 180
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.
Well pleased, could we pursue
The ARNO, from his birthplace in the clouds,
So near the yellow TIBER'S-springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, 182 and the woods
That only echo to the choral hymn ;
Then through these gardens to the TUSCAN sea,
Reflecting castles, convents, villages,
And those great rivals in an elder day,
FLORENCE and PISA who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stained so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas! were seen,
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there,
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring;
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed
Borne underneath, already in the realms
Of darkness. Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great artist saw,18
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry "To arms!"
And the shrill trumpet hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,
And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,"
Violent the tumult; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew;
Each every sinew straining, every nerve,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life—no more perchance to taste,
ARNO, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters-where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer's transport, there, alas! to float
And welter. Nor between the gusts of war,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe
Gladdened the valley, when, but not unarmed,
The sower came forth, and, following him that ploughed,
Threw in the seed,- did thy indignant waves
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received
The key that just had grated on the ear
Of UGOLINO, ever closing up
That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named.
The Tower of Famine.
Once indeed 't was thine,
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary,
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding,
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,
Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came,
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs,
He enters; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed,
Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife;
And, lo! an atom on that dangerous sea,'
The babe is floating! Fast and far he flies;
Now tempest-rocked, now whirling round and round
But not to perish. By thy willing waves
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes
The ark has rested; and unhurt, secure
As on his mother's breast, he sleeps within,
All peace! or never had the nations heard.
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires;
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.
PETRARCH lay there! And such the images
That here spring up forever, in the young
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