From the sad looks of him who could have told, The terrible truth.-Well might he heave a sigh For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very COSMO shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess, In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale; His wife, another, not his ELEANOR,
At once his nurse and his interpreter.
THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.
'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where CIMABUÈ 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;‡
Santa Maria Novella. For its grace and beauty it was called by Michael Angelo' La Sposa.'
In the year of the Great Plague. See the Decameron.
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,
Sat 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. 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 trellissed 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 noon-tide 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 every where 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,
The Friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ;†
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone
To the Wise Men; a vial-ful 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 grey rock beneath, his land-mark 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 grey,
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,
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