On the hill-side, thy little son was sent, Charged with a bunch almost as big as he, To press it on the stranger. May thy vats O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, Live to become a giver; and, at length, When thou art full of honour and would rest, The staff of thine old age!
In a strange land Such things, however trivial, reach the heart, And thro' the heart the head, clearing away The narrow notions that grow up at home, And in their place grafting Good-Will to All. At least I found it so, nor less at eve, When, bidden as a lonely traveller, ('Twas by a little boat that gave me chase With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I crossed The bay of TRAMEZZINE,) right readily
I turned my prow and followed, landing soon Where steps of purest marble met the wave; Where, through the trellises and corridors, Soft music came as from ARMIDA's palace, Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters; And through a bright pavilion, bright as day, Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among Such as of old in sober pomp swept by, Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts By PAOLO painted; where a Fairy-Queen,
That night her birth-night, from her throne received (Young as she was, no floweret in her crown, Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she) Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased,
Under a starry sky-while I looked on, As in a glade of CASHMERE or SHIRAZ, Reclining, quenching my sherbet in snow, And reading in the eyes that sparkled round, The thousand love-adventures written there. Can I forget no never, such a scene So full of witchery. Night lingered still, When, with a dying breeze, I left BELLAGGIO; But the strain followed me; and still I saw Thy smile, ANGELICA; and still I heard Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu.
THE song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; And, turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter BARBARA Had from her apron just rolled out before me, Figs and rock-melons-at the door I saw Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled; With their small voices and an old guitar Winning their way to my unguarded heart In that, the only universal tongue.
But soon they changed the measure, entering on A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,
A war of words, with looks and gestures waged Between TRAPPANTI and his ancient dame, MONA LUCILIA. To and fro it went;
While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
And BARBARA's among them. When it ceased, Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought, In many a glance as from the soul, disclosed More than enough to serve them. Far or near, Few looked not for their coming ere they came, Few, when they went, but looked till they were gone; And not a matron, sitting at her wheel, But could repeat their story. Twins they were, And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world; Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down, Crossing the rough BENACUS.*
May they live Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be, Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy,† Came in a beggar's weeds to PETRARCH'S door, Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing,
And soon in silk (then such the power of song) Returned to thank him; or like that old man, Old, not in heart, who by the torrent-side Descending from the TYROL, as Night fell, Knocked at a City-gate at the hill-foot, The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, An eagle on a ladder, and at once
Found welcome-nightly in the bannered hall Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry Before the great MASTINO, and his guests,‡ The three-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate, By war or treason or domestic strife,
*Lago di Garda. † Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3. See Note.
Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless, And living on his bounty.
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks, A hat of ceremony? On he glides,
Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed Till it has almost ceased to be the same.
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads "Tis my necessity!' he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face. 'Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal-
When all are on the wing, who would be last? The splendour of thy name has gone before thee; And ITALY from sea to sea exults,
As well indeed she may! But I transgress. He, who has known the weight of Praise himself, Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet,
(If his, then PETRARCH must have stolen it from him) And bowed and left me; in his hollow hand Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.
My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily Fled from all eyes; or, in a waking dream, I might have sat as many a great man has, And many a small, like him of Santillane, Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.
AM I in ITALY? Is this the Mincius?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona? And shall I sup where JULIET at the Masque Saw her loved MONTAGUE, and now sleeps by him? 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!
Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas, Low in the dust; and we admire thee now As we admire the beautiful in death.
Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert 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,
« PreviousContinue » |