THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.
'T IS morning. Let us wander through the fields, Where CIMABUE 159 found a shepherd-boy
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground; And let us from the top of FIESOLE, Whence GALILEO's glass 160 by night observed The phases of the moon, look round below On ARNO'S vale, where the dove-colored 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! 16 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, a while 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.161
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 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 16 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.10 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, 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?
Thy sunny slope, ARCETRI, sung of old
For its green wine; 172 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.174
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! 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 179- 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
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
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 183-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,185 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,186 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 wlter. Nor between the gusts of war,
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