Of Saint Antonio in the City of Padua. Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far, Thou wilt direct my course.'-' Most willingly ; But thou hast much to do, much to endure,
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps Burn ever. Tell me . . . I would not transgress,
Yet ask I must... what could have brought thee forth, Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for?'- It was a vow I made in my distress.
We were so blest, none were so blest as we,
Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell ; Then my beloved Sister; and ere long,
Worn with continual watchings, night and day,
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew; And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed,
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us, I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds,
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard;
And therefore am I come.'-' Blest be thy steps; And may those weeds, so reverenced of old,
They are nothing worth.
But they are worn in humble confidence;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them,
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task, But none to them, a pleasure, a delight,
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth
As best became this service. Their last words, "Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the hours!" Will not go from me.'-' Health and strength be thine In thy long travel! May no sun-beam strike; No vapour cling and wither! May'st thou be, Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ;
And, when again thou com'st, thy labour done, Joy be among ye! In that happy hour
All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo;
And there is one, or I am much deceived,
One thou hast named, who will not be the last.'
'Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be!
But ah, thou know'st her not. Would that thou couldst!
My steps I quicken when I think of her;
For, though they take me further from her door,
I shall return the sooner.'
PLEASURE, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice welcome; And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there, That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among
The things most precious! and the day it came
Is noted as a white day in our lives.
The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs
And nodding woods, that everlastingly
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice,* Thy voice, VELINO, uttered in the mist) Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length For others still as noon; and on we strayed From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry, That ancient symbol at the cottage-door, Offering refreshment-when LUIGI cried, 'Well, of a thousand tracks we chose the best!' And, turning round an oak, oracular once, Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thorough-fare For all that came, each entrance a broad arch, Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat, Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood Peered forth, then housed again—the floor yet grey With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung Loosely with locks of hair—I looked and saw What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza, Had given his honest countenance a breadth, His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise Unknown before, had chained him to the spot, And thou, Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale,
* An allusion to the CASCATA DELLE MARMORE, a celebrated fall of the VELINO near TERNI.
Below and winding far away,
A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring
Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high,
The hare delights to race in, scattering round The silvery dews.* Cedar and cypress threw Singly their depth of shadow, chequering
The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts, An underwood of myrtle, that by fits
Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst, Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold,
A rain-bow's splendour (somewhere in the east Rain-drops were falling fast) a rivulet Sported as loth to go; and on the bank Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both, Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule Well-laden, while two menials as in haste Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round Viands and fruits on many a shining salver, And plunging in the cool translucent wave Flasks of delicious wine.-Anon a horn
* This upper region, a country of dews and dewy lights, as described by VIRGIL and PLINY, and still, I believe, called La Rosa, is full of beautiful scenery. Who does not wish to follow the footsteps of CICERO there, to visit the Reatine Tempe and the Seven Waters?
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