Chapter 9
The day declines, the colors pale, The peaks will soon be ashen gray; Yet, though the shades of night prevail, The darkness hath not come to stay; And if no leaves of gold remain, The sun will bring the Spring again.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON, AS FIRST CONSUL
Painted by Andrea Appiani, in 1803, and at present in the Villa Melzi, Bellagio.
Brilliant as Lucifer, Son of the Morning, Rises this reincarnation of Mars! Youth at its apogee, precedent scorning, Genius ascending its path toward the stars!
Never was Bonaparte's Consular glory Treated by Art so superbly as here; Never a phase of his marvellous story Handled more deftly, or rendered more clear.
Italy's effigy lies 'neath his fingers, Lombardy rests in the fold of his hand, While on his lips an expression still lingers, Stamped by a character born to command.
Hero of history, what art thou scheming, Spanning thus easily so much of Earth, Holding tenaciously, too, in thy dreaming Wave-beaten Corsica, isle of thy birth?
All that thou dreamest of paramount power Fate shall concede to thee, chieftain sublime! Yet shall it prove but the joy of an hour; Fortune avenges her favors ... with time!
Aye, even now, although millions adore thee, Hailing as godlike thy dominant name, Nemesis stands in the shadow before thee, Waiting with Waterloo, exile, and shame.
Waiting is also that island of anguish, Destined to crush thy proud spirit at last, Doomed amid pigmy tormentors to languish, Facing forever its measureless past!
Yet when at length on that rock in mid-ocean Merciful Death shall have broken thy chain, Millions will hail thee again with devotion, Building thy tomb by the banks of the Seine!
Face of Napoleon, nobly recalling Days of the mythical heroes of yore, Oft wilt thou haunt me when shadows are falling,-- Beautiful gem of the Larian shore.
DAY AND NIGHT
Twilight is falling on lake and on land, Softly the wavelets steal in to the strand, Fisher-boats, floating like sea-gulls at rest, Glow in the lingering light of the west, Far-away vesper-bells hallow the air, Ave Maria! the world seems at prayer.
One more immaculate sunset exposed, One chapter more of life's history closed, One more bead told on the chaplet of time, One further stride in Earth's orbit sublime;-- Linked to the measureless chain of the past, One added day, ... to so many their last!
Slowly the colors diminish and die, Slowly the stellar hosts people the sky, Lost is the light on the fishermen's sails, Sweet is the exquisite peace that prevails, Silence and solitude brood o'er the deep, Ave Maria! the world seems to sleep.
One more magnificent pageant to face,-- Numberless systems in infinite space; Once more our planet in majesty rolls On through the darkness its burden of souls;-- Linked to the limitless chain of the past, One added night, ... to so many their last!
PASSING AND PERMANENT
Stately boats, with happy crowds, Passing up the lake, Leaving, under sunset clouds, Jewels in your wake, From my garden's sheltered strand I can watch you glide, As through some enchanted land On a silver tide.
To your eyes, O joyous throng, All this scene is new; Like a burst of seraphs' song, Comes its matchless view; You have traversed land and sea For this wondrous sight, Which the gods vouchsafe to me Every day and night!
One long, serial pageant this Of supreme content! Every face suffused with bliss, Every eye intent; Griefs and troubles slip away On this charming shore, And throughout a transient stay Will return no more.
Yet beware! Gardens fair, Lake, and snow-capped crest For a while may banish care From the saddest breast; But it quickly, even here, Finds the heart again, With the old-time sigh and tear, And the well-known pain.
Careless crew, I envy you! You will grieve to go, But, believe me, if you knew, You would choose it so; Leave the lake while still you laugh; Be content to pass; Though its wine be sweet to quaff, Do not drain your glass!
TRIPOLI
Hear the singing on the boats, As they halt beside the pier! Ah, those fresh Italian throats, How they cheer! Yet the words they sing so loud Bring depression to my heart, As I watch the youthful crowd Thus depart.
"We are going o'er the sea! Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"
See that lad of twenty years,-- Who is stretching out his hand Toward his mother there in tears On the strand! Should he perish in the strife Under Afric's burning sky, There were nothing left in life-- She must die.
Yet he's going o'er the sea! At the call of Italy, He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
Now the plank is pulled to land, And the last farewell is o'er, As the steamer, at command, Leaves the shore; There are shouts and ringing cheers, For the boys are brave and strong, Yet one feels that there are tears In their song:
"We are going o'er the sea! Loyal sons of Italy, We are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!"
Ah, that mother who is left! She is weeping now alone, Like a Niobe bereft Of her own; And at length I dare to speak To the woman seated there, With the tears upon her cheek, In despair.
He has gone across the sea! Who so dutiful as he? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
"Nay, good mother, do not weep! Since the summons comes from Rome, Can we really wish to keep Sons at home?" "And why not?" she made reply; "We have no invading foe; I would send my son to die, Were it so."
But he's gone across the sea! Gone with thousands such as he! He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
"What is Africa to me, If it swallow up my child? What care I for Tripoli, Spot defiled! Did not Abyssinian sand Drink sufficiently our gore? Must we stain that fatal strand, As before?"
Yet he's gone across the sea, Who more valorous than he? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
"Have we no great uses _here_ For the millions we outpour? Are our consciences quite clear In this war? Are there no more roads to build, Schools to found, and farms to work. That we let our boys be killed By the Turk?"
Yet we send them o'er the sea! Youthful sons of Italy, They are bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
"We are hungry, yet behold, How the price of food goes higher! And the nights will soon be cold Without fire! Who will earn for me my bread? Who my little home will save, When he lies there cold and dead In his grave?"
But he's gone across the sea! Who so good and kind to me? He is bound for Tripoli, Tripoli!
To the churchyard, near the bay, Went the mother in her grief, For her soul was moved to pray For relief; And deep sobs convulsed her breast, As she knelt upon the sod, Where her husband lay at rest, Safe in God.
For the boy was o'er the sea, Whom she rocked upon her knee; He had gone to Tripoli, Tripoli!
She was buried yesterday With her husband, side by side; Ere two months had passed away She had died! For one morning she had read Of her son among the slain, And they saw her old gray head Sink in pain.
Nevermore across the sea Will he come to Italy! He was killed in Tripoli, Tripoli!
There was nothing more to tell Of a lad so little known; He was reckoned "one who fell," That alone. Was he wounded? Did he lie Long ill-treated by the foe? And not know!
Yes, he lies beyond the sea! (Can it be that _that_ is he?) In the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!
She had asked for nothing more, But in silence slowly failed, Dreaming ever of the shore, Whence he sailed. Till her face, so wan and white, Flushed at last with sweet surprise, And a strangely tender light Filled her eyes.
Then for her was "no more sea"! She had found the soul set free From the sands of Tripoli, Tripoli!
INFLUENCE
We know not what mysterious power Lies latent in our words and deeds,-- Sweet as the perfume of a flower, Strong as the life that sleeps in seeds; But something certainly survives The passing of our fleeting lives.
A look, a pressure of the hand, A sign of hope, a song of cheer, May journey over sea and land, Outliving many a sterile year, To find at last the destined hour When they shall leap to bud and flower.
We write, we print, then--nevermore To be recalled--our thoughts take flight, Like white-winged birds that leave the shore, And scattering, lose themselves in light; For good or ill those words may be The arbiters of destiny.
Perchance some fervid plea may find A heart to rise to its appeal; Some statement rouse a dormant mind, Or stir a spirit, quick to feel; Nay, through some note of gentler tone Even love may recognize its own.
Fain would I deem not wholly dead The spoken words of former years, And every printed page, when read, A source of smiles, instead of tears; That friends, whom I shall never see, May, for a time, remember me.
LEO
I made a journey o'er the sea, I bade my faithful dog good-bye, I knew that he would grieve for me, But did not dream that he would die! And how could I explain That I would come again?
At first he mourned, as dogs will mourn A life-long master they adore, Till in his mind the fear was born That he should never see me more.
Ah! then, on every boat intent, He watched the crowd upon the pier, While every look and motion meant "Will _he_ not come? Is _he_ not here?"
At last he merely raised his head, To see the steamers passing by, Then sank again upon his bed, And heaved a long-drawn, plaintive sigh; For how could one explain That I would come again?
I hastened back by sea and land, Forced homeward by remorse and fear; But no glad barking swept the strand, Nor did he meet me on the pier!
I climbed the steps with footsteps fleet, And then beheld him near the wall, Though tottering, still upon his feet, And creeping toward me down the hall.
No wish had he to sulk or blame, Nor did he need to understand, But simply loved me just the same,-- In silence licking face and hand.
In silence? What could this portend? Such muteness he had never shown; Was he so very near the end? Ah, Leo, had I only known!
For his grand eyes, so large and bright, Though turned, through sound, my form to find, Were totally devoid of sight; He faced me in the darkness ... blind!
What could such gloom have been to him, As weeks and months had crept away, While all the outer world grew dim, Till endless night eclipsed the day!
What had it meant to him to wake And mid familiar things to grope? To hear old sounds on shore and lake, Yet wander darkly without hope!
But now, his head upon my knee, He tried in various ways to show That, though my face he could not see, He knew the voice of long ago. Yes, now it was quite plain That I had come again.
Within my arms he breathed his last, In my embrace his noble head Drooped back, and left to me ... the Past, With tender memories of the dead.
He lies beneath the stately trees, Whose ample shade he loved the best, Mid flowers, whose perfume every breeze Wafts lightly o'er his place of rest.
Yet somehow still I watch and wait For him, as he once watched for me; At every footstep near my gate I look, his bounding form to see.
Good-night? ... Good-bye! for I must leave thee, My boat is waiting on the shore; May I not hope that it will grieve thee, When thou shalt see me here no more?
Such thoughts, I know, to-day are flouted; "Have statues souls?" the cynic sneers; But I am happier to have doubted, And loved thee thus these many years.
Behind the form is the ideal, Forever high, forever true; Behind the false exists the real, Known only to the favored few.
Not all can hear the music stealing From out that lightly-lifted flute; To those devoid of kindred feeling Its melody is always mute.
But thou to me hast been a token Of classic legend, wrought in stone; In thee the thread of Art, unbroken, Made all the storied past mine own.
And I have felt, still brooding o'er thee, The old-time Genius of the Place, Aware of those who still adore thee, Unchanged by time, or creed, or race.
Through thee came also inspiration For many a rare, poetic thought; And oh, how much of resignation Thy sweet, unchanging smile hath taught!
Though thine own past hath had its sorrow, Though all thy sylvan friends have fled, Thou still canst smile at every morrow, For Nature lives, though Pan is dead.
Thou didst not grieve with futile wailing When altars crumbled far and near, When gods were scoffed, and faith was failing, And worship lessened year by year.
Above thee still rose lofty mountains, Before thee lay the lake divine, Around thee sang the crystal fountains,-- With all these treasures, why repine?
Religions changed, and shrines were banished, Years slipped away, men came and went, But thou, whatever pleasures vanished, With what thou hadst wast still content.
Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, As cherished fancies fade away; For thee the simple soul of gladness,-- The careless rapture of to-day!
Farewell! within my heart abiding I hear thy music, gentle Faun,-- The wounds of disillusion hiding, The prelude to a happier dawn.
WAKEFULNESS
Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streams Meet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams, Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep! Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!
Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way, Striving, ever striving to forget the day, Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep! Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!
By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink, Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link, Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!
Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call, And the welcome darkness that envelops all, If no more to waken, then no more to weep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!
VILLA PLINIANA
It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Slope swiftly to the deep, And silvery streams from ledge to ledge In foaming splendor leap,-- A broad expanse of saffron walls, A wilderness of mouldering halls.
The torrent's breath hath spread its blight On every darkened room, And oozing mosses drip decay Through corridors of gloom, While Ruin lays a subtle snare On many a yielding rail and stair.
There seats, which beauty once enthroned, In tattered damask stand; In gray neglect a faun extends A mutilated hand; And silence makes the festal board Mute as the stringless harpsichord.
The boldest hesitate to tread Those gruesome courts at night; 'Tis whispered that a spectral form Then haunts the lonely height; For he who built this home apart Had stabbed his rival to the heart.
Oblivion's boon is vainly sought Amid those scenes sublime; Forever lurked within his breast The nemesis of crime; Not all that flood of limpid spray Could wash the fatal stain away.
Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt Within that haunted pile; Among them she, whose portrait still, With enigmatic smile, Lights up the mansion, like a gem Set in a tarnished diadem;--
The princess, at whose thrilling call Unnumbered patriots rose To drive from fettered Lombardy Her immemorial foes,-- A woman, loved from sea to sea, As Liberty's divinity.
But now the old, historic site Lives only in the past; Neglected and untenanted, Its life is ebbing fast; Each crumbling step, each mossy stone Is marked by Ruin for her own.
Yet one mysterious charm abides,-- The spring, whose ebb and flow Were praised in Pliny's classic prose Two thousand years ago,-- A fountain, whose perennial grace Millenniums could not efface.
Thrice daily in their polished cup Its crystal waters sink; Thrice daily do they rise again And overflow the brink,-- Since Pliny's day no more, no less, Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.
Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, Cascade, and storied spring, Ye are the same as when he loved Your varied charms to sing; 'Tis man alone who sadly goes! The lake remains, the fountain flows.
Like drops in its exhaustless flood, Our little lives emerge, Swirl for an instant, and are gone, Sunk by another surge! Whence come they? Whither do they go? O Roman poet, dost thou know?
POINT BALBIANELLO
From Lake Como's depths ascending, With embankments steep Stands a wooded headland, bending With majestic sweep Till its rugged shores, expanding, Join two charming bays, Now, as formerly, commanding Universal praise.
Years ago a papal Primate Built a hospice here, Which, from its delightful climate, Mild throughout the year, Soon became for convalescence A renowned retreat, Where pure air and strict quiescence Made all cures complete.
"Villa Balbi",--appellation Of the Primate's seat--, Gave its name to this location In a form more sweet,-- Soft, sonorous "Balbianello", Spoken, as if sung In the speech, so smooth and mellow, Of the Latin tongue.
Balbianello, Balbianello! Point of liquid name, With thy walls of golden yellow And thy flowers of flame, When thy varied charms enthrall me Under summer skies, Tenderly I love to call thee Como's Paradise.
From thy base, where in profusion Countless roses bloom, To thy crest, where sweet seclusion Reigns in leafy gloom, All is beauty, uncontested By a rival claim, All is symmetry invested With a storied fame.
Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, Which thy slopes ascend; Grand the loggia, old and faded, Where those pathways end;-- Noble arches, well recalling Mighty works of old, Columns which, when night is falling, Turn to shafts of gold.
In that loggia, fringed with roses, All my soul expands; Every arch a view discloses Of historic lands; Southward lies fair Comacina, Famed in classic lore, Northward Pliny's Tremezzina And Bellagio's shore.
Miles of liquid opalescence Stretch on either hand, Curving into lovely crescents, Each with sylvan strand; While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping Realms of stainless snow, Whence the milk-white streams come leaping To the lake below.
Many a far-off promontory Melts in silvery haze, Many a scene of song and story Tells of Roman days; Real and unreal, past and present, Make the vision seem Like the rapture evanescent Of a happy dream.
Yet this point, so well selected,-- Peerless in its day--, Now, abandoned and neglected, Sinks to slow decay; Sculptured saints, with broken fingers, Line the ancient walls, Like a loyal guard that lingers Till the rampart falls;
Vases, o'er the portal standing, Crumble into lime; Steps, ascending from the landing, Show the touch of time; And its one lone gardener, weeping As he tells his fears, Faithful watch has here been keeping Many, many years!
Even he must leave it lonely, When the night grows late; Then the mouldering statues only Guard its rusty gate; Then no eye its charm discovers, And its moonlit bowers Wait in vain for happy lovers Through the silent hours.
Will no champion protect thee, Fairest spot on earth? Doth a busy world neglect thee, Careless of thy worth? Even so, thy site elysian Still remains supreme,-- Acme of the painter's vision And the poet's dream.
AT LENNO
By Lake Como's sylvan shore, Where the wavelets evermore Seem to rhythmically murmur of the classic days of yore, Cease, O boatman, now to row! While the Alpine summits glow, Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.
Where the Tremezzina ends, And the bay of Lenno bends Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave descends, On this strand of silver foam Stood the Younger Pliny's home, When the world at last lay subject to the dominance of Rome.
Here he passed his sweetest hours 'Mid his statues, books, and flowers With a life and list of pleasures not dissimilar to ours, For the city's rush and roar Never reached this tranquil shore, And his writings prove completely that he yearned for them no more.
Here, as scholar, poet, sage, He filled many a pliant page With the philosophic wisdom and refinement of his age, And his letters to his peers Through a life of smiles and tears Make me often quite forgetful of the intervening years;
For the beauty of the bay And the magical display Of its coronet of mountains have not altered since his day, And the lake of which he wrote At that epoch so remote With the same caressing murmur laps my undulating boat.
Hence the subtle, tender spell Of the place he loved so well Holds me captive and enchanted, as these waters gently swell, And a vague and nameless pain Makes me long for,--though in vain--, That delightful classic era, which will never come again.
Since the Goths' invading tide Wrecked Rome's potency and pride, Something wonderful has vanished, something exquisite has died; And in spite of modern fame And the lustre of its name, Even beautiful Lake Como can be never quite the same.
So beside its sylvan shore, Where the wavelets evermore Seem to rythmically murmur of the classic days of yore, Cease, O boatman, now to row! For, while Alpine summits glow, I would dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.
PERSONALLY ADDRESSED
LINES
written for a Golden Wedding, 1883
Just fifty years ago to-night, When earth was mantled deep with snow, The stars beheld with tender light The fairest scene this world can show.
Two graceful forms stood side by side, Two trembling hands were clasped as one, Two hearts exchanged perpetual faith, And love's sweet poem was begun.
For suns may rise and suns may set, And tides may ebb and tides may flow, Love is man's greatest blessing yet, And honest wedlock makes it so.
"Father" and "Mother",--sweetest words That human lips can ever frame, We gather here as children now To find your loving hearts the same.
Unchanged, unchangeable by time, Your love is boundless as the sea; The same as when our childish griefs Were hushed beside our mother's knee.
Years may have given us separate homes, Friends, children, happiness and fame, But oh! to-night our greatest wealth Is that we call you still by name.
God bless you both! for fifty years You've journeyed onward side by side; And still, for years to come, God grant Your paths may nevermore divide;
But, just as sunset's golden glow Makes Alpine snows divinely fair, So may the setting sun of life Rest lightly on your silvered hair!
Yes, suns may rise and suns may set, And tides may ebb and tides may flow, We are your loving children yet, And time will ever prove us so.
TO THE WALKING-STICK OF MY DEAD FRIEND
To my hand thou com'st at last, Wand of ebon, tipped with gold,-- Often carried in the past By a hand that now lies cold In his grave beyond the sea, Many thousand miles from me.
Faithful staff! for many years Thou didst travel far and wide Through a life of smiles and tears,-- Rarely absent from his side, As the light of day for him Grew pathetically dim.
When with thee he walked abroad, Every crossing, every stair By thy touch was first explored, Ere his feet were planted there, With a sort of rhythmic beat On the pavement of the street.
Hence, when brought to face the gloom Of a way, to all unknown, Called to leave his sunlit room For death's darkness, quite alone, He instinctively again Called to mind his faithful cane.
To whose grasp should it descend, Since with him it could not go? Surely no one save a friend Would receive and prize it so! Thus to me wast thou bequeathed, To console a heart bereaved.
Friendship's gift, belovd wand! Thou shalt likewise go with me To the shore of the Beyond, To the dark, untravelled sea; Only left upon the strand, When my bark puts forth from land.
TO C....
Behind a laughing waterfall There lies a little fount of tears, Deep, dark, and rarely seen at all By those the sparkling torrent cheers.