Part 3

The hills sweep upward from the shore, 25 With villas scattered one by one Upon their wooded spurs, and lower Bellagio blazing in the sun.

And dimly seen, a tangled mass Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 30 Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass Varenna with its white cascade.

I ask myself, Is this a dream? Will it all vanish into air? Is there a land of such supreme 35 And perfect beauty anywhere?

Sweet vision! Do not fade away; Linger until my heart shall take Into itself the summer day, And all the beauty of the lake. 40

Linger until upon my brain Is stamped an image of the scene, Then fade into the air again, And be as if thou hadst not been.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

TO VERONA

Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect Beckoning me upward. Let me rest awhile Where the birds whistle hidden in the boughs, Or fly away when idlers take their place, Mated as well, concealed as willingly; 5 Idlers whose nest must not swing there, but rise Beneath a gleaming canopy of gold, Amid the flight of Cupids, and the smiles Of Venus ever radiant o'er their couch. Here would I stay, here wander, slumber here, 10 Nor pass into that theatre below Crowded with their faint memories, shades of joy. But ancient song arouses me: I hear Coelius and Aufilena; I behold Lesbia, and Lesbia's linnet at her lip 15 Pecking the fruit that ripens and swells out For him whose song the Graces loved the most, Whatever land, east, west, they visited. Even he must not detain me: one there is Greater than he, of broader wing, of swoop 20 Sublimer. Open now that humid arch Where Juliet sleeps the quiet sleep of death, And Romeo sinks aside her. Fare ye well, Lovers! Ye have not loved in vain: the hearts Of millions throb around ye. This lone tomb, 25 One greater than yon walls have ever seen, Greater than Manto's prophet-eye foresaw In her own child or Rome's, hath hallowèd; And the last sod or stone a pilgrim knee 29 Shall press (Love swears it, and swears true) is here.

W. S. LANDOR.

THE APENNINE

Once more upon the woody Apennine, The infant Alps, which--had I not before Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more; 5 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,

Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 10 And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, For still they soared unutterably high: I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; Athos, Olympus, Aetna, Atlas, made 15 These hills seem things of lesser dignity, All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed Not _now_ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid

For our remembrance, and from out the plain Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, And on the curl hangs pausing. 21

LORD BYRON.

WHERE UPON APENNINE SLOPE

Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle, Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles, Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply, Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated, 5 Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,-- Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city, Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!

A. H. CLOUGH.

'DE GUSTIBUS----'

I

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice-- 5 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, Making love, say,-- The happier they! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10 With the beanflowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June!

II

What I love best in all the world, Is, a castle, precipice-encurled, 15 In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, And come again to the land of lands)-- 20 In a sea-side house to the farther south, Where the baked cicalas die of drouth, And one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands, By the many hundred years red-rusted, Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, 25 My sentinel to guard the sands To the water's edge. For, what expands Before the house, but the great opaque Blue breadth of sea without a break? While, in the house, for ever crumbles 30 Some fragment of the frescoed walls, From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, And says there's news to-day--the king 35 Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: --She hopes they have not caught the felons. Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me-- 40 (When fortune's malice Lost her, Calais)

Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, 'Italy,' Such lovers old are I and she; 45 So it always was, so shall ever be!

R. BROWNING.

VENICE

There is a glorious City in the sea. The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed Clings to the marble of her palaces. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 5 Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, Invisible; and from the land we went, As to a floating city--steering in, And gliding up her streets as in a dream, So smoothly, silently--by many a dome, 10 Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, The statues ranged along an azure sky; By many a pile in more than eastern pride, Of old the residence of merchant-kings; The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art, 16 As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

S. ROGERS.

OCEAN'S NURSLING

Underneath Day's azure eyes Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves 5 With his blue and beaming waves. Lo! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline; 10 And before that chasm of light, As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire, Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion 15 From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold 20 Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt City! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day, And thou soon must be his prey, 25 If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.

P. B. SHELLEY.

VENICE

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand: I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 5 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Looked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 10 Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers: And such she was;--her daughters had their dowers From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 15 Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.

In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; 20 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone--but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 25 The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

But unto us she hath a spell beyond Her name in story, and her long array Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 30 Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; Ours is a trophy which will not decay With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away-- The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 35 For us repeopled were the solitary shore.

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; And, annual marriage now no more renewed, The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, Neglected garment of her widowhood! 40 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. 45

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not _bridled_?--Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 50 Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes, From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.

LORD BYRON.

AT VENICE

_On the Lido_

On her still lake the city sits While bark and boat beside her flits, Nor hears, her soft siesta taking, The Adriatic billows breaking.

_In the Piazza at night_

O beautiful beneath the magic moon 5 To walk the watery way of palaces; O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue This spacious court; with colour and with gold, With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points, And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls, 10 (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;) Fantastically perfect this lone pile Of oriental glory; these long ranges Of classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd, 15 And the calm Campanile.--Beautiful! O beautiful!

A. H. CLOUGH.

FLORENCE

Arno wins us to the fair white walls, Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls. Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 5 To laughing life, with her redundant horn. Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 10 The air around with beauty; we inhale The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale We stand, and in that form and face behold 15 What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; And to the fond idolaters of old Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould.

LORD BYRON.

AN INVITATION TO ROME

Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, Your London sun is here seen shining brightly; The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face, And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. The Romans are a kind and cordial race, 5 The women charming, if one takes them rightly; I see them at their doors, as day is closing, More proud than duchesses,--and more imposing.

A _far niente_ life promotes the graces; They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, 10 And in their bearing and their speech one traces A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy That are not found in more inclement places; Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony: The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, 15 Is often cold--and always in a hurry.

Though _far niente_ is their passion, they Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; No matter what it is they have to say, The manner always sets the matter right: 20 And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day, They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'. Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you!

Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read 25 Alone of stately palaces and streets Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed, And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed, Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats, 30 The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder Old ruins, hiding ruin even older.

Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, Although the last are commonplace, or florid.-- Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, 35 Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. The sombre streets are worthy your researches: The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages, Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. 40

About one fane I deprecate all sneering, For during Christmas-time I went there daily, Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing 45 Her small form on a rostrum,--tricked out gaily, And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, With action quite dramatic and delightful.

Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! The country's better seen when one is riding: 50 We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding With giant march (now whole, now broken crags With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar,-- 55 That melt in light beneath the evening star.

A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant; The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasant Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, 60 And seems to wake the past time in the present. Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow Can join with jollity your _salterello_.

Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath 65 Of life to unsophisticated man. Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, _Per dar' al mio bene._ When you can, Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death And Time are grudging of Life's little span: 70 Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn, Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.

I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- Such theme were all too splendid for my pen: And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 75 (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), It is that love casts out my fear, and so I claim with him a kindredship. Ah, when We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon! 80

Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine, 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; The world goes there with torches, I decline Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. Some day in May our forces we'll combine 85 (Just you and I), and try a midnight airing, And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then You'll muse upon the vanity of men!

Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern, 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: 90 The ashes buried in a sculptured urn Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! That better time, for which the patriots yearn, Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. They wait and pine for what is long denied, 95 And thus I wait till thou art by my side.

Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, I cannot yet thy little hand resign! 100 The plain is fading into darkness chill, The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee; Oh, come to Rome--oh come, oh come to me!

F. LOCKER-LAMPSON.

THE COLISEUM

I do remember me, that in my youth, When I was wandering,--upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; The trees which grew along the broken arches 5 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and More near from out the Caesar's palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 10 Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt, 15 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 20 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 25 Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place 30 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old,-- The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

LORD BYRON.

AT ROME

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still That name, a local Phantom proud to mock The Traveller's expectation?--Could our Will 5 Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done Thro' what men see and touch,--slaves wandering on, Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 10 From that depression raised, to mount on high With stronger wing, more clearly to discern Eternal things; and, if need be, defy Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern.

W. WORDSWORTH.

ROME

AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS

Who, then, was Cestius, And what is he to me?-- Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous One thought alone brings he.

I can recall no word 5 Of anything he did; For me he is a man who died and was interred To leave a pyramid

Whose purpose was exprest Not with its first design, 10 Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest Two countrymen of mine.

Cestius in life, maybe, Slew, breathed out threatening; I know not. This I know: in death all silently He does a rarer thing, 16

In beckoning pilgrim feet With marble finger high To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street, Those matchless singers lie.... 20

--Say, then, he lived and died That stones which bear his name Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide; It is an ample fame.

T. HARDY.

THE VALLEY AND VILLA OF HORACE

Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence; Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever, With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:-- 5 So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I, Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me; Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters! 10 Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro, (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,) Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations, Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace. 15

A. H. CLOUGH.

VALLOMBROSA

Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor, To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar; To range through the Temples of Paestum, to muse In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth; 6 On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues; And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth! The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret? With a hope (and no more) for a season to come, 11 Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt? Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned 15 From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.

Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind Had a musical charm, which the winter of age And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you 21 I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew, And the realized vision is clasped to my heart.

W. WORDSWORTH.

PAESTUM