Part 4
They stand between the mountains and the sea; Awful memorials, but of whom we know not! The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck; The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, Points to the work of magic, and moves on. 5 Time was they stood along the crowded street, Temples of Gods, and on their ample steps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice! Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; 10 And here the accuser stood, and there the accused, And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. All silent now, as in the ages past, Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. How many centuries did the sun go round 15 From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell rendered invisible, Or, if approached, approached by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remained As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 20 Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, And taken to herself what man renounced; No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, 25 Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! From my youth upward have I longed to tread This classic ground; and am I here at last? Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove, 30 Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew? A cloudy region, black and desolate, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. 35 The air is sweet with violets, running wild 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost-- Turning to thee, divine philosophy, 40 Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul-- Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course. On as he moved along the level shore, 45 These temples, in their splendour eminent 'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, Reflecting back the radiance of the west, Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up, The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf 50 Suckles her young; and as alone I stand In this, the nobler pile, the elements Of earth and air its only floor and covering, How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 55 On the rough pediment to sit and sing; Or the green lizard rushing through the grass, And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, To vanish in the chinks that time has made. In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 60 Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries-- Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, Athwart the innumerable columns flung-- In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 65 Led by the mighty genius of the place. Walls of some capital city first appeared, Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn; --And what within them? What but in the midst These three in more than their original grandeur, And, round about, no stone upon another? 71 As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements.
S. ROGERS.
VESUVIUS
AS SEEN FROM CAPRI
A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky, In quiet adoration, silently-- Till the faint currents of the upper air Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, 5 The dome, as of a palace, hung on high Over the mountain; underneath it lie Vineyards and bays and cities white and fair. Might we not think this beauty would engage All living things unto one pure delight? 10 Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell, Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight Hid, as within a guilty citadel, The shame of his dishonourable age.
R. C. TRENCH.
AMALFI
Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet, Where, amid her mulberry-trees, Sits Amalfi in the heat, 5 Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless summer seas. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 10 The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge.
'Tis a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, 15 Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear; Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 20 Stately figures tall and straight, What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?
Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. 25 On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof; 30 Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care and free from pain, And the sordid love of gain, 35 And as indolent as he.
Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, 40 Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, 45 And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port Chased by corsair Algerines?
Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, 50 Are those splendours of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays Swallowed by the engulfing waves; 55 Silent streets and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls; Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies: Even cities have their graves! 60
This is an enchanted land! Round the headlands far away Sweeps the blue Salernian bay With its sickle of white sand: Further still and furthermost 65 On the dim-discovered coast Paestum with its ruins lies, And its roses all in bloom Seem to tinge the fatal skies Of that lonely land of doom. 70
On his terrace, high in air, Nothing doth the good monk care For such worldly themes as these. From the garden just below Little puffs of perfume blow, 75 And a sound is in his ears Of the murmur of the bees In the shining chestnut-trees; Nothing else he heeds or hears. All the landscape seems to swoon 80 In the happy afternoon; Slowly o'er his senses creep The encroaching waves of sleep, And he sinks as sank the town, Unresisting, fathoms down, 85 Into caverns cool and deep!
Walled about with drifts of snow, Hearing the fierce north wind blow, Seeing all the landscape white, And the river cased in ice, 90 Comes this memory of delight, Comes this vision unto me Of a long-lost Paradise In the land beyond the sea.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
VIATOR
Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, Leaving a little portion of my heart; Then day-dreams make the heart's division good With many a loved Italian solitude. 4 As sons the whole year scattered here and there Gather at Christmas round their father's chair, Prodigal memories tenderly come home-- Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome; Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wall Saw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall, 10 And rosy gold upon Verona tarry. O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry, Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling short To whisper with the rosebush in the Court! 14 How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan marges Cried in the broken moonlight round the barges, Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's march Flaws in a riot at the Causeway arch! How Cava from grey wall and silence green Echoes the humming voice of the ravine, 20 The while a second spell the brain composes, Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses! How that first sunbeam on Assisi fell To wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell, Before the tides of noonday washed the pale 25 Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale! Multitudinous colonies of my love! But there's a single village dear above Cities and scenes, a township of kind hearts, The quick Boïte laughs to and departs 30 Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green. My tower that climbs to see what can be seen Towards Three Crosses or the high Giaù daisies, Or where the great white highway southward blazes! My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn 35 Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawn Shows up her pillared bulwarks one by one-- Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun! Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect, Dares the poor dole of _Here_ and _Now_ reject, 40 The lust of larger things invades and fills-- The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills!
J. S. PHILLIMORE.
FAREWELL TO ITALY
I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 5 Bordering the channel of the milky-way. Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poet's song. I did believe (what have I not believed?), 10 Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; 15 But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration ... reasoning As if the sight were unimpaired by death, 20 Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheered corruption! Over all The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave.
W. S. LANDOR.
MESSINA
'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.'
Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame? Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art, And shades of power, and those who bore a part 5 In the mad deeds that set the world in flame, So fret my memory here,--ah! is it blame?-- That from my eyes the tear is fain to start. Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise; 'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race 10 Which in each brother's history reads its own. So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place Be named man's tomb and splendid record stone, High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize.
J. H. NEWMAN.
TAORMINA
'And Jacob went on his way; and the angels of God met him.'
Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, Nor visions met thee there, Thou couldst but marvel to have found This blighted world so fair?
And feel an awe within thee rise, 5 That sinful man should see Glories far worthier Seraph's eyes Than to be shared by thee?
Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint 'Mid coming pains and fears, 10 As the third heaven once nerved a Saint For fourteen trial-years.
J. H. NEWMAN.
HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, 5 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
R. BROWNING.
GIBRALTAR
England, we love thee better than we know.-- And this I learned when, after wanderings long 'Mid people of another stock and tongue, I heard again thy martial music blow, And saw thy gallant children to and fro 5 Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits. When first I came in sight of that brave show, It made the very heart within me dance, To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance Forward so far into the mighty sea. 11 Joy was it and exultation to behold Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry, A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.
R. C. TRENCH.
GIBRALTAR
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screened by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, 5 Our exile is accomplished. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill 11 Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!
W. S. BLUNT.
FROM 'THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY'
Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow 5 Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine-- 9 And knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The young light-hearted masters of the waves-- And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 15 To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales. 20
M. ARNOLD.
FAREWELL TO MALTA
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely entered! Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured! Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs! 5 (How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu, ye merchants often failing! Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! Adieu, ye packets--without letters! Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters! 10 Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, That gave me fever, and the spleen! Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! Adieu to Peter--whom no fault's in, 15 But could not teach a colonel waltzing; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! Adieu, red coats, and redder faces! Adieu, the supercilious air Of all that strut 'en militaire!' 20 I go--but God knows when, or why, To smoky towns and cloudy sky, To things (the honest truth to say) As bad--but in a different way. Farewell to these, but not adieu, 25 Triumphant sons of truest blue! While either Adriatic shore, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 30 Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is, And take my rhyme--because 'tis 'gratis'.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hothouse! I'll not offend with words uncivil, 35 And wish thee rudely at the Devil, But only stare from out my casement, And ask, for what is such a place meant? Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book, 40 Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, And bless the gods I've got a fever.
LORD BYRON.
TO E[DWARD] L[EAR], ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneïan pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 5 With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there:
And trust me while I turned the page, And tracked you still on classic ground, 10 I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever poured And glistened--here and there alone The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown 15 By fountain-urns;--and Naiads oared
A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom 20
From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea.
LORD TENNYSON.
HELLAS
It is not only that the sun Loves best these southern lands, It is not for the trophies won Of old by hero hands, That nature wreathed in softer smiles 5 Was here the bride of art; A closer kinship claims these isles, The love-land of the heart. It is because the poet's dream Still haunts each happy vale, 10 That peopled every grove and stream To fit his fairy tale.
There may be greener vales and hills Less bare to shelter man; But still they want the naiad rills, 15 And miss the pipe of Pan. There may be other isles as fair And summer seas as blue, But then Odysseus touched not there Nor Argo beached her crew. 20 The Nereid-haunted river shore, The Faun-frequented dell, Possess me with their magic more Than sites where Caesars fell: And where the blooms of Zante blow 25 Their incense to the waves; Where Ithaca's dark headlands show The legendary caves; Where in the deep of olive groves The summer hardly dies; 30 Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maids Still keep their siren eyes; Where Chalcis strains with loving lips Towards the little bay, The strand that held the thousand ships, 35 The Aulis of delay; Where Oeta's ridge of granite bars The gate Thermopylae, Where huge Orion crowned with stars Looks down on Rhodope; 40 Where once Apollo tended flocks On Phera's lofty plain, Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocks To find the outer main; Where Argos and Mycenae sleep 45 With all the buried wrong, And where Arcadian uplands keep The antique shepherd song, There is a spirit haunts the place All other lands must lack, 50 A speaking voice, a living grace, That beckons fancy back.
Dear isles and sea-indented shore, Till songs be no more sung, The singers that have gone before 55 Will keep your lovers young: And men will hymn your haunted skies, And seek your holy streams, Until the soul of music dies, And earth has done with dreams. 60
SIR RENNELL RODD.
THE VIOLET CROWN
'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?' One asked me, as the April sun went down Behind the shadows of the Persian's mound, The fretted crags of Salamis. 'Look round, And see the question answered!' For we were Upon the summit of that battled square, 6 The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrine The world still worships what man made divine, The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birth Of half the immortalities of earth. 10
The last rays light the portal, a gold wave Runs up the columns to the architrave, Lingers about the gable and is gone:-- Parnes, Hymettus, and Pentelicon Show shadowy violet in the after-rose, 15 Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands close The mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea, And from this circle's heart aetherially Springs the white altar of the land's renown, A marble lily in a violet crown. 20
And fairer crown had never queen than this That girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis! So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea, I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee.
SIR RENNELL RODD.
ATHENS
The nodding promontories and blue isles, And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 5 On the unapprehensive wild. The vine, the corn, the olive wild, Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled; And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, 10 Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child, Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main 15 Athens arose: a city such as vision Builds from the purple crags and silver towers Of battlemented cloud, as in derision Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; 20 Its portals are inhabited By thunder-zonèd winds, each head Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,-- A divine work! Athens, diviner yet, Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; 26 For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead In marble immortality, that hill Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 31 Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay Immovably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but it cannot pass away!
P. B. SHELLEY.