Lost in the haze of melting hills and skies How the Spring flings her tribute to the breeze Through every slit in these long, winding walls! Shunning the screen of flowery tapestries, The slim gray lizard, turquoise-vested, crawls— Here Scala lifts upon her furrowed breast The nectarine, peach and almond trees in flower, Where many a home-like English blossom blows; On rocky, wave-girt slopes, where buds the vine, Roam dusky herds of sullen buffalo. The distant Apennines' dark ranges wear Can this be Italy, or but a dream Emerging from the broken waves of sleep? As when against old Barbarossa's power More exquisite than our imagining, In silent hours how often shall ariseFrom the dim waters of that mystic spring Where the soul keeps her anchored memories-- This world of beauty, color, and perfume; VENICE From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" I STOOD in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, I saw from out the wave her structures rise O'er the far times, when many a subject land Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, And such she was; her daughters had their dowers Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, But unto us she hath a spell beyond 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, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] VENICE VENICE, thou Siren of sea-cities, wrought O heaven-blue eyes, blonde tresses where the breeze John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN ONCE did She hold the gorgeous East in fee, Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great, is passed away. William Wordsworth [1770-1850] THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL A PICTURE AT FANO DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave Shall find performed thy special ministry, Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb-and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! After thy healing, with such different eyes. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)—that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each 1 Pressed gently, with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. We were at Fano, and three times we went -My angel with me too: and since I care And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong— I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. Robert Browning [1812-1889] CHORUS From "Hellas" THE world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn: |