VESPERS ON THE SHORE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN.
AT Savona, a very ancient little city on the coast of Genoa, there stands by the lighthouse a Madonna about twelve feet high, under which are inscribed two Sapphic verses, which are both good Latin and choice Italian, made by Gabriello Chiabrera, "the prince of Italian lyric poets," who was a native of Savona,
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella."
ELIGION'S purest presence was not found, By the first followers of our Saviour's creed, In stately fanes where trump and timbrel sound
Sent up the chorus in a strain agreed,
And where the decked oblation's wail might plead
For guilty man with Abraham's holy seed.
Not in vast domes, - horizons hung by men,
Where golden panels fret a marble sky,
And things below look up, and wonder when
Those lifelike seraphim would start and fly!
Not where the heart is mastered by the eye
Will worship, anthem-winged, ascend most high.
But in the damp cathedral of the grove,
Where nature feels the sanctitude of rest,
Or in the stillness of the sheltered cove
Which noiseless waterfowl alone molest,
At times a reverence will pervade the breast
Which will not always come, a bidden guest.
Oft as the parting smiles of day and night
Flush earth and ocean with a roseate hue,
And the quick changes of the magic light
Prolong the glory of their warm adieu,
Each pilgrim on the hills, and every crew
On the lulled waters, frame their vows anew.
Then by the waves that lip Liguria's land,
In Genoa's gulf, thou, wanderer! must have heard
What, more than hymus from Pergolesi's hand,
The living soul of adoration stirred,
And, like the note of Spring's first-welcomed bird,
Some thoughts awake for which there is no word.
The shipman's chant! as noting travellers tell,
In either language — old and new the same; But more they might have truly said, and well, For 't is a speech the universe may claim; Men of all times, all climes, and every name, Devotion's tongue! which from the Godhead came.
Tost rudderless around the deep
By Apennine and Alpine blast, Which o'er the surge in fury sweep, bulrush of our mast,
We murmur in our half-hour's sleep
To thee, Madonna! till the storm be past,
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
Whether for weeks our bark hath striven
With death in wild Sardinia's waves,
Or downward far as Tunis driven,
Threat us with life, the life of slaves;
We know whose hand its help has given,
And locked the lightning in its thunder caves.
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
O Virgin! when the landsman's hymn,
At vesper time, on bended knee,
In sunlit aisle, or chapel dim,
Or cloister cell, is paid to thee,
Hear us that ocean's pavement skim,
And join our anthem to the raging sea:
In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
And when the tempest's wrath is o'er,
And tired Libeccio sinks to rest,
And starlight falls upon the shore
Where love sits watching, uncaressed,
Though hushed the tumult and the roar, Again the prayer we'll chant which thou hast blest: In mare irato, in subita procella,
Invoco te, nostra benigna stella.
Scylla and Charybdis, the Rocks.
Of beetling rocks, where roars the mighty surge
Of dark-eyed Amphitrité; these are called
The Wanderers by the blessed gods. No birds
Can pass them safe, not even the timid doves,
Which bear ambrosia to our father Jove,
But ever doth the slippery rock take off
Some one, whose loss the god at once supplies,
To keep their number full. To these no bark
Guided by man has ever come, and left
The spot unwrecked; the billows of the deep
And storms of fire in air have scattered wide
Timbers of ships and bodies of drowned men.
One only of the barks that plough the deep
Has passed them safely, Argo, known to all
By fame, when coming from Eæta home,
And her the billows would have dashed against
The enormous rocks, if Juno, for the sake
Of Jason, had not come to guide it through.
"Two are the rocks; one lifts to the broad heaven
Its pointed summit, where a dark gray cloud
Broods, and withdraws not; never is the sky
Clear o'er that peak, not even in summer days
Or autumn; nor can man ascend its steeps,
Or venture down, so smooth the sides, as if
Man's art had polished them. There in the midst
Upon the western side toward Erebus
There yawns a shadowy cavern; thither thou,
Noble Ulysses, steer thy bark, yet keep
So far aloof that, standing on the deck,
A youth might send an arrow from a bow
Just to the cavern's mouth. There Scylla dwells,
And fills the air with fearful yells; her voice
The cry of whelps just littered, but herself
A frightful prodigy, - a sight which none
Would care to look on, though he were a god.
Twelve feet are hers, all shapeless; six long necks,
A hideous head on each, and triple rows
Of teeth, close-set and many, threatening death.
And half her form is in the cavern's womb,
And forth from that dark gulf her heads are thrust,
To look abroad upon the rocks for prey,
Dolphin, or dogfish, or the mightier whale,
Such as the murmuring Amphitrité breeds
In multitudes. No mariner can boast
That he has passed by Scylla with a crew
Unharmed; she snatches from the deck, and bears
Away in each grim mouth, a living man.
"Another rock, Ulysses, thou wilt see,
Of lower height, so near her that a spear,
Cast by the hand, might reach it. On it grows
A huge wild fig-tree with luxuriant leaves.
Below, Charybdis, of immortal birth,
Draws the dark water down; for thrice a day
She gives it forth, and thrice with fearful whirl
She draws it in. O, be it not thy lot
To come while the dark water rushes down!
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