Yet still, as long ago, when this high coast
Phoenician strangers saw, and flying Dardans,
The bounteous earth fulfils her ancient boast
In mellow fields which winter never hardens;
And daisy, lavender, and rose
To flood with blended balm the tiers of banging gardens.
From immemorial rocks the daffodil
Beckons with scented stars, an unreached wonder:
On sunny banks their wine the hyacinths spill,
And self-betraying violets bloom thereunder;
While near and threatening, dim and deep,
The wave assaults the steep,
Or booms in hollow caves with sound of smothered thunder.
Here nature, dropping once her ordered plan,
Fashioned all lovely things that most might please her,
Hiding her playground where the greed of man
Must half withhold the toiling hands that tease her:
Her sweetest air, her softest wave,
To grace the wealth of Rome, to heal the languid Cæsar!
She stationed there Vesuvius, to be
Contrasted horror to her idyl tender:
Across the azure pavement of the sea
She raised a cape for Baïa's marble splendor;
And westward, on the circling zone,
To front the seas unknown,
She planted Capri's couchant lion to defend her.
A mother kind, she doth but tantalize:
Not from her secret gardens will she spurn us. The Roman, casting hitherward his eyes,
Forgot his Sybaris beside Volturnus, —
Forgot the streams and sylvan charms
That decked his Sabine farms,
And orchards on the slopes that sink to still Avernus.
Here was his substance wasted here he lost
The marrow that subdued the world, in leisure; Counting no days that were not feasts, no cost Too dear to purchase other forms of pleasure; Yet, while for him stood still the sun,
The restless world rolled on,
And shook from off its skirts Cæsar and Cæsar's treasure.
Less than he sought will we: a moon of peace,
To feed the mind on Fancy's airy diet;
Soft airs that come like memories of Greece,
Nights that renew the old Egyptian quiet:
Escape from yonder burning crest
That stirs with new unrest,
And in its lava-streams keeps hot the endless riot.
Here, from the wars of Gaul, the strife of Rome,
May we, meek citizens, a summer screen us:
Here find with milder Earth a perfect home,
Once, ere she puts profounder rest between us :
Here break the sacred laurel bough
And bind the myrtle buds to crown a purer Venus.
AY glimmered; and beyond the precipice
(Which my mule followed as in love with fear,
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
A sea of vapor rolled. Methought we went
Along the utmost edge of this, our world,
And the next step had hurled us headlong down
Into the wild and infinite abyss;
But soon the surges fled, and we descried
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there;
And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour,
None unemployed. Where from its native rock
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide,
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay
Keel upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the caldron; while, beyond the fort,
Whither I wandered, step by step led on,
The fishers dragged their net, the fish within
At every leave fluttering and full of life,
At every heave striking their silver fins
'Gainst the dark meshes.
At length the day departed, and the moon
Rose like another sun, illumining
Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower,
Scenes of Elysium, such as night alone
Reveals below, nor often, scenes that fled
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odors. All was still;
And now the nightingale her song poured forth
In such a torrent of heartfelt delight,
So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. 'T was where in the northwest,
Still unassailed and unassailable,
Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself,
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
That guiding star so oft the only one,
When those now glowing in the azure vault
Are dark and silent. "T was where o'er the sea
(For we were now within a cable's length)
Delicious gardens hung; green galleries,
And marble terraces in many a flight,
And fairy arches flung from cliff to cliff,
Wildering, enchanting; and, above them all,
A palace, such as somewhere in the East,
In Zenastan or Araby the blest,
Among its golden groves and fruits of gold,
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky,
Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp,
Such, if not fairer; and when we shot by,
A scene of revelry, in long array
As with the radiance of the setting sun,
The windows blazing. But we now approached
A city far-renowned; and wonder ceased.
Spiaggiascura.
SPIAGGIASCURA.
is a little city in the South,
A silent little city by the sea,
Where a stilled Alpine torrent finds its mouth,
And billowy mountains subside smilingly.
It knows nor weeping skies nor dewless drouth,
No seasons, save when April's glancing glee
Slow steadies unto Summer's still-poised wing,
Or mimic Winter lifts the mask from Spring.
Once on a time it was a famous city,
Home of urbane humanities and strife,
|