| |
| STILL rise around that lake well sung | |
| New growths as boon and good | |
| As when, by sunshine saddened, hung | |
| Her poet o’er that flood, | |
| And sang, in Idyl-Elegy, a lay | 5 |
| Which praised things beauteous, mourning their decay. | |
| |
| As then great Nature, “kind to sloth,” | |
| Lets drop o’er all the land | |
| Her gifts, the fair and fruitful both, | |
| Into the sleeper’s hand: | 10 |
| On golden ground once more she paints as then | |
| The cistus bower and convent-brightened glen. | |
| |
| Still o’er the flashing waters lean | |
| The mulberry and the maize, | |
| And roof of vines whose purple screen | 15 |
| Tempers those piercing rays, | |
| Which here forego their fiercer shafts, and sleep, | |
| Subdued, in crimson cells, and verdurous chambers deep. | |
| |
| And still in many a sandy creek | |
| Light waves run on and up, | 20 |
| While the foam-bubbles winking break | |
| Around their channelled cup; | |
| Against the rock they toss the bleeding gourd, | |
| Or lap on marble stair and skiff unmoored. | |
| |
| Fulfilled thus far the poet’s words;— | 25 |
| And yet a truth that hour | |
| By him unsung upon his chords | |
| Descends, their ampler dower. | |
| Of Nature’s cyclic life he sang, nor knew | |
| That frailer shape he mourned should bloom perpetual too. | 30 |
| |
| There still, not skilful to retract | |
| A glance as kind as keen, | |
| By the same southern sunset backed, | |
| There still that Maid is seen: | |
| Through song’s high grace there stands she! from her eyes | 35 |
| Still beams the cordial mirth, the unshamed surprise! | |
| |
| Not yet those parted lips remit | |
| A smile that grows and grows: | |
| The Titianic morning yet | |
| Breaks from that cheek of rose; | 40 |
| Still from her locks the breeze its sweetness takes; | |
| Around her white feet still the ripple fawns and rakes. | |
| |
| And, brightening in the radiance cast | |
| By her on all around, | |
| That shore lives on, while song may last, | 45 |
| Love-consecrated ground; | |
| Lives like that isthmus, headland half, half isle, | |
| Which smiled to meet Catullus’ homeward smile. | |
| |
| O Sirmio! thou that shedd’st thy fame | |
| O’er old Verona’s lake, | 50 |
| Henceforth Varese without blame | |
| Thine honors shall partake: | |
| A Muse hath sung her, on whose front with awe | |
| Thy nymphs had gazed as though great Virtue’s self they saw! | |
| |
| What shape is that, though fair severe, | 55 |
| Which fleets triumphant by | |
| Imaged in yonder mirror clear, | |
| And seeks her native sky, | |
| With locks succinct beneath a threatening crest,— | |
| Like Juno in the brow, like Pallas in the breast? | 60 |
| |
| A Muse that flatters nothing base | |
| In man, nor aught infirm, | |
| “Sows the slow olive for a race | |
| Unborn.” The destined germ, | |
| The germ alone of Fame she plants, nor cares | 65 |
| What time that secular tree its shining fruitage bears; | |
| |
| Pleased rather with her function sage— | |
| To interpret Nature’s heart; | |
| The words on Wisdom’s sacred page | |
| To wing, through metric art, | 70 |
| With life; and in a chariot of sweet sound | |
| Down-trodden Truth to lift and waft the world around. | |
| |
| Hail, Muse, whose crown, soon won or late, | |
| Is Virtue’s, not thine own! | |
| Hail, Verse, that tak’st thy strength and state | 75 |
| From Thought’s auguster throne! | |
| Varese too would hail thee! Hark! that song,— | |
| Her almond bowers it thrills and rings her groves along! | |
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