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(From Italy)
’T WAS night; the noise and bustle of the day | |
| Were o’er. The mountebank no longer wrought | |
| Miraculous cures,—he and his stage were gone; | |
| And he who, when the crisis of his tale | |
| Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, | 5 |
| Sent round his cap; and he who thrummed his wire | |
| And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain | |
| Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, | |
| So well portrayed, and by a son of thine, | |
| Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, | 10 |
| Were hushed, Bologna,—silence in the streets, | |
| The squares, when, hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; | |
| And soon a courier, posting as from far, | |
| Housing and holster, boot and belted coat | |
| And doublet, stained with many a various soil, | 15 |
| Stopt and alighted. ’T was where hangs aloft | |
| That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming | |
| All who arrive there, all perhaps save those | |
| Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, | |
| Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached | 20 |
| Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding, | |
| Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade | |
| As the sky changes. To the gate they came; | |
| And, ere the man had half his story done, | |
| Mine host received the Master,—one long used | 25 |
| To sojourn among strangers, everywhere | |
| (Go where he would, along the wildest track) | |
| Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, | |
| And leaving footsteps to be traced by those | |
| Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw, | 30 |
| Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, | |
| But mingled not, and mid the din, the stir, | |
Lived as a separate spirit.
Much had passed | |
| Since last we parted; and those five short years,— | |
| Much had they told! His clustering locks were turned | 35 |
| Gray; nor did aught recall the youth that swam | |
| From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, | |
| Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought | |
| Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, | |
| Waiting for words. Far, far into the night | 40 |
| We sat, conversing,—no unwelcome hour | |
| The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, | |
| Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. | |
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