Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the clipt palm of which they boast; But distant color, happy hamlet, A moulder'd citadel on the coast, Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen A light amid its olives green; Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. Where oleanders flush'd the bed We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, Those niched shapes of noble mould, A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old. At Florence, too, what golden hours, In bright vignettes, and each complete, Or palace, how the city glitter'd, But when we crost the Lombard plain Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; And stern and sad (so rare the smiles O Milan, O the chanting quires, The giant windows' blazon'd fires, The height, the space, the gloom, the glory! A mount of marble, a hundred spires! I climbed the roofs at break of day; I stood among the silent statues, How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair, A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys Remember how we came at last From Como, when the light was gray, The rich Virgilian rustic measure Of Lari Maxume, all the way, Like ballad-burthen music, kept, To that fair port below the castle Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake The moonlight touching o'er a terrace What more? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew, But ere we reach'd the highest summit I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. It told of England then to me, O love, we two shall go no longer So dear a life your arms enfold Yet here to-night in this dark city, I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, Still in the little book you lent me, And I forgot the clouded Forth, The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, The bitter east, the misty summer And gray metropolis of the North. Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again. O sovereign Master! stern and splendid power, That calmly dost both Time and Death defy; Lofty and lone as mountain peaks that tower Leading our thoughts up to the eternal sky: Keeper of some divine, mysterious key, Raising us far above all human care, Unlocking awful gates of harmony To let heaven's light in on the world's despair. Smiter of solemn chords that still command Echoes in souls that suffer and aspire, In the great moment while we hold thy hand, Baptized with pain and rapture, tears and fire, God lifts our saddened foreheads from the dust, The everlasting God, in whom we trust! And was it thus the master looked, think you? Lo, the imperial will Are surely his. In every feature! Mighty purpose lies About the shut mouth, resolute and still. Notice the head's pathetic attitude, Bent forward, listening,―he that might not hear! Ah, could the world's adoring gratitude, So late to come, have made his life less drear! Hearest thou, now, great soul beyond our ken, Men's reverent voices answering thee, “Amen?” IN DEATH'S DESPITE. Whither departs the perfume of the rose ? Amazed with loss the human creature stands, Left with his aching heart and empty hands; He seeks his lost in vain. In sorrow drowned, Darkness and silence all his sense confound. Till on Death's roll-call stern he hears his name, The birds shall sing, unmindful of his dust, Submit to be forgotten like the rest, Though high the heart that beat within his breast. The rose falls and the music's sound is gone; Dear voices cease, and clasp of loving hands: Alone we stand when the brief day is done, Searching with saddened eyes earth's darkening lands. |