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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/39496-8.txt b/39496-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e8310c0 --- /dev/null +++ b/39496-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4146 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems on Travel, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Poems on Travel + +Author: Various + +Release Date: April 21, 2012 [EBook #39496] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +OXFORD GARLANDS + +POEMS ON TRAVEL + +SELECTED BY + +R. M. LEONARD + + + How much a dunce that has been sent to roam + Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. + COWPER. + + +HUMPHREY MILFORD +OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS +LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK +TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY +1914 + + +OXFORD: HORACE HART + +PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY + + + + +INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-88), 12, 13, 35, 38, 79, 95 + BLUNT, WILFRID SCAWEN (b. 1840), 78 + BRIDGES, ROBERT (b. 1844), 11 + BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-89), 49, 77, 91 + BUTLER, ARTHUR GREY (1831-1909), 29 + BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, + LORD (1788-1824), 25, 47, 53, 56, 60, 80, 87, 88, 96 + CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART (1831-84), 99 + CLEVELAND, JOHN (1613-58), 121 + CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-61), 7, 18, 23, 48, 55, 64 + COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834), 14, 98 + COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800), 118 + FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-63), 107 + GODLEY, ALFRED DENIS (b. 1856), 26 + GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-74), 8 + HARDY, THOMAS (b. 1840), 31, 62 + HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845), 97, 99, 116 + KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821), 39 + LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (1775-1864), 46, 74, 89 + LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-95), 56 + LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807-82), 5, 44, 69, 103, 108 + MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE (1803-49), 120 + MARVELL, ANDREW (1621-78), 113 + NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY (1801-90), 75, 76 + PHILLIMORE, JOHN SWINNERTON (b. 1873), 73 + PRIOR, MATTHEW (1664-1721,) 114 + RODD, SIR RENNELL (b. 1858), 83, 85 + ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855), 51, 66 + ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-82), 112 + SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822), 52, 86 + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS (1850-94), 121 + SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON (1840-93), 38 + TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD (1809-92), 7, 20, 21, 22, 40, 81 + TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (1807-86), 68, 77 + WATTS-DUNTON, THEODORE (1832-1914), 32, 33 + WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850), 9, 10, 34, 62, 65, 108 + + + + +POEMS ON TRAVEL + + +TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE + + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, + And yonder gilded vane, + Immovable for three days past, + Points to the misty main. + + It drives me in upon myself 5 + And to the fireside gleams, + To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, + And still more pleasant dreams. + + I read whatever bards have sung + Of lands beyond the sea, 10 + And the bright days when I was young + Come thronging back to me. + + In fancy I can hear again + The Alpine torrent's roar, + The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 15 + The sea at Elsinore. + + I see the convent's gleaming wall + Rise from its groves of pine, + And towers of old cathedrals tall, + And castles by the Rhine. 20 + + I journey on by park and spire, + Beneath centennial trees, + Through fields with poppies all on fire, + And gleams of distant seas. + + I fear no more the dust and heat, 25 + No more I fear fatigue, + While journeying with another's feet + O'er many a lengthening league. + + Let others traverse sea and land, + And toil through various climes, 30 + I turn the world round with my hand + Reading these poets' rhymes. + + From them I learn whatever lies + Beneath each changing zone, + And see, when looking with their eyes, 35 + Better than with mine own. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +FANCIES FOR MEMORIES + + Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, + Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, + Come, let us go,--to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, + Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. + Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world + that we live in, 5 + Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; + 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; + Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; + 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; + 'Tis but to go and have been.'--Come, little bark! let us go. 10 + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +THE CRY OF ULYSSES + + I cannot rest from travel: I will drink + Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed + Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those + That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when + Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 5 + Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; + For always roaming with a hungry heart + Much have I seen and known; cities of men, + And manners, climates, councils, governments, + Myself not least, but honoured of them all; 10 + And drunk delight of battle with my peers, + Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. + I am a part of all that I have met; + Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough + Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades + For ever and for ever when I move. 16 + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +THE TRAVELLER + + Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, + Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; + Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor + Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; + Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 5 + A weary waste expanding to the skies: + Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, + My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee; + Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, + And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 10 + In all my wanderings round this world of care, + In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- + still had hopes my latest hours to crown, + Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; + To husband out life's taper at the close, 15 + And keep the flame from wasting by repose. + I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, + Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 20 + And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, + Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, + I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, + Here to return--and die at home at last. + + O. GOLDSMITH. + + +I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN + + I travelled among unknown men, + In lands beyond the sea; + Nor, England! did I know till then + What love I bore to thee. + + 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 5 + Nor will I quit thy shore + A second time; for still I seem + To love thee more and more. + + Among thy mountains did I feel + The joy of my desire; 10 + And she I cherished turned her wheel + Beside an English fire. + + Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, + The bowers where Lucy played; + And thine too is the last green field 15 + That Lucy's eyes surveyed. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +WHERE LIES THE LAND + + Where lies the land to which yon ship must go? + Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, + Festively she puts forth in trim array; + Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? + What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe 5 + She cares for; let her travel where she may, + She finds familiar names, a beaten way + Ever before her, and a wind to blow. + Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? + And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 10 + (From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there + Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, + Of the old sea some reverential fear, + Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark! + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +A PASSER-BY + + Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, + Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, + That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, + Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? + Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, 5 + When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, + Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest + In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. + + I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, + Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: 10 + I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, + And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, + Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; + Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest + Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair 15 + Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest. + + And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless, + I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine + That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, + Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. 20 + But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, + As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, + From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line + In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. + + R. BRIDGES. + + +AT CARNAC + + Far on its rocky knoll descried + Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. + I climbed;--beneath me, bright and wide, + Lay the lone coast of Brittany. + + Bright in the sunset, weird and still 5 + It lay beside the Atlantic wave, + As if the wizard Merlin's will + Yet charmed it from his forest grave. + + Behind me on their grassy sweep, + Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey, 10 + The giant stones of Carnac sleep, + In the mild evening of the May. + + No priestly stern procession now + Streams through their rows of pillars old; + No victims bleed, no Druids bow; 15 + Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold. + + From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, + The orchis red gleams everywhere; + Gold broom with furze in blossom vies, + The blue-bells perfume all the air. 20 + + And o'er the glistening, lonely land, + Rise up, all round, the Christian spires. + The church of Carnac, by the strand, + Catches the westering sun's last fires. + + And there across the watery way, 25 + See, low above the tide at flood, + The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bay + Whose beach once ran with loyal blood! + + And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!-- + All round, no soul, no boat, no hail! 30 + But, on the horizon's verge descried, + Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail! + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE GRAND CHARTREUSE + + Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused + With rain, where thick the crocus blows, + Past the dark forges long disused, + The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. + The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride, 5 + Through forest, up the mountain-side. + + The autumnal evening darkens round + The wind is up, and drives the rain; + While hark! far down, with strangled sound + Doth the Dead Guiers' stream complain, 10 + Where that wet smoke among the woods + Over his boiling cauldron broods. + + Swift rush the spectral vapours white + Past limestone scars with ragged pines, + Showing--then blotting from our sight. 15 + Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines! + High in the valley, wet and drear, + The huts of Courrerie appear. + + _Strike leftward!_ cries our guide; and higher + Mounts up the stony forest-way. 20 + At last the encircling trees retire; + Look! through the showery twilight grey + What pointed roofs are these advance? + A palace of the Kings of France? + + Approach, for what we seek is here. 25 + Alight and sparely sup and wait + For rest in this outbuilding near; + Then cross the sward and reach that gate; + Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come + To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 30 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI + + Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star + In his steep course? So long he seems to pause + On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC, + The Arve and Arveiron at thy base + Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5 + Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, + How silently! Around thee and above + Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, + An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, + As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 + It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, + Thy habitation from eternity + O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, + Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, + Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 + I worshipped the Invisible alone. + + Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, + So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, + Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, + Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: 20 + Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, + Into the mighty vision passing--there + As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! + + Awake, my soul! not only passive praise + Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 + Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, + Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! + Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. + + Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! + O struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 + And visited all night by troops of stars, + Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: + Companion of the morning-star at dawn, + Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn + Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! 35 + Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? + Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? + Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? + + And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! + Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 + From dark and icy caverns called you forth, + Down those precipitous, black, jaggèd rocks, + For ever shattered and the same for ever? + Who gave you your invulnerable life, + Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 + Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? + And who commanded (and the silence came), + Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? + + Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow + Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- 50 + Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, + And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! + Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! + Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven + Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 + Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers + Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- + GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, + Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD! + GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 60 + Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! + And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, + And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD! + + Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! + Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 65 + Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! + Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! + Ye signs and wonders of the element! + Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! + + Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70 + Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, + Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene + Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-- + Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou + That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 + In adoration, upward from thy base + Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, + Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, + To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise, + Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth! 80 + Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, + Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, + Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, + And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun + Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD. 85 + + S. T. COLERIDGE. + + +HOME, ROSE, AND HOME, PROVENCE AND LA PALIE + +ITE DOMUM SATURAE, VENIT HESPERUS + + The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + The rainy clouds are filing fast below, + And wet will be the path, and wet shall we. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 5 + + Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone + Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on? + My sweetheart wanders far away from me, + In foreign land or on a foreign sea. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 10 + + The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + And through the vale the rains go sweeping by; + Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 15 + + Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they + O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray. + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.) + And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind + The pleasant huts and herds he left behind? 20 + And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see + The feeding kine and doth he think of me, + My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be? + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + The thunder bellows far from snow to snow, 25 + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + And loud and louder roars the flood below. + Heigh-ho! but soon in shelter shall we be: + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + Or shall he find before his term be sped, 30 + Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed? + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.) + For weary is work, and weary day by day + To have your comfort miles on miles away. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 35 + + Or may it be that I shall find my mate, + And he returning see himself too late? + For work we must, and what we see, we see. + And God he knows, and what must be, must be, + When sweethearts wander far away from me. 40 + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + The sky behind is brightening up anew, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + The rain is ending, and our journey too; + Heigh-ho! aha! for here at home are we:-- 45 + In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie. + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +THERE LIES A VALE IN IDA + + There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier + Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. + The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, + Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, + And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 + The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down + Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars + The long brook falling through the clov'n ravine + In cataract after cataract to the sea. + Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10 + Stands up and takes the morning: but in front + The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal + Troas and Ilion's columned citadel, + The crown of Troas. + Hither came at noon + Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn 15 + Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. + Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck + Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. + She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, + Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 + Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. + 'O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: + The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 25 + The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, + Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. + The purple flowers droop: the golden bee + Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. + My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30 + My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, + And I am all aweary of my life.' + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +COME DOWN, O MAID + + Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: + What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), + In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? + But cease to move so near the heavens, and cease + To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine, 5 + To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; + And come, for Love is of the valley, come, + For Love is of the valley, come thou down + And find him; by the happy threshold, he, + Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 10 + Or red with spirted purple of the vats, + Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk + With Death and Morning on the silver horns, + Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, + Nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice, 15 + That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls + To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: + But follow: let the torrent dance thee down + To find him in the valley; let the wild + Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 20 + The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill + Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, + That like a broken purpose waste in air: + So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales + Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 25 + Arise to thee; the children call, and I + Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, + Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; + Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, + The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 30 + And murmuring of innumerable bees. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ + + All along the valley, stream that flashest white, + Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, + All along the valley, where thy waters flow, + I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago. + All along the valley while I walked to-day, 5 + The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; + For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, + Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, + And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, + The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 10 + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +CURRENTE CALAMO + + Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize + Amid the snowy Pyrenees; + More evanescent than the snow, + The pictures come, are seen, and go: + Quick, quick, _currente calamo_. 5 + I do not ask the tints that fill + The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill; + I ask not for the hues that fleet + Above the distant peaks; my feet + Are on a poplar-bordered road, 10 + Where with a saddle and a load + A donkey, old and ashen-grey, + Reluctant works his dusty way. + Before him, still with might and main + Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, 15 + A girl: before both him and me, + Frequent she turns and lets me see, + Unconscious, lets me scan and trace + The sunny darkness of her face + And outlines full of southern grace. 20 + Following I notice, yet and yet, + Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set, + And black, and blacker e'en than jet, + The escaping hair that scantly showed, + Since o'er it in the country mode, 25 + For winter warmth and summer shade, + The lap of scarlet cloth is laid. + And then, back-falling from the head, + A crimson kerchief overspread + Her jacket blue; thence passing down, 30 + A skirt of darkest yellow-brown, + Coarse stuff, allowing to the view + The smooth limb to the woollen shoe. + But who--here's some one following too,-- + A priest, and reading at his book! 35 + Read on, O priest, and do not look; + Consider,--she is but a child,-- + Yet might your fancy be beguiled. + Read on, O priest, and pass and go! + But see, succeeding in a row, 40 + Two, three, and four, a motley train, + Musicians wandering back to Spain; + With fiddle and with tambourine, + A man with women following seen. + What dresses, ribbon ends, and flowers! 45 + And,--sight to wonder at for hours,-- + The man,--to Phillip has he sat?-- + With butterfly-like velvet hat; + One dame his big bassoon conveys, + On one his gentle arm he lays; 50 + They stop, and look, and something say, + And to 'España' ask the way. + But while I speak, and point them on; + Alas, my dearer friends are gone, + The dark-eyed maiden and the ass 55 + Have had the time the bridge to pass. + Vainly, beyond it far descried, + Adieu, and peace with you abide, + Grey donkey, and your beauteous guide. + The pictures come, the pictures go, 60 + Quick, quick, _currente calamo_. + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +CINTRA + + Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes + In variegated maze of mount and glen. + Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, + To follow half on which the eye dilates + Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 5 + Than those whereof such things the bard relates, + Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates? + + The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, + The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, + The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 10 + The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, + The tender azure of the unruffled deep, + The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, + The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, + The vine on high, the willow branch below, 15 + Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. + + LORD BYRON. + + +SWITZERLAND + + In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky, + When the holidays are nearing with the closing of July, + And experienced Alpine stagers and impetuous recruits + Are renewing with the season their continual disputes-- + Those inveterate disputes 5 + On the newest Alpine routes-- + And inspecting the condition of their mountaineering boots: + + You may stifle your reflections, you may banish them afar, + You may try to draw a solace from the thought of 'Nächstes Jahr'-- + But your heart is with those climbers, and you'll feverishly yearn 10 + To be crossing of the Channel with your luggage labelled 'Bern', + Leaving England far astern + With a ticket through to Bern, + And regarding your profession with a lordly unconcern! + + _They_ will lie beside the torrent, just as you were wont to do, 15 + With the woodland green around them and a snow-field shining through: + They will tread the higher pastures, where celestial breezes blow, + While the valley lies in shadow and the peaks are all aglow-- + Where the airs of heaven blow + 'Twixt the pine woods and the snow, 20 + And the shades of evening deepen in the valley far below: + + They will scale the mountain strongholds that in days of old you won, + They will plod behind a lantern ere the rising of the sun, + On a 'grat' or in a chimney, on the steep and dizzy slope, + For a foothold or a handhold they will diligently grope-- + On the rocky, icy slope 26 + (Where we'll charitably hope + 'Tis assistance only Moral that they're getting from a rope); + + They will dine on mule and marmot, and on mutton made of goats, + They will face the various horrors of Helvetian table d'hotes: 30 + But whate'er the paths that lead them, and the food whereon they fare, + They will taste the joy of living, as you only taste it there, + As you taste it Only There + In the higher, purer air, + Unapproachable by worries and oblivious quite of care! 35 + + Place me somewhere in the Valais, 'mid the mountains west of Binn, + West of Binn and east of Savoy, in a decent kind of inn, + With a peak or two for climbing, and a glacier to explore,-- + Any mountains will content me, though they've all been climbed before-- + Yes! I care not any more 40 + Though they've all been done before, + And the names they keep in bottles may be numbered by the score! + + Though the hand of Time be heavy: though your ancient comrades fail: + Though the mountains you ascended be accessible by rail: 44 + Though your nerve begin to weaken, and you're gouty grown and fat, + And prefer to walk in places which are reasonably flat-- + Though you grow so very fat + That you climb the Gorner Grat + Or perhaps the Little Scheideck,--and are rather proud of that: + Yet I hope that till you die 50 + You will annually sigh + For a vision of the Valais with the coming of July, + For the Oberland or Valais and the higher, purer air, + And the true delight of living, as you taste it only there! + + A. D. GODLEY. + + +ZERMATT CHURCHYARD + + _'C'était une guerre avec le Matterhorn,' said a Zermatt peasant + of the many attempts to scale this great mountain_ + + They warred with Nature, as of old with gods + The Titans; like the Titans too they fell, + Hurled from the summit of their hopes, and dashed + Sheer down precipitous tremendous crags, + A thousand deaths in one. 'Tis o'er, and we 5 + Who sit at home, and by the peaceful hearth + Read their sad tale, made wise by the event, + May moralize of folly and a thirst + For barren honour, fruitful of no end. + 'Tis well: we were not what we are without 10 + That cautious wisdom, and the sober mind + Of prudence, steering calm 'twixt rock and storm. + Yet, too, methinks, we were not what we are + Without that other fiery element-- + The love, the thirst for venture, and the scorn 15 + That aught should be too great for mortal powers + That yet one peak in all the skyey throng + Should rise unchallenged with unvanquished snows, + Virgin from the beginning of the world. + Such fire was theirs; O not for fame alone-- 20 + That coarser thread in all the finer skein + That draws adventure, oft by vulgar minds + Deemed man's sole aim--but for the high delight + To tread untrodden solitudes, and feel + A sense of power, of fullest freedom, lost 25 + In the loud vale where _Man_ is all in all. + For this they dared too much; nor they alone, + They but the foremost of an Alpine band, + Who in the life of cities pine and pant + For purer air, for peak, and pass, and glen, 30 + With slow majestic glacier, born to-day, + Yet with the trophies of a thousand years + On its scarred bosom, till its icy bonds + It burst, and rush a torrent to the main. + Such sons still hast thou, England; be thou proud + To have them, relics of thy younger age. 36 + Nor murmur if not all at once they take + The care and burden on them. Learn of them! + Youth has its teaching, too, as well as age: + We grow too old too soon; the flaxen head 40 + Of childhood apes experience' hoary crown, + And prudent lisps ungraceful aged saws. + 'Tis so: yet here in Zermatt--here beneath + The fatal peak, beside the heaving mound + That bears the black cross with the golden names 45 + Of men, our friends, upon it--here we fain + Would preach a soberer lesson. Forth they went, + Fearless and gay as to a festival, + One clear, cold morn: they climbed the virgin height; + They stood where still the awestruck gazer's eye 50 + Shudders to follow. There a little while + They spake of home, that centre whose wide arms + Hold us where'er we are, in joy, or woe, + On earth, in air, and far on stormy seas. + Then they turned homeward, yet not to return. 55 + It was a fearful place, and as they crept + Fearfully down the giddy steep, there came + A slip--no more--one little slip, and down + Linked in a living avalanche they fell, + Brothers in hope, in triumph, and in death, 60 + Nor dying were divided. One remained + To tell their story, and to bury them. + + A. G. BUTLER. + + +ZERMATT + +TO THE MATTERHORN + +(_June-July, 1897_) + + Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, + Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight, + Labouringly leapt and gained thy gabled height, + And four lives paid for what the seven had won. + + They were the first by whom the deed was done, 5 + And when I look at thee, my mind takes flight + To that day's tragic feat of manly might, + As though, till then, of history thou hadst none. + + Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon + Thou didst behold the planets lift and lower; 10 + Saw'st, maybe, Joshua's pausing sun and moon, + And the betokening sky when Caesar's power + Approached its bloody end; yea, even that Noon + When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour. + + T. HARDY. + + +NATURA MALIGNA + + The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold + Followed my feet, with azure eyes of prey; + By glacier-brink she stood--by cataract-spray-- + When mists were dire, or avalanche-echoes rolled. + At night she glimmered in the death-wind cold, 5 + And if a footprint shone at break of day, + My flesh would quail, but straight my soul would say: + ''Tis hers whose hand God's mightier hand doth hold.' + + I trod her snow-bridge, for the moon was bright, + Her icicle-arch across the sheer crevasse, 10 + When lo, she stood!... God made her let me pass, + Then felled the bridge!... Oh, there in sallow light + There down the chasm, I saw her cruel, white, + And all my wondrous days as in a glass. + + T. WATTS-DUNTON. + + +NATURA BENIGNA + + What power is this? what witchery wins my feet + To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow, + All silent as the emerald gulfs below, + Down whose ice-walls the wings of twilight beat? + What thrill of earth and heaven--most wild, most sweet-- 5 + What answering pulse that all the senses know, + Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow + Where, far away, the skies and mountains meet? + + Mother, 'tis I reborn: I know thee well: + That throb I know and all it prophesies, 10 + O Mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell + Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies! + Dumb Mother, struggling with the years to tell + The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes! + + T. WATTS-DUNTON. + + +THE SIMPLON PASS + + ----Brook and road + Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, + And with them did we journey several hours + At a slow step. The immeasurable height + Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 5 + The stationary blasts of waterfalls, + And in the narrow rent, at every turn, + Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, + The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, + The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 10 + Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside + As if a voice were in them, the sick sight + And giddy prospect of the raving stream, + The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, + Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light-- 15 + Were all like workings of one mind, the features + Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, + Characters of the great Apocalypse, + The types and symbols of Eternity, + Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 20 + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +OBERMANN + +I + + In front the awful Alpine track + Crawls up its rocky stair; + The autumn storm-winds drive the rack + Close o'er it, in the air. + + Behind are the abandoned baths 5 + Mute in their meadows lone; + The leaves are on the valley paths; + The mists are on the Rhone-- + + The white mists rolling like a sea. + I hear the torrents roar. 10 + --Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee! + I feel thee near once more. + + How often, where the slopes are green + On Jaman, hast thou sate + By some high chalet door, and seen 15 + The summer day grow late, + + And darkness steal o'er the wet grass + With the pale crocus starred, + And reach that glimmering sheet of glass + Beneath the piny sward, 20 + + Lake Leman's waters, far below: + And watched the rosy light + Fade from the distant peaks of snow: + And on the air of night + + Heard accents of the eternal tongue 25 + Through the pine branches play: + Listened, and felt thyself grow young: + Listened, and wept----Away! + + Away the dreams that but deceive! + And thou, sad Guide, adieu! 30 + I go; Fate drives me: but I leave + Half of my life with you. + + +II + + Glion?----Ah, twenty years, it cuts + All meaning from a name! + White houses prank where once were huts! + Glion, but not the same, + + And yet I know not. All unchanged 5 + The turf, the pines, the sky! + The hills in their old order ranged. + The lake, with Chillon by! + + And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff + And stony mounts the way, 10 + Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if + I left them yesterday. + + Across the valley, on that slope, + The huts of Avant shine-- + Its pines under their branches ope 15 + Ways for the tinkling kine. + + Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, + Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, + Invite to rest the traveller there + Before he climb the pass-- 20 + + The gentian-flowered pass, its crown + With yellow spires aflame, + Whence drops the path to Allière down + And walls where Byron came. + + Still in my soul the voice I heard 25 + Of Obermann--away + I turned; by some vague impulse stirred, + Along the rocks of Naye + + And Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze + And the blanched summit bare 30 + Of Malatrait, to where in haze + The Valais opens fair, + + And the domed Velan with his snows + Behind the upcrowding hills + Doth all the heavenly opening close 35 + Which the Rhone's murmur fills-- + + And glorious there, without a sound, + Across the glimmering lake, + High in the Valais depth profound, + I saw the morning break. 40 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE TERRACE AT BERNE + + Ten years!--and to my waking eye + Once more the roofs of Berne appear; + The rocky banks, the terrace high, + The stream--and do I linger here? + + The clouds are on the Oberland, 5 + The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; + But bright are those green fields at hand, + And through those fields comes down the Aar, + + And from the blue twin lakes it comes, + Flows by the town, the church-yard fair, 10 + And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, + The house--and is my Marguerite there? + + M. ARNOLD. + + +NEVER, OH NEVER MORE + + Never, oh never more shall I behold + A sunrise on the glacier:--stars of morn + Paling in primrose round the crystal horn; + Soft curves of crimson mellowing into gold 4 + O'er sapphire chasm, and silvery snow-field cold; + Fire that o'er-floods the horizon; beacons borne + From wind-worn peak to storm-swept peak forlorn; + Clear hallelujahs through heaven's arches rolled. + + Never, oh never more these feet shall feel + The firm elastic tissue of upland turf, 10 + Or the crisp edge of the high rocks; or cling + Where the embattled cliffs beneath them reel + Through cloud-wreaths eddying like the Atlantic surf, + Far, far above the wheeling eagle's wing. + + J. A. SYMONDS. + + +HAPPY IS ENGLAND + + Happy is England! I could be content + To see no other verdure than its own; + To feel no other breezes than are blown + Through its tall woods with high romances blent: + Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 5 + For skies Italian, and an inward groan + To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, + And half forget what world or worldling meant. + Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; + Enough their simple loveliness for me, 10 + Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: + Yet do I often warmly burn to see + Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, + And float with them about the summer waters. + + J. KEATS. + + +THE DAISY + +WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH + + O love, what hours were thine and mine, + In lands of palm and southern pine; + In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, + Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. + + What Roman strength Turbia showed 5 + In ruin, by the mountain road; + How like a gem, beneath, the city + Of little Monaco, basking, glowed. + + How richly down the rocky dell + The torrent vineyard streaming fell 10 + To meet the sun and sunny waters, + That only heaved with a summer swell. + + What slender campanili grew + By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; + Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 15 + A milky-belled amaryllis blew. + + How young Columbus seemed to rove, + Yet present in his natal grove, + Now watching high on mountain cornice, + And steering, now, from a purple cove, 20 + + Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; + Till, in a narrow street and dim, + I stayed the wheels at Cogoletto, + And drank, and loyally drank to him. + + Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 25 + Not the clipt palm of which they boast; + But distant colour, happy hamlet, + A mouldered citadel on the coast, + + Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen + A light amid its olives green; 30 + Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; + Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, + + Where oleanders flushed the bed + Of silent torrents, gravel-spread; + And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 35 + Of ice, far up on a mountain head. + + We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, + Those nichèd shapes of noble mould, + A princely people's awful princes, + The grave, severe Genovese of old. 40 + + At Florence too what golden hours, + In those long galleries, were ours; + What drives about the fresh Cascinè, + Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. + + In bright vignettes, and each complete, 45 + Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, + Or palace, how the city glittered, + Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. + + But when we crost the Lombard plain + Remember what a plague of rain; 50 + Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; + At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. + + And stern and sad (so rare the smiles + Of sunlight) looked the Lombard piles; + Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 55 + And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. + + O Milan, O the chanting quires, + The giant windows' blazoned fires, + The height, the space, the gloom, the glory! + A mount of marble, a hundred spires! 60 + + I climbed the roofs at break of day; + Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. + I stood among the silent statues, + And statued pinnacles, mute as they. + + How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair, 65 + Was Monte Rosa, hanging there + A thousand shadowy-pencilled valleys + And snowy dells in a golden air. + + Remember how we came at last + To Como; shower and storm and blast 70 + Had blown the lake beyond his limit, + And all was flooded; and how we past + + From Como, when the light was grey, + And in my head, for half the day, + The rich Virgilian rustic measure 75 + Of Lari Maxume, all the way, + + Like ballad-burthen music, kept, + As on The Lariano crept + To that fair port below the castle + Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; 80 + + Or hardly slept, but watched awake + A cypress in the moonlight shake, + The moonlight touching o'er a terrace + One tall Agavè above the lake. + + What more? we took our last adieu, 85 + And up the snowy Splugen drew, + But ere we reached the highest summit + I plucked a daisy, I gave it you. + + It told of England then to me, + And now it tells of Italy. 90 + O love, we two shall go no longer + To lands of summer across the sea; + + So dear a life your arms enfold + Whose crying is a cry for gold: + Yet here to-night in this dark city, 95 + When ill and weary, alone and cold, + + I found, though crushed to hard and dry, + This nurseling of another sky + Still in the little book you lent me, + And where you tenderly laid it by: 100 + + And I forgot the clouded Forth, + The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, + The bitter east, the misty summer + And grey metropolis of the North. + + Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 105 + Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, + Perchance, to dream you still beside me, + My fancy fled to the South again. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +CADENABBIA + +LAKE OF COMO + + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks + The silence of the summer day, + As by the loveliest of all lakes + I while the idle hours away. + + I pace the leafy colonnade 5 + Where level branches of the plane + Above me weave a roof of shade + Impervious to the sun and rain. + + At times a sudden rush of air + Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, 10 + And gleams of sunshine toss and flare + Like torches down the path I tread. + + By Somariva's garden gate + I make the marble stairs my seat, + And hear the water, as I wait, 15 + Lapping the steps beneath my feet. + + The undulation sinks and swells + Along the stony parapets, + And far away the floating bells + Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 20 + + Silent and slow, by tower and town + The freighted barges come and go, + Their pendent shadows gliding down + By town and tower submerged below. + + The hills sweep upward from the shore, 25 + With villas scattered one by one + Upon their wooded spurs, and lower + Bellagio blazing in the sun. + + And dimly seen, a tangled mass + Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 30 + Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass + Varenna with its white cascade. + + I ask myself, Is this a dream? + Will it all vanish into air? + Is there a land of such supreme 35 + And perfect beauty anywhere? + + Sweet vision! Do not fade away; + Linger until my heart shall take + Into itself the summer day, + And all the beauty of the lake. 40 + + Linger until upon my brain + Is stamped an image of the scene, + Then fade into the air again, + And be as if thou hadst not been. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +TO VERONA + + Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect + Beckoning me upward. Let me rest awhile + Where the birds whistle hidden in the boughs, + Or fly away when idlers take their place, + Mated as well, concealed as willingly; 5 + Idlers whose nest must not swing there, but rise + Beneath a gleaming canopy of gold, + Amid the flight of Cupids, and the smiles + Of Venus ever radiant o'er their couch. + Here would I stay, here wander, slumber here, 10 + Nor pass into that theatre below + Crowded with their faint memories, shades of joy. + But ancient song arouses me: I hear + Coelius and Aufilena; I behold + Lesbia, and Lesbia's linnet at her lip 15 + Pecking the fruit that ripens and swells out + For him whose song the Graces loved the most, + Whatever land, east, west, they visited. + Even he must not detain me: one there is + Greater than he, of broader wing, of swoop 20 + Sublimer. Open now that humid arch + Where Juliet sleeps the quiet sleep of death, + And Romeo sinks aside her. + Fare ye well, + Lovers! Ye have not loved in vain: the hearts + Of millions throb around ye. This lone tomb, 25 + One greater than yon walls have ever seen, + Greater than Manto's prophet-eye foresaw + In her own child or Rome's, hath hallowèd; + And the last sod or stone a pilgrim knee 29 + Shall press (Love swears it, and swears true) is here. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +THE APENNINE + + Once more upon the woody Apennine, + The infant Alps, which--had I not before + Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine + Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar + The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more; 5 + But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear + Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar + Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, + And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, + + Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 10 + And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly + Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, + For still they soared unutterably high: + I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; + Athos, Olympus, Aetna, Atlas, made 15 + These hills seem things of lesser dignity, + All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed + Not _now_ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid + + For our remembrance, and from out the plain + Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, + And on the curl hangs pausing. 21 + + LORD BYRON. + + +WHERE UPON APENNINE SLOPE + + Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle, + Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, + Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles, + Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply, + Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated, 5 + Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,-- + Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city, + Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee! + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +'DE GUSTIBUS----' + +I + + Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, + (If our loves remain) + In an English lane, + By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. + Hark, those two in the hazel coppice-- 5 + A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, + Making love, say,-- + The happier they! + Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, + And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10 + With the beanflowers' boon, + And the blackbird's tune, + And May, and June! + + +II + + What I love best in all the world, + Is, a castle, precipice-encurled, 15 + In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. + Or look for me, old fellow of mine, + (If I get my head from out the mouth + O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, + And come again to the land of lands)-- 20 + In a sea-side house to the farther south, + Where the baked cicalas die of drouth, + And one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands, + By the many hundred years red-rusted, + Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, 25 + My sentinel to guard the sands + To the water's edge. For, what expands + Before the house, but the great opaque + Blue breadth of sea without a break? + While, in the house, for ever crumbles 30 + Some fragment of the frescoed walls, + From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. + A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles + Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, + And says there's news to-day--the king 35 + Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, + Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: + --She hopes they have not caught the felons. + Italy, my Italy! + Queen Mary's saying serves for me-- 40 + (When fortune's malice + Lost her, Calais) + + Open my heart and you will see + Graved inside of it, 'Italy,' + Such lovers old are I and she; 45 + So it always was, so shall ever be! + + R. BROWNING. + + +VENICE + + There is a glorious City in the sea. + The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, + Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed + Clings to the marble of her palaces. + No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 5 + Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, + Invisible; and from the land we went, + As to a floating city--steering in, + And gliding up her streets as in a dream, + So smoothly, silently--by many a dome, 10 + Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, + The statues ranged along an azure sky; + By many a pile in more than eastern pride, + Of old the residence of merchant-kings; + The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, + Still glowing with the richest hues of art, 16 + As though the wealth within them had run o'er. + + S. ROGERS. + + +OCEAN'S NURSLING + + Underneath Day's azure eyes + Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, + A peopled labyrinth of walls, + Amphitrite's destined halls, + Which her hoary sire now paves 5 + With his blue and beaming waves. + Lo! the sun upsprings behind, + Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined + On the level quivering line + Of the waters crystalline; 10 + And before that chasm of light, + As within a furnace bright, + Column, tower, and dome, and spire, + Shine like obelisks of fire, + Pointing with inconstant motion 15 + From the altar of dark ocean + To the sapphire-tinted skies; + As the flames of sacrifice + From the marble shrines did rise, + As to pierce the dome of gold 20 + Where Apollo spoke of old. + Sun-girt City! thou hast been + Ocean's child, and then his queen; + Now is come a darker day, + And thou soon must be his prey, 25 + If the power that raised thee here + Hallow so thy watery bier. + + P. B. SHELLEY. + + +VENICE + + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; + A palace and a prison on each hand: + I saw from out the wave her structures rise + As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: + A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 5 + Around me, and a dying Glory smiles + O'er the far times, when many a subject land + Looked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles, + Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! + + She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 10 + Rising with her tiara of proud towers + At airy distance, with majestic motion, + A ruler of the waters and their powers: + And such she was;--her daughters had their dowers + From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 15 + Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. + In purple was she robed, and of her feast + Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. + + In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, + And silent rows the songless gondolier; 20 + Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, + And music meets not always now the ear: + Those days are gone--but Beauty still is here. + States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, + Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 25 + The pleasant place of all festivity, + The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! + + But unto us she hath a spell beyond + Her name in story, and her long array + Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 30 + Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; + Ours is a trophy which will not decay + With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, + And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away-- + The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 35 + For us repeopled were the solitary shore. + + The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; + And, annual marriage now no more renewed, + The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, + Neglected garment of her widowhood! 40 + St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood + Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, + Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, + And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour + When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. 45 + + Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, + Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; + But is not Doria's menace come to pass? + Are they not _bridled_?--Venice, lost and won, + Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 50 + Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! + Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, + Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes, + From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AT VENICE + + _On the Lido_ + + On her still lake the city sits + While bark and boat beside her flits, + Nor hears, her soft siesta taking, + The Adriatic billows breaking. + + _In the Piazza at night_ + + O beautiful beneath the magic moon 5 + To walk the watery way of palaces; + O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue + This spacious court; with colour and with gold, + With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points, + And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls, 10 + (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, + Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;) + Fantastically perfect this lone pile + Of oriental glory; these long ranges + Of classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd, 15 + And the calm Campanile.--Beautiful! + O beautiful! + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +FLORENCE + + Arno wins us to the fair white walls, + Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps + A softer feeling for her fairy halls. + Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps + Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 5 + To laughing life, with her redundant horn. + Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps + Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, + And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. + + There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 10 + The air around with beauty; we inhale + The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils + Part of its immortality; the veil + Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale + We stand, and in that form and face behold 15 + What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; + And to the fond idolaters of old + Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AN INVITATION TO ROME + + Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, + Your London sun is here seen shining brightly; + The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face, + And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. + The Romans are a kind and cordial race, 5 + The women charming, if one takes them rightly; + I see them at their doors, as day is closing, + More proud than duchesses,--and more imposing. + + A _far niente_ life promotes the graces; + They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, 10 + And in their bearing and their speech one traces + A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy + That are not found in more inclement places; + Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony: + The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, 15 + Is often cold--and always in a hurry. + + Though _far niente_ is their passion, they + Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; + No matter what it is they have to say, + The manner always sets the matter right: 20 + And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day, + They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'. + Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, + 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you! + + Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read 25 + Alone of stately palaces and streets + Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed, + And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets + Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed, + Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats, 30 + The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder + Old ruins, hiding ruin even older. + + Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, + Although the last are commonplace, or florid.-- + Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, 35 + Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. + The sombre streets are worthy your researches: + The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, + But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages, + Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. 40 + + About one fane I deprecate all sneering, + For during Christmas-time I went there daily, + Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing + The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. + Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing 45 + Her small form on a rostrum,--tricked out gaily, + And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, + With action quite dramatic and delightful. + + Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! + The country's better seen when one is riding: 50 + We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags + At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding + With giant march (now whole, now broken crags + With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding + Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar,-- 55 + That melt in light beneath the evening star. + + A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant; + The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; + There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasant + Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, 60 + And seems to wake the past time in the present. + Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, + No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow + Can join with jollity your _salterello_. + + Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath 65 + Of life to unsophisticated man. + Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, + _Per dar' al mio bene._ When you can, + Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death + And Time are grudging of Life's little span: 70 + Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn, + Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn. + + I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- + Such theme were all too splendid for my pen: + And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 75 + (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), + It is that love casts out my fear, and so + I claim with him a kindredship. Ah, when + We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, + As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon! 80 + + Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine, + 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; + The world goes there with torches, I decline + Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. + Some day in May our forces we'll combine 85 + (Just you and I), and try a midnight airing, + And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then + You'll muse upon the vanity of men! + + Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern, + 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: 90 + The ashes buried in a sculptured urn + Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! + That better time, for which the patriots yearn, + Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. + They wait and pine for what is long denied, 95 + And thus I wait till thou art by my side. + + Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still + Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; + I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, + I cannot yet thy little hand resign! 100 + The plain is fading into darkness chill, + The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, + I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee; + Oh, come to Rome--oh come, oh come to me! + + F. LOCKER-LAMPSON. + + +THE COLISEUM + + I do remember me, that in my youth, + When I was wandering,--upon such a night + I stood within the Coliseum's wall, + 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; + The trees which grew along the broken arches 5 + Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars + Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar + The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and + More near from out the Caesar's palace came + The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 10 + Of distant sentinels the fitful song + Begun and died upon the gentle wind. + Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach + Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood + Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt, 15 + And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst + A grove which springs through levelled battlements, + And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, + Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; + But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 20 + A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, + While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, + Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. + And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon + All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 25 + Which softened down the hoar austerity + Of rugged desolation, and filled up, + As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; + Leaving that beautiful which still was so, + And making that which was not, till the place 30 + Became religion, and the heart ran o'er + With silent worship of the great of old,-- + The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule + Our spirits from their urns. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AT ROME + + Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? + Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, + Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still + That name, a local Phantom proud to mock + The Traveller's expectation?--Could our Will 5 + Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done + Thro' what men see and touch,--slaves wandering on, + Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. + Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; + Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 10 + From that depression raised, to mount on high + With stronger wing, more clearly to discern + Eternal things; and, if need be, defy + Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +ROME + +AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS + + Who, then, was Cestius, + And what is he to me?-- + Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous + One thought alone brings he. + + I can recall no word 5 + Of anything he did; + For me he is a man who died and was interred + To leave a pyramid + + Whose purpose was exprest + Not with its first design, 10 + Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest + Two countrymen of mine. + + Cestius in life, maybe, + Slew, breathed out threatening; + I know not. This I know: in death all silently + He does a rarer thing, 16 + + In beckoning pilgrim feet + With marble finger high + To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street, + Those matchless singers lie.... 20 + + --Say, then, he lived and died + That stones which bear his name + Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide; + It is an ample fame. + + T. HARDY. + + +THE VALLEY AND VILLA OF HORACE + + Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio + Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence; + Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever, + With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, + Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:-- 5 + So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I, + Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, + Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me; + Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, + Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters! 10 + Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro, + (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, + Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,) + Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations, + Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace. 15 + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +VALLOMBROSA + + Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood + To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor, + To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, + When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar; + To range through the Temples of Paestum, to muse + In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth; 6 + On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues; + And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth! + The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, + Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret? + With a hope (and no more) for a season to come, 11 + Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt? + Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned + Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; + Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned 15 + From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just. + + Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page + Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind + Had a musical charm, which the winter of age + And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. + And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you 21 + I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, + While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew, + And the realized vision is clasped to my heart. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +PAESTUM + + They stand between the mountains and the sea; + Awful memorials, but of whom we know not! + The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck; + The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, + Points to the work of magic, and moves on. 5 + Time was they stood along the crowded street, + Temples of Gods, and on their ample steps + What various habits, various tongues beset + The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice! + Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; 10 + And here the accuser stood, and there the accused, + And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. + All silent now, as in the ages past, + Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. + How many centuries did the sun go round 15 + From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, + While, by some spell rendered invisible, + Or, if approached, approached by him alone + Who saw as though he saw not, they remained + As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 20 + Waiting the appointed time! All, all within + Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, + And taken to herself what man renounced; + No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, + But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, 25 + Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! + From my youth upward have I longed to tread + This classic ground; and am I here at last? + Wandering at will through the long porticoes, + And catching, as through some majestic grove, 30 + Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, + Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, + Towns like the living rock from which they grew? + A cloudy region, black and desolate, + Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. 35 + The air is sweet with violets, running wild + 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; + Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, + Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost-- + Turning to thee, divine philosophy, 40 + Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul-- + Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, + For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds + Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course. + On as he moved along the level shore, 45 + These temples, in their splendour eminent + 'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, + Reflecting back the radiance of the west, + Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up, + The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf 50 + Suckles her young; and as alone I stand + In this, the nobler pile, the elements + Of earth and air its only floor and covering, + How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs + Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 55 + On the rough pediment to sit and sing; + Or the green lizard rushing through the grass, + And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, + To vanish in the chinks that time has made. + In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 60 + Seen at his setting, and a flood of light + Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries-- + Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, + Athwart the innumerable columns flung-- + In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 65 + Led by the mighty genius of the place. + Walls of some capital city first appeared, + Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn; + --And what within them? What but in the midst + These three in more than their original grandeur, + And, round about, no stone upon another? 71 + As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, + And, turning, left them to the elements. + + S. ROGERS. + + +VESUVIUS + +AS SEEN FROM CAPRI + + A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, + Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky, + In quiet adoration, silently-- + Till the faint currents of the upper air + Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, 5 + The dome, as of a palace, hung on high + Over the mountain; underneath it lie + Vineyards and bays and cities white and fair. + Might we not think this beauty would engage + All living things unto one pure delight? 10 + Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell, + Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight + Hid, as within a guilty citadel, + The shame of his dishonourable age. + + R. C. TRENCH. + + +AMALFI + + Sweet the memory is to me + Of a land beyond the sea, + Where the waves and mountains meet, + Where, amid her mulberry-trees, + Sits Amalfi in the heat, 5 + Bathing ever her white feet + In the tideless summer seas. + In the middle of the town, + From its fountains in the hills, + Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 10 + The Canneto rushes down, + Turns the great wheels of the mills, + Lifts the hammers of the forge. + + 'Tis a stairway, not a street, + That ascends the deep ravine, 15 + Where the torrent leaps between + Rocky walls that almost meet. + Toiling up from stair to stair + Peasant girls their burdens bear; + Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 20 + Stately figures tall and straight, + What inexorable fate + Dooms them to this life of toil? + + Lord of vineyards and of lands, + Far above the convent stands. 25 + On its terraced walk aloof + Leans a monk with folded hands, + Placid, satisfied, serene, + Looking down upon the scene + Over wall and red-tiled roof; 30 + Wondering unto what good end + All this toil and traffic tend, + And why all men cannot be + Free from care and free from pain, + And the sordid love of gain, 35 + And as indolent as he. + + Where are now the freighted barks + From the marts of east and west? + Where the knights in iron sarks + Journeying to the Holy Land, 40 + Glove of steel upon the hand, + Cross of crimson on the breast? + Where the pomp of camp and court? + Where the pilgrims with their prayers? + Where the merchants with their wares, 45 + And their gallant brigantines + Sailing safely into port + Chased by corsair Algerines? + + Vanished like a fleet of cloud, + Like a passing trumpet-blast, 50 + Are those splendours of the past, + And the commerce and the crowd! + Fathoms deep beneath the seas + Lie the ancient wharves and quays + Swallowed by the engulfing waves; 55 + Silent streets and vacant halls, + Ruined roofs and towers and walls; + Hidden from all mortal eyes + Deep the sunken city lies: + Even cities have their graves! 60 + + This is an enchanted land! + Round the headlands far away + Sweeps the blue Salernian bay + With its sickle of white sand: + Further still and furthermost 65 + On the dim-discovered coast + Paestum with its ruins lies, + And its roses all in bloom + Seem to tinge the fatal skies + Of that lonely land of doom. 70 + + On his terrace, high in air, + Nothing doth the good monk care + For such worldly themes as these. + From the garden just below + Little puffs of perfume blow, 75 + And a sound is in his ears + Of the murmur of the bees + In the shining chestnut-trees; + Nothing else he heeds or hears. + All the landscape seems to swoon 80 + In the happy afternoon; + Slowly o'er his senses creep + The encroaching waves of sleep, + And he sinks as sank the town, + Unresisting, fathoms down, 85 + Into caverns cool and deep! + + Walled about with drifts of snow, + Hearing the fierce north wind blow, + Seeing all the landscape white, + And the river cased in ice, 90 + Comes this memory of delight, + Comes this vision unto me + Of a long-lost Paradise + In the land beyond the sea. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +VIATOR + + Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, + Leaving a little portion of my heart; + Then day-dreams make the heart's division good + With many a loved Italian solitude. 4 + As sons the whole year scattered here and there + Gather at Christmas round their father's chair, + Prodigal memories tenderly come home-- + Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome; + Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wall + Saw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall, 10 + And rosy gold upon Verona tarry. + O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry, + Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling short + To whisper with the rosebush in the Court! 14 + How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan marges + Cried in the broken moonlight round the barges, + Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's march + Flaws in a riot at the Causeway arch! + How Cava from grey wall and silence green + Echoes the humming voice of the ravine, 20 + The while a second spell the brain composes, + Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses! + How that first sunbeam on Assisi fell + To wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell, + Before the tides of noonday washed the pale 25 + Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale! + Multitudinous colonies of my love! + But there's a single village dear above + Cities and scenes, a township of kind hearts, + The quick Boïte laughs to and departs 30 + Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green. + My tower that climbs to see what can be seen + Towards Three Crosses or the high Giaù daisies, + Or where the great white highway southward blazes! + My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn 35 + Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawn + Shows up her pillared bulwarks one by one-- + Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun! + Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect, + Dares the poor dole of _Here_ and _Now_ reject, 40 + The lust of larger things invades and fills-- + The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills! + + J. S. PHILLIMORE. + + +FAREWELL TO ITALY + + I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more + From the high terraces, at even-tide, + To look supine into thy depths of sky, + Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, + Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 5 + Bordering the channel of the milky-way. + Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams + Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico + Murmur to me but in the poet's song. + I did believe (what have I not believed?), 10 + Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, + To close in thy soft clime my quiet day + And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. + Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little; + Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; 15 + But thou didst promise this, and all was well. + For we are fond of thinking where to lie + When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart + Can lift no aspiration ... reasoning + As if the sight were unimpaired by death, 20 + Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, + And the sun cheered corruption! Over all + The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, + And light us to our chamber at the grave. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +MESSINA + + 'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.' + + Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart + Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame? + Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came + Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art, + And shades of power, and those who bore a part 5 + In the mad deeds that set the world in flame, + So fret my memory here,--ah! is it blame?-- + That from my eyes the tear is fain to start. + Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise; + 'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race 10 + Which in each brother's history reads its own. + So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place + Be named man's tomb and splendid record stone, + High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize. + + J. H. NEWMAN. + + +TAORMINA + + 'And Jacob went on his way; and the angels of God met him.' + + Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, + Nor visions met thee there, + Thou couldst but marvel to have found + This blighted world so fair? + + And feel an awe within thee rise, 5 + That sinful man should see + Glories far worthier Seraph's eyes + Than to be shared by thee? + + Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint + 'Mid coming pains and fears, 10 + As the third heaven once nerved a Saint + For fourteen trial-years. + + J. H. NEWMAN. + + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA + + Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; + Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; + Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; + In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; + 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, 5 + Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, + While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. + + R. BROWNING. + + +GIBRALTAR + + England, we love thee better than we know.-- + And this I learned when, after wanderings long + 'Mid people of another stock and tongue, + I heard again thy martial music blow, + And saw thy gallant children to and fro 5 + Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, + Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits. + When first I came in sight of that brave show, + It made the very heart within me dance, + To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance + Forward so far into the mighty sea. 11 + Joy was it and exultation to behold + Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry, + A glorious picture by the wind unrolled. + + R. C. TRENCH. + + +GIBRALTAR + + Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm + Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more + We ride into still water and the calm + Of a sweet evening, screened by either shore + Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, 5 + Our exile is accomplished. Once again + We look on Europe, mistress as of yore + Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. + Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules + And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this door + England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill 11 + Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, + And at the summons of the rock gun's roar + To see her red coats marching from the hill! + + W. S. BLUNT. + + +FROM 'THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY' + + Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! + --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, + Descried at sunrise an emerging prow + Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, + The fringes of a southward-facing brow 5 + Among the Aegean isles; + And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, + Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, + Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine-- 9 + And knew the intruders on his ancient home, + + The young light-hearted masters of the waves-- + And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; + And day and night held on indignantly + O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, + Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 15 + To where the Atlantic raves + Outside the western straits; and unbent sails + There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, + Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; + And on the beach undid his corded bales. 20 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +FAREWELL TO MALTA + + Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! + Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! + Adieu, thou palace rarely entered! + Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured! + Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs! 5 + (How surely he who mounts you swears!) + Adieu, ye merchants often failing! + Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! + Adieu, ye packets--without letters! + Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters! 10 + Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, + That gave me fever, and the spleen! + Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, + Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! + Adieu to Peter--whom no fault's in, 15 + But could not teach a colonel waltzing; + Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! + Adieu, red coats, and redder faces! + Adieu, the supercilious air + Of all that strut 'en militaire!' 20 + I go--but God knows when, or why, + To smoky towns and cloudy sky, + To things (the honest truth to say) + As bad--but in a different way. + Farewell to these, but not adieu, 25 + Triumphant sons of truest blue! + While either Adriatic shore, + And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, + And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, + Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 30 + Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is, + And take my rhyme--because 'tis 'gratis'. + + And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, + Thou little military hothouse! + I'll not offend with words uncivil, 35 + And wish thee rudely at the Devil, + But only stare from out my casement, + And ask, for what is such a place meant? + Then, in my solitary nook, + Return to scribbling, or a book, 40 + Or take my physic while I'm able + (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), + Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, + And bless the gods I've got a fever. + + LORD BYRON. + + +TO E[DWARD] L[EAR], ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE + + Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls + Of water, sheets of summer glass, + The long divine Peneïan pass, + The vast Akrokeraunian walls, + + Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 5 + With such a pencil, such a pen, + You shadow forth to distant men, + I read and felt that I was there: + + And trust me while I turned the page, + And tracked you still on classic ground, 10 + I grew in gladness till I found + My spirits in the golden age. + + For me the torrent ever poured + And glistened--here and there alone + The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown 15 + By fountain-urns;--and Naiads oared + + A glimmering shoulder under gloom + Of cavern pillars; on the swell + The silver lily heaved and fell; + And many a slope was rich in bloom 20 + + From him that on the mountain lea + By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, + To him who sat upon the rocks, + And fluted to the morning sea. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +HELLAS + + It is not only that the sun + Loves best these southern lands, + It is not for the trophies won + Of old by hero hands, + That nature wreathed in softer smiles 5 + Was here the bride of art; + A closer kinship claims these isles, + The love-land of the heart. + It is because the poet's dream + Still haunts each happy vale, 10 + That peopled every grove and stream + To fit his fairy tale. + + There may be greener vales and hills + Less bare to shelter man; + But still they want the naiad rills, 15 + And miss the pipe of Pan. + There may be other isles as fair + And summer seas as blue, + But then Odysseus touched not there + Nor Argo beached her crew. 20 + The Nereid-haunted river shore, + The Faun-frequented dell, + Possess me with their magic more + Than sites where Caesars fell: + And where the blooms of Zante blow 25 + Their incense to the waves; + Where Ithaca's dark headlands show + The legendary caves; + Where in the deep of olive groves + The summer hardly dies; 30 + Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maids + Still keep their siren eyes; + Where Chalcis strains with loving lips + Towards the little bay, + The strand that held the thousand ships, 35 + The Aulis of delay; + Where Oeta's ridge of granite bars + The gate Thermopylae, + Where huge Orion crowned with stars + Looks down on Rhodope; 40 + Where once Apollo tended flocks + On Phera's lofty plain, + Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocks + To find the outer main; + Where Argos and Mycenae sleep 45 + With all the buried wrong, + And where Arcadian uplands keep + The antique shepherd song, + There is a spirit haunts the place + All other lands must lack, 50 + A speaking voice, a living grace, + That beckons fancy back. + + Dear isles and sea-indented shore, + Till songs be no more sung, + The singers that have gone before 55 + Will keep your lovers young: + And men will hymn your haunted skies, + And seek your holy streams, + Until the soul of music dies, + And earth has done with dreams. 60 + + SIR RENNELL RODD. + + +THE VIOLET CROWN + + 'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?' + One asked me, as the April sun went down + Behind the shadows of the Persian's mound, + The fretted crags of Salamis. + 'Look round, + And see the question answered!' + For we were + Upon the summit of that battled square, 6 + The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrine + The world still worships what man made divine, + The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birth + Of half the immortalities of earth. 10 + + The last rays light the portal, a gold wave + Runs up the columns to the architrave, + Lingers about the gable and is gone:-- + Parnes, Hymettus, and Pentelicon + Show shadowy violet in the after-rose, 15 + Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands close + The mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea, + And from this circle's heart aetherially + Springs the white altar of the land's renown, + A marble lily in a violet crown. 20 + + And fairer crown had never queen than this + That girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis! + So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea, + I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee. + + SIR RENNELL RODD. + + +ATHENS + + The nodding promontories and blue isles, + And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves + Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles + Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves + Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 5 + On the unapprehensive wild. + The vine, the corn, the olive wild, + Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled; + And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, + Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, 10 + Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, + Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein + Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child, + Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain + Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main 15 + Athens arose: a city such as vision + Builds from the purple crags and silver towers + Of battlemented cloud, as in derision + Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors + Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; 20 + Its portals are inhabited + By thunder-zonèd winds, each head + Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,-- + A divine work! Athens, diviner yet, + Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will + Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; 26 + For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill + Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead + In marble immortality, that hill + Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. + Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 31 + Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay + Immovably unquiet, and for ever + It trembles, but it cannot pass away! + + P. B. SHELLEY. + + +PARNASSUS + + Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, + Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, + Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, + But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, + In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 5 + What marvel if I thus essay to sing? + The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by + Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, + Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. + Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name + Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: 11 + And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame + That I in feeblest accents must adore. + When I recount thy worshippers of yore + I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 15 + Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, + But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy + In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! + + LORD BYRON. + + +CORINTH + + Many a vanished year and age, + And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, + Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, + A fortress formed to Freedom's hands. + The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 5 + Have left untouched her hoary rock, + The keystone of a land, which still, + Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill, + The landmark to the double tide + That purpling rolls on either side, 10 + As if their waters chafed to meet, + Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. + But could the blood before her shed, + Since first Timoleon's brother bled, + Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 15 + Arise from out the earth which drank + The stream of slaughter as it sank, + That sanguine ocean would o'erflow + Her isthmus idly spread below: + Or could the bones of all the slain, 20 + Who perished there, be piled again, + That rival pyramid would rise + More mountain-like, through those clear skies, + Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, + Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 25 + + LORD BYRON. + + +CORINNA TO TANAGRA + +FROM ATHENS + + Tanagra! think not I forget + Thy beautifully-storied streets; + Be sure my memory bathes yet + In clear Thermodon, and yet greets + The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy, 5 + Whose sunny bosom swells with joy + When we accept his matted rushes + Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes. + + A gift I promise: one I see + Which thou with transport wilt receive, 10 + The only proper gift for thee, + Of which no mortal shall bereave + In later times thy mouldering walls, + Until the last old turret falls; + A crown, a crown from Athens won, 15 + A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son. + + There may be cities who refuse + To their own child the honours due, + And look ungently on the Muse; + But ever shall those cities rue 20 + The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, + Offering no nourishment, no rest, + To that young head which soon shall rise + Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies. + + Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows 25 + Do white-armed maidens chant my lay, + Flapping the while with laurel-rose + The honey-gathering tribes away; + And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues + Lisp your Corinna's early songs; 30 + To her with feet more graceful come + The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home. + + O let thy children lean aslant + Against the tender mother's knee, + And gaze into her face, and want 35 + To know what magic there can be + In words that urge some eyes to dance, + While others as in holy trance + Look up to heaven: be such my praise! + Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +WARING + + What's become of Waring + Since he gave us all the slip, + Chose land-travel or seafaring, + Boots and chest or staff and scrip, + Rather than pace up and down 5 + Any longer London-town? + + Ichabod, Ichabod, + The glory is departed! + Travels Waring East away? + Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, 10 + Reports a man upstarted + Somewhere as a God, + Hordes grown European-hearted, + Millions of the wild made tame + On a sudden at his fame? 15 + In Vishnu-land what Avatar? + Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar, + With the demurest of footfalls + Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright + With serpentine and syenite, 20 + Steps, with five other Generals + That simultaneously take snuff, + For each to have pretext enough + To kerchiefwise unfold his sash + Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 25 + To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, + And leave the grand white neck no gash? + Waring, in Moscow, to those rough + Cold northern natures borne, perhaps, + Like the lambwhite maiden dear 30 + From the circle of mute kings + Unable to repress the tear, + Each as his sceptre down he flings, + To Dian's fane at Taurica, + Where now a captive priestess, she alway 35 + Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech + With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, + As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands + Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands + Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry 40 + Amid their barbarous twitter? + In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! + Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain + That we and Waring meet again + Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane + Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 45 + All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid + Its stiff gold blazing pall + From some black coffin-lid. + + 'When I last saw Waring....' 50 + (How all turned to him who spoke-- + You saw Waring? Truth or joke? + In land-travel, or sea-faring?) + 'We were sailing by Triest, + Where a day or two we harboured: 55 + A sunset was in the West, + When, looking over the vessel's side, + One of our company espied + A sudden speck to larboard. + And, as a sea-duck flies and swims 60 + At once, so came the light craft up, + With its sole lateen sail that trims + And turns (the water round its rims + Dancing, as round a sinking cup) + And by us like a fish it curled, 65 + And drew itself up close beside, + Its great sail on the instant furled, + And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried + (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's), + "Buy wine of us, you English brig? 70 + Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? + A pilot for you to Triest? + Without one, look you ne'er so big, + They'll never let you up the bay! + We natives should know best." 75 + I turned, and "Just those fellows' way", + Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thieves + Are laughing at us in their sleeves." + + 'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; + And one, half-hidden by his side 80 + Under the furled sail, soon I spied, + With great grass hat and kerchief black, + Who looked up with his kingly throat, + Said somewhat, while the other shook + His hair back from his eyes to look 85 + Their longest at us; then the boat, + I know not how, turned sharply round, + Laying her whole side on the sea + As a leaping fish does; from the lee, + Into the weather, cut somehow 90 + Her sparkling path beneath our bow; + And so went off, as with a bound, + Into the rosy and golden half + Of the sky, to overtake the sun + And reach the shore, like the sea-calf 95 + Its singing cave; yet I caught one + Glance ere away the boat quite passed, + And neither time nor toil could mar + Those features: so I saw the last + Of Waring!'--You? Oh, never star 100 + Was lost here, but it rose afar! + Look East, where whole new thousands are! + In Vishnu-land what Avatar? + + R. BROWNING. + + +ON THE RHINE + + Vain is the effort to forget. + Some day I shall be cold, I know, + As is the eternal moon-lit snow + Of the high Alps, to which I go + But ah, not yet! not yet! 5 + + Vain is the agony of grief. + 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot + Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, + And were it snapt--thou lov'st me not! + But is despair relief? 10 + + Awhile let me with thought have done; + And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine + And that far purple mountain line + Lie sweetly in the look divine + Of the slow-sinking sun; 15 + + So let me lie, and calm as they + Let beam upon my inward view + Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue-- + Eyes too expressive to be blue, + Too lovely to be grey. 20 + + Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! + Those blue hills too, this river's flow, + Were restless once, but long ago. + Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow: + Their joy is in their calm. 25 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS + + The castled crag of Drachenfels + Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, + Whose breast of waters broadly swells + Between the banks which bear the vine, + And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 5 + And fields which promise corn and wine, + And scattered cities crowning these, + Whose far white walls along them shine, + Have strewed a scene, which I should see + With double joy wert _thou_ with me. 10 + + And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes + And hands which offer early flowers, + Walk smiling o'er this paradise; + Above, the frequent feudal towers + Through green leaves lift their walls of grey; 15 + And many a rock which steeply lowers, + And noble arch in proud decay, + Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; + But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-- + Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 20 + + I send the lilies given to me; + Though long before thy hand they touch, + I know that they must withered be, + But yet reject them not as such; + For I have cherished them as dear, 25 + Because they yet may meet thine eye, + And guide thy soul to mine even here, + When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, + And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, + And offered from my heart to thine! 30 + + The river nobly foams and flows, + The charm of this enchanted ground, + And all its thousand turns disclose + Some fresher beauty varying round: + The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 35 + Through life to dwell delighted here: + Nor could on earth a spot be found + To nature and to me so dear, + Could thy dear eyes in following mine + Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 40 + + LORD BYRON. + + +'UP THE RHINE' + + Why, Tourist, why + With Passport have to do? + Pr'ythee stay at home and pass + The Port and Sherry too. + + Why, Tourist, why 5 + Embark for Rotterdam? + Pr'ythee stay at home and take + Thy Hollands in a dram. + + Why, Tourist, why + To foreign climes repair? 10 + Pr'ythee take thy German Flute, + And breathe a German air. + + Why, Tourist, why + The Seven Mountains view? + Any one at home can tint 15 + A hill with Prussian Blue. + + Why, Tourist, why + To old Colonia's walls? + Sure, to see a _Wrenish_ Dome, + One needn't leave St. Paul's. 20 + + T. HOOD. + + +COLOGNE + + In Köhln, a town of monks and bones, + And pavements fanged with murderous stones, + And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; + I counted two and seventy stenches, + All well defined, and several stinks! 5 + Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, + The river Rhine, it is well known, + Doth wash your city of Cologne; + But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine + Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 10 + + S. T. COLERIDGE. + + +THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS + + The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute; + But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit; + For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames + To Cologne for an _O_ and to Nassau for M's. + + T. HOOD. + + +FROM 'DOVER TO MUNICH' + + Farewell, farewell! Before our prow + Leaps in white foam the noisy channel; + A tourist's cap is on my brow, + My legs are cased in tourist's flannel: + + Around me gasp the invalids-- 5 + (The quantity to-night is fearful) + I take a brace or so of weeds, + And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful. + + The night wears on:--my thirst I quench + With one imperial pint of porter; 10 + Then drop upon a casual bench-- + (The bench is short, but I am shorter)-- + + Place 'neath my head the _havre-sac_ + Which I have stored my little all in, + And sleep, though moist about the back, 15 + Serenely in an old tarpaulin. + + Bed at Ostend at 5 a.m. + Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30, + Tickets to Königswinter (mem. + The seats objectionably dirty). 20 + + And onward through those dreary flats + We move, with scanty space to sit on, + Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, + And waists that paralyse a Briton;-- + + By many a tidy little town, 25 + Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting, + (The men's pursuits are, lying down, + Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;) + + And doze, and execrate the heat, + And wonder how far off Cologne is, 30 + And if we shall get aught to eat, + Till we get there, save raw polonies; + + Until at last the 'grey old pile' + Is seen, is past, and three hours later + We're ordering steaks, and talking vile 35 + Mock-German to an Austrian waiter. + + * * * * * + + On, on the vessel steals; + Round go the paddle wheels, + And now the tourist feels + As he should; 40 + For king-like rolls the Rhine, + And the scenery's divine, + And the victuals and the wine + Rather good. + + From every crag we pass 'll 45 + Rise up some hoar old castle; + The hanging fir-groves tassel + Every slope; + And the vine her lithe arm stretches + O'er peasants singing catches-- 50 + And you'll make no end of sketches, + I should hope. + + We've a nun here (called Therèse), + Two couriers out of place, + One Yankee with a face 55 + Like a ferret's: + And three youths in scarlet caps + Drinking chocolate and schnapps-- + A diet which perhaps + Has its merits. 60 + + And day again declines: + In shadow sleep the vines, + And the last ray through the pines + Feebly glows, + Then sinks behind yon ridge; 65 + And the usual evening midge + Is settling on the bridge + Of my nose. + + And keen's the air and cold, + And the sheep are in the fold, 70 + And Night walks sable-stoled + Through the trees; + And on the silent river + The floating starbeams quiver;-- + And now, the saints deliver 75 + Us from fleas. + + * * * * * + + Avenues of broad white houses, + Basking in the noontide glare;-- + Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, + As on hot plates shrinks the bear;-- 80 + + Elsewhere lawns, and vistaed gardens, + Statues white, and cool arcades, + Where at eve the German warrior + Winks upon the German maids;-- + + Such is Munich:--broad and stately, 85 + Rich of hue, and fair of form; + But, towards the end of August, + Unequivocally _warm_. + + C. S. CALVERLEY. + + +NUREMBERG + + In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands + Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. + + Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, + Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: + + Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 5 + Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; + + And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, + That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. + + In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, + Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; 10 + + On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days + Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. + + Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: + Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; + + And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 15 + By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. + + In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, + And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; + + In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, + Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 20 + + Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, + Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art; + + Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, + Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. + + _Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; 25 + Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies. + + Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, + That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! + + Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and + dismal lanes, + Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 30 + + From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, + Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. + + As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, + And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; + + Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom + In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 36 + + Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, + Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. + + But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, + And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; 40 + + Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, + As the old man grey and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. + + And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, + Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. + + Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 45 + Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. + + Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; + But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. + + Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, + As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: + + Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 51 + The nobility of labour,--the long pedigree of toil. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +AGED CITIES + + I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine + Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep; + And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine + Through Tyrian Frankfort; and been fain to weep + 'Mid the green cliffs where pale Mosella laves 5 + That Roman sepulchre, imperial Treves. + Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square; + And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands, + Like a queen-mother, on her spacious lands; + And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air. 10 + Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook, + Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers, + That carries age so nobly in its look, + As Oxford with the sun upon her towers. + + F. W. FABER. + + +BRUGES + + The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined + In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, + In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, + And with devout solemnities entwined-- + Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind: 5 + Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, + Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, + To an harmonious decency confined: + As if the streets were consecrated ground, + The city one vast temple, dedicate 10 + To mutual respect in thought and deed; + To leisure, to forbearances sedate; + To social cares from jarring passions freed; + A deeper peace than that in deserts found! + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES + + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; + Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. + + As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, + And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 4 + + Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray, + Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. + + At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, + Wreaths of snow-white smoke ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. + + Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, + But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 10 + + From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; + And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. + + Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, + With their strange unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, + + Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; + And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 16 + + Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; + They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; + + All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, + Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 20 + + I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; + Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece + of Gold. + + Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; + Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. + + I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; 25 + I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; + + And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, + And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. + + I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, + Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; 30 + + Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, + Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. + + And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; + And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; + + Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 35 + 'I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!' + + Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar + Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. + + Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, + Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 40 + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +THE CARILLON + +ANTWERP AND BRUGES + + At Antwerp, there is a low wall + Binding the city, and a moat + Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat. + You pass the gates in a slow drawl + Of wheels. If it is warm at all 5 + The Carillon will give you thought. + + I climbed the stair in Antwerp church, + What time the urgent weight of sound + At sunset seems to heave it round. + Far up, the Carillon did search 10 + The wind; and the birds came to perch + Far under, where the gables wound. + + In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt + I stood along, a certain space + Of night. The mist was near my face: 15 + Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. + The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt + In music through the silent place. + + At Bruges, when you leave the train, + --A singing numbness in your ears,-- 20 + The Carillon's first sound appears + Only the inner moil. Again + A little minute though--your brain + Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears. + + John Memmeling and John Van Eyck 25 + Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame + I scanned the works that keep their name. + The Carillon, which then did strike + Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike; + It set me closer unto them. 30 + + I climbed at Bruges all the flight + The Belfry has of ancient stone. + For leagues I saw the east wind blown: + The earth was grey, the sky was white. + I stood so near upon the height 35 + That my flesh left the Carillon. + + D. G. ROSSETTI. + + +HOLLAND + + Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, + As but the off-scouring of the British sand; + And so much earth as was contributed + By English pilots when they heaved the lead; + Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, 5 + Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; + This indigested vomit of the sea + Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. + Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, + They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: + And dived as desperately for each piece 11 + Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergris; + Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, + Less than what building swallows bear away; + Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll 15 + Transfusing into them their dunghill soul! + How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, + Thorough the centre their new-catchèd miles; + And to the stake a struggling country bound, + Where barking waves still bait the forcèd ground; + Building their watery Babel far more high 21 + To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. + Yet still his claim the injured ocean laid, + And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; + As if on purpose it on land had come 25 + To shew them what's their _mare liberum_, + A daily deluge over them does boil; + The earth and water play at level-coil. + The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, + And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; 30 + And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw + Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; + Or, as they over the new level ranged, + For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. + + ANDREW MARVELL. + + +THE HAGUE + + While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, + And in one day atone for the business of six, + In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night, + On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right; + No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move, + That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. 6 + For her neither visits nor parties at tea, + Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee. + This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, + To good or ill fortune the third we resign. 10 + Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, + I drive in my car in professional state. + So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode; + Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. + But why should I stories of Athens rehearse 15 + Where people knew love, and were partial to verse, + Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose + In Holland half-drownèd in interest and prose? + By Greece and past ages what need I be tried + When The Hague and the present are both on my side; 20 + And is it enough for the joys of the day + To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? + When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow, + As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow, + That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 25 + So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is. + + M. PRIOR. + _The Hague, 1696._ + + +ROTTERDAM + + I gaze upon a city, + A city new and strange; + Down many a watery vista + My fancy takes a range; + From side to side I saunter, 5 + And wonder where I am;-- + And can _you_ be in England, + And I at Rotterdam! + + Before me lie dark waters, + In broad canals and deep, 10 + Whereon the silver moonbeams + Sleep, restless in their sleep; + A sort of vulgar Venice + Reminds me where I am,-- + Yes, yes, you are in England, 15 + And I'm at Rotterdam. + + Tall houses with quaint gables, + Where frequent windows shine, + And quays that lead to bridges, + And trees in formal line, 20 + And masts of spicy vessels, + From distant Surinam, + All tell me you're in England, + And I'm in Rotterdam. + + Those sailors,--how outlandish 25 + The face and garb of each! + They deal in foreign gestures, + And use a foreign speech; + A tongue not learned near Isis, + Or studied by the Cam, 30 + Declares that you're in England, + But I'm at Rotterdam. + + And now across a market + My doubtful way I trace, + Where stands a solemn statue, 35 + The Genius of the place; + And to the great Erasmus + I offer my salaam,-- + Who tells me you're in England, + And I'm at Rotterdam. 40 + + The coffee-room is open, + I mingle in its crowd; + The dominoes are rattling, + The hookahs raise a cloud; + A flavour, none of Fearon's, 45 + That mingles with my dram, + Reminds me you're in England, + But I'm in Rotterdam, + + Then here it goes, a bumper,-- + The toast it shall be mine. 50 + In Schiedam, or in Sherry, + Tokay, or Hock of Rhine,-- + It well deserves the brightest + Where sunbeam ever swam,-- + 'The girl I love in England,' 55 + I drink at Rotterdam! + + T. HOOD. + + +THE PROGRESS OF ERROR + + No plainer truth appears, + Our most important are our earliest years; + The mind, impressible and soft, with ease + Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees, + And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue 5 + That education gives her, false or true. + Plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong; + Man's coltish disposition asks the thong; + And, without discipline, the favourite child, + Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 10 + But we, as if good qualities would grow + Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow; + We give some Latin, and a smatch of Greek; + Teach him to fence and figure twice a week; + And, having done, we think, the best we can, 15 + Praise his proficiency, and dub him man. + From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; + And thence, with all convenient speed, to Rome, + With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay, + To tease for cash, and quarrel with, all day; 20 + With memorandum-book for every town, + And every post, and where the chaise broke down; + His stock, a few French phrases got by heart; + With much to learn, but nothing to impart, + The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 25 + Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. + Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair, + With awkward gait, stretched neck, and silly stare, + Discover huge cathedrals, built with stone, + And steeples towering high, much like our own; 30 + But show peculiar light by many a grin + At popish practices observed within. + Ere long, some bowing, smirking, smart abbé, + Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way; + And, being always primed with _politesse_ 35 + For men of their appearance and address, + With much compassion undertakes the task + To tell them--more than they have wit to ask: + Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread, + Such as, when legible, were never read, 40 + But, being cankered now, and half worn out, + Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt; + Some headless hero, or some Caesar shows-- + Defective only in his Roman nose; + Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 45 + Models of Herculanean pots and pans; + And sells them medals, which, if neither rare + Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. + Strange the recital! from whatever cause + His great improvement and new lights he draws, 50 + The squire, once bashful, is shame-faced no more, + But teems with powers he never felt before; + Whether increased momentum, and the force + With which from clime to clime he sped his course, + (As axles sometimes kindle as they go) 55 + Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow; + Or whether clearer skies and softer air, + That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, + Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran, + Unfolded genially, and spread the man; 60 + Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace, + By shrugs, and strange contortions of his face, + How much a dunce that has been sent to roam + Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. + + W. COWPER. + + +ADVICE AGAINST TRAVEL + + Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest + But the surest teacher is the heart; + Studying that and that alone, thou learnest + Best and soonest whence and what thou _art_. + + _Time_, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready 5 + Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit. + Far more light the lamp that bideth steady + Than the wandering lantern doth _emit_. + + _Moor_, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman, + Tread one common down-hill path of doom; 10 + Everywhere the names are Man and Woman, + Everywhere the old sad sins find _room_. + + _Evil_ angels tempt us in all places. + What but sands or snows hath earth to give? + Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases, 15 + But look inwards, and begin to _live_! + + J. C. MANGAN. + + +HAD CAIN BEEN SCOT + + Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,-- + Not forced him wander, but confined him home. + + J. CLEVELAND. + + +A SONG OF THE ROAD + + The gauger walked with willing foot, + And aye the gauger played the flute; + And what should Master Gauger play + But _Over the hills and far away_? + + Whene'er I buckle on my pack 5 + And foot it gaily in the track, + O pleasant gauger, long since dead, + I hear you fluting on ahead. + + You go with me the self-same way-- + The self-same air for me you play; 10 + For I do think and so do you, + It is the tune to travel to. + + For who would gravely set his face + To go to this or t'other place? + There's nothing under Heav'n so blue 15 + That's fairly worth the travelling to. + + On every hand the roads begin, + And people walk with zeal therein; + But whereso'er the highways tend, + Be sure there's nothing at the end. 20 + + Then follow you, wherever hie + The travelling mountains of the sky. + Or let the streams in civil mode + Direct your choice upon a road; + + For one and all, or high or low, 25 + Will lead you where you wish to go; + And one and all go night and day + _Over the hills and far away_! + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + + +NOTES + + +The difficulty has been to select from a wealth of poems with which +volumes could have been filled. Indeed three collections dealing +exclusively with Greece, with Italy, and with Switzerland have already +been published by the Oxford University Press. In this volume the +traveller is not confined to one country, and he is not asked to drag +a lengthening chain beyond the limits of Europe. Here are some poems +about travel generally, and then country by country a grand tour is +traced. My obligation to the authors or owners of copyright poems is +duly acknowledged with grateful thanks. + + P. 7. _Clough._--The opening lines of _Amours de Voyage_. + + P. 7. _Tennyson._--A few lines only from _Ulysses_. + + P. 8. _Goldsmith._--From _The Traveller_. + + P. 11. _Bridges._--By kind permission of the Poet Laureate and + Messrs. Smith, Elder. + + Pp. 12 and 13. _Arnold._--From _Stanzas composed at Carnac_ and + _Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse_. + + Pp. 20 and 21. _Tennyson._--The passage from _Oenone_ and the idyll + from _The Princess_ are given here because their imagery was + inspired by the Pyrenees, which the poet repeatedly visited, first + of all in 1830 with Hallam, intending to aid in the Spanish revolt + against Ferdinand VII. Tennyson also spent some time in the Pyrenees + with Clough in 1861. It is Hallam who is referred to in _In the + Valley of Cauteretz_, a poem which Tennyson selected to write in + Queen Victoria's album. Swinburne has praised 'the solemn sweetness' + of these 'majestic verses'. + + P. 25. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto i, 18 and + 19. + + P. 26. _Godley._--By permission of the author and Messrs. Methuen. + + P. 29. _Butler._--By permission of Mrs. A. G. Butler. The poem + originally appeared in _The Times_ shortly after the Matterhorn + accident in 1865. + + P. 31. _Hardy._--By permission of the author and Messrs. Macmillan. + + Pp. 32 and 33. _Watts-Dunton._--By kind permission of the author, + given shortly before his death. + + P. 35. _Arnold._--The first portion is from _Stanzas in Memory of + the Author of 'Obermann'_ (Étienne Pivert de Senancour); the second + from _Obermann once More_, composed many years afterwards. + + P. 38. _Symonds._--By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder. + + P. 47. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, 73, + 74, and 75. + + P. 48. _Clough._--The concluding lines of the introduction to canto + iii of _Amours de Voyage_. + + P. 51. _Rogers._--From _Italy_. + + P. 52._ Shelley._--From _Lines written among the Euganean Hills_. + + P. 53. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, 1, 2, + 3, 4, 11, and 13. + + P. 56. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, + stanzas 48, 49. + + P. 60. _Byron._--From _Manfred_, act III, sc. iv. + + P. 62. _Hardy._--From _Wessex Poems, etc._ By permission of the + author and Messrs. Macmillan. + + P. 64. _Clough._--From _Amours de Voyage_, canto iii. There is a + note to line 8: + + ... domus Albuneæ resonantis, + Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda + Mobilibus pomaria rivis. + + P. 65. _Wordsworth._--The first two stanzas 'Composed in the Simplon + Pass', 1820. The concluding eight lines are from _At Vallombrosa_, + written when the poet's 'fond wish' to visit this spot had been + realized in 1837. Wordsworth is at pains to defend Milton from the + charge of having blundered in _Paradise Lost_, by suggesting that + the trees are 'deciduous whereas they are, in fact, pines'. 'The + fault-finders', Wordsworth says, 'are themselves mistaken; the + _natural_ woods of the region of Vallombrosa _are_ deciduous.' + + P. 66. _Rogers._--From _Italy_. + + P. 73. _Phillimore._--By permission of the author. + + P. 78. _Blunt._--By permission of the author. + + P. 81. _Tennyson._--Lear was not only the inventor or popularizer of + 'Limericks', but also a highly-esteemed artist. + + Pp. 83 and 85. _Rodd._--By permission of the author, who wrote the + introduction to the Oxford anthology, _The Englishman in Greece_. + + P. 86. _Shelley._--Stanzas 4 and 5 of the _Ode to Liberty_. + + P. 87. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto i, 60 and + 61. + + P. 91. _Browning._--This poem is not complete. + + P. 96. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iii, 55. + + P. 99. _Calverley._--This is a portion only of the poem. + + P. 118. _Cowper._--An extract from the long poem of the same title. + + P. 121. _Stevenson._--By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus (and + Messrs. Scribner's Sons in regard to the American rights). + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + Page + A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, 68 + Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!, 80 + All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 22 + Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 56 + At Antwerp, there is a low wall, 112 + + Brook and road, 34 + + Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 21 + + England, we love thee better than we know, 77 + + Far on its rocky knoll descried, 12 + Farewell, farewell! Before our prow, 99 + + Glion?---- Ah, twenty years, it cuts, 36 + + Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, 121 + Happy is England! I could be content, 39 + Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star, 14 + Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, 113 + + I cannot rest from travel: I will drink, 7 + I do remember me, that in my youth, 60 + I gaze upon a city, 116 + I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine, 107 + I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more, 74 + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, 53 + I travelled among unknown men, 9 + Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls, 81 + In front the awful Alpine track, 35 + In Köhln, a town of monks and bones, 98 + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, 108 + In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky, 26 + In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands, 103 + Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?, 62 + It is not only that the sun, 83 + Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes, 25 + + Many a vanished year and age, 88 + + Never, oh never more shall I behold, 38 + No plainer truth appears, 118 + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 44 + Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away, 77 + Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, 73 + + O beautiful beneath the magic moon, 55 + O love, what hours were thine and mine, 40 + Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, 56 + Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, 87 + On her still lake the city sits, 55 + Once more upon the woody Apennine, 47 + Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, 7 + + Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize, 23 + + Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 8 + + Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, 76 + Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm, 78 + Sweet the memory is to me, 69 + + Tanagra! think not I forget, 89 + Ten years!--and to my waking eye, 38 + The castled crag of Drachenfels, 96 + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 5 + The gauger walked with willing foot, 121 + The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute, 99 + The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold, 32 + The nodding promontories and blue isles, 86 + The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow, 18 + The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined, 108 + Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!, 79 + There is a glorious City in the sea, 51 + There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier, 20 + They stand between the mountains and the sea, 66 + They warred with Nature, as of old with gods, 29 + Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, 31 + Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused, 13 + Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio, 64 + Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest, 120 + + Underneath Day's azure eyes, 52 + + Vain is the effort to forget, 95 + Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood, 65 + Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page, 65 + Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect, 46 + + What power is this? what witchery wins my feet, 33 + What's become of Waring, 91 + Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?, 10 + Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the + oak-trees immingle, 48 + 'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?', 85 + While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, 114 + Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 11 + Who, then, was Cestius, 62 + Why, Tourist, why, 97 + Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart, 75 + + Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 49 + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems on Travel, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 39496-8.txt or 39496-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/9/39496/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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M. Leonard. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h3 { text-align: left; margin-left: 10%; margin-top: 4em; } + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +p.title1 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + font-size: 130%; line-height: 150%; + margin-bottom: 2em; } + +p.title { text-align: center; text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.4; margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 2em; } + +.author1 {text-align: right; + margin-right: 5%; + font-variant: small-caps;} + +.author {text-align: left; + margin-left: 15em; + font-variant: small-caps;} + + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%} +hr.r5 {width: 5%; margin-left: 3em; margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em;} + +ul.index { list-style-type: none; } +li.ifrst { margin-top: 1em; } +li.indx { margin-top: .5em; } + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 4%; +} + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 85%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.centered {text-align: center; margin: auto; display: table;} + +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left;} + +.linenum { + position: absolute; + top: auto; + left: 88%; + text-align: right;} + +.poem br {display: none;} + +.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i20 {display: block; margin-left: 8em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i27 {display: block; margin-left: 13.5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i30 {display: block; margin-left: 15em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i32 {display: block; margin-left: 16em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems on Travel, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Poems on Travel + +Author: Various + +Release Date: April 21, 2012 [EBook #39496] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + + +<p class="title1">OXFORD GARLANDS</p> + +<h1>POEMS ON TRAVEL</h1> + +<p class="title">SELECTED BY<br /><br /> + +R. M. LEONARD</p> + +<div class="centered"><div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How much a dunce that has been sent to roam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.<br /></span> + +<p class="author1">Cowper.<br /><br /></p> +</div></div></div> + + + +<p class="title">HUMPHREY MILFORD<br /> +OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS<br /> +LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK<br /> +TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY<br /> +1914</p> +<hr class="tb" /> + + + +<p class="center"><small>OXFORD: HORACE HART</small><br /> + +<small>PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY</small></p> +<hr class="tb" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + + +<h2>INDEX OF AUTHORS</h2> + + +<ul class="index"> +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Arnold, Matthew</span> (1822-88), <a href="#Page_12"><b>12</b></a>, <a href="#Page_13"><b>13</b></a>, <a href="#Page_35"><b>35</b></a>, <a href="#Page_38"><b>38</b></a>, <a href="#Page_79"><b>79</b></a>, <a href="#Page_95"><b>95</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Blunt, Wilfrid Scawen</span> (b. 1840), <a href="#Page_78"><b>78</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Bridges, Robert</span> (b. 1844), <a href="#Page_11"><b>11</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Browning, Robert</span> (1812-89), <a href="#Page_49"><b>49</b></a>, <a href="#Page_77"><b>77</b></a>, <a href="#Page_91"><b>91</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Butler, Arthur Grey</span> (1831-1909), <a href="#Page_29"><b>29</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Byron, George Gordon, Lord</span> (1788-1824), <a href="#Page_25"><b>25</b></a>, <a href="#Page_47"><b>47</b></a>, <a href="#Page_53"><b>53</b></a>, <a href="#Page_56"><b>56</b></a>, <a href="#Page_60"><b>60</b></a>, <a href="#Page_80"><b>80</b></a>, <a href="#Page_87"><b>87</b></a>, <a href="#Page_88"><b>88</b></a>, <a href="#Page_96"><b>96</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Calverley, Charles Stuart</span> (1831-84), <a href="#Page_99"><b>99</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cleveland, John</span> (1613-58), <a href="#Page_121"><b>121</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Clough, Arthur Hugh</span> (1819-61), <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a>, <a href="#Page_18"><b>18</b></a>, <a href="#Page_23"><b>23</b></a>, <a href="#Page_48"><b>48</b></a>, <a href="#Page_55"><b>55</b></a>, <a href="#Page_64"><b>64</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Coleridge, Samuel Taylor</span> (1772-1834), <a href="#Page_14"><b>14</b></a>, <a href="#Page_98"><b>98</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cowper, William</span> (1731-1800), <a href="#Page_118"><b>118</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Faber, Frederick William</span> (1814-63), <a href="#Page_107"><b>107</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Godley, Alfred Denis</span> (b. 1856), <a href="#Page_26"><b>26</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Goldsmith, Oliver</span> (1728-74), <a href="#Page_8"><b>8</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Hardy, Thomas</span> (b. 1840), <a href="#Page_31"><b>31</b></a>, <a href="#Page_62"><b>62</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Hood, Thomas</span> (1799-1845), <a href="#Page_97"><b>97</b></a>, <a href="#Page_99"><b>99</b></a>, <a href="#Page_116"><b>116</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Keats, John</span> (1795-1821), <a href="#Page_39"><b>39</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Landor, Walter Savage</span> (1775-1864), <a href="#Page_46"><b>46</b></a>, <a href="#Page_74"><b>74</b></a>, <a href="#Page_89"><b>89</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Locker-Lampson, Frederick</span> (1821-95), <a href="#Page_56"><b>56</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth</span> (1807-82), <a href="#Page_5"><b>5</b></a>, <a href="#Page_44"><b>44</b></a>, <a href="#Page_69"><b>69</b></a>, <a href="#Page_103"><b>103</b></a>, <a href="#Page_108"><b>108</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Mangan, James Clarence</span> (1803-49), <a href="#Page_120"><b>120</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Marvell, Andrew</span> (1621-78), <a href="#Page_113"><b>113</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Newman, John Henry</span> (1801-90), <a href="#Page_75"><b>75</b></a>, <a href="#Page_76"><b>76</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Phillimore, John Swinnerton</span> (b. 1873), <a href="#Page_73"><b>73</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Prior, Matthew</span> (1664-1721,) <a href="#Page_114"><b>114</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Rodd, Sir Rennell</span> (b. 1858), <a href="#Page_83"><b>83</b></a>, <a href="#Page_85"><b>85</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Rogers, Samuel</span> (1763-1855), <a href="#Page_51"><b>51</b></a>, <a href="#Page_66"><b>66</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Rossetti, Dante Gabriel</span> (1828-82), <a href="#Page_112"><b>112</b></a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Shelley, Percy Bysshe</span> (1792-1822), <a href="#Page_52"><b>52</b></a>, <a href="#Page_86"><b>86</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Stevenson, Robert Louis</span> (1850-94), <a href="#Page_121"><b>121</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Symonds, John Addington</span> (1840-93), <a href="#Page_38"><b>38</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Tennyson, Alfred, Lord</span> (1809-92), <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a>, <a href="#Page_20"><b>20</b></a>, <a href="#Page_21"><b>21</b></a>, <a href="#Page_22"><b>22</b></a>, <a href="#Page_40"><b>40</b></a>, <a href="#Page_81"><b>81</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Trench, Richard Chenevix</span> (1807-86), <a href="#Page_68"><b>68</b></a>, <a href="#Page_77"><b>77</b></a></li> + + +<li class="ifrst"><span class="smcap">Watts-Dunton, Theodore</span> (1832-1914), <a href="#Page_32"><b>32</b></a>, <a href="#Page_33"><b>33</b></a></li> + +<li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Wordsworth, William</span> (1770-1850), <a href="#Page_9"><b>9</b></a>, <a href="#Page_10"><b>10</b></a>, <a href="#Page_34"><b>34</b></a>, <a href="#Page_62"><b>62</b></a>, <a href="#Page_65"><b>65</b></a>, <a href="#Page_108"><b>108</b></a></li> +</ul> +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="POEMS_ON_TRAVEL" id="POEMS_ON_TRAVEL">POEMS ON TRAVEL</a></h2> + + +<h3>TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ceaseless rain is falling fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And yonder gilded vane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Immovable for three days past,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Points to the misty main.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It drives me in upon myself<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">And to the fireside gleams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And still more pleasant dreams.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I read whatever bards have sung<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of lands beyond the sea,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the bright days when I was young<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Come thronging back to me.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In fancy I can hear again<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Alpine torrent's roar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sea at Elsinore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I see the convent's gleaming wall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rise from its groves of pine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And towers of old cathedrals tall,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And castles by the Rhine.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I journey on by park and spire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath centennial trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through fields with poppies all on fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And gleams of distant seas.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I fear no more the dust and heat,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">No more I fear fatigue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While journeying with another's feet<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O'er many a lengthening league.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let others traverse sea and land,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And toil through various climes,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I turn the world round with my hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Reading these poets' rhymes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From them I learn whatever lies<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath each changing zone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see, when looking with their eyes,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Better than with mine own.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">H. W. Longfellow.</p> + + +<h3>FANCIES FOR MEMORIES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, let us go,—to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where every breath even now changes to ether divine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world that we live in,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis but to go and have been.'—Come, little bark! let us go.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>THE CRY OF ULYSSES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I cannot rest from travel: I will drink<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For always roaming with a hungry heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much have I seen and known; cities of men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And manners, climates, councils, governments,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Myself not least, but honoured of them all;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drunk delight of battle with my peers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am a part of all that I have met;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For ever and for ever when I move.<span class="linenum">16</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>THE TRAVELLER</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the houseless stranger shuts the door;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A weary waste expanding to the skies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In all my wanderings round this world of care,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +<span class="i0">In all my griefs—and God has given my share—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To husband out life's taper at the close,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And keep the flame from wasting by repose.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around my fire an evening group to draw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I still had hopes, my long vexations passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here to return—and die at home at last.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">O. Goldsmith.</p> + + +<h3>I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I travelled among unknown men,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In lands beyond the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor, England! did I know till then<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What love I bore to thee.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis past, that melancholy dream!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor will I quit thy shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A second time; for still I seem<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +<span class="i2">To love thee more and more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Among thy mountains did I feel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The joy of my desire;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she I cherished turned her wheel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beside an English fire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The bowers where Lucy played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thine too is the last green field<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">That Lucy's eyes surveyed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>WHERE LIES THE LAND</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Festively she puts forth in trim array;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">She cares for; let her travel where she may,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She finds familiar names, a beaten way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever before her, and a wind to blow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, almost as it was when ships were rare,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the old sea some reverential fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>A PASSER-BY</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wilt thóu glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest<span class="linenum">7</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest<span class="linenum">14</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. Bridges.</p> + + +<h3>AT CARNAC</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Far on its rocky knoll descried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I climbed;—beneath me, bright and wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay the lone coast of Brittany.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bright in the sunset, weird and still<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">It lay beside the Atlantic wave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the wizard Merlin's will<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet charmed it from his forest grave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behind me on their grassy sweep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The giant stones of Carnac sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the mild evening of the May.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No priestly stern procession now<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Streams through their rows of pillars old;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No victims bleed, no Druids bow;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From bush to bush the cuckoo flies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The orchis red gleams everywhere;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gold broom with furze in blossom vies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blue-bells perfume all the air.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And o'er the glistening, lonely land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise up, all round, the Christian spires.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The church of Carnac, by the strand,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Catches the westering sun's last fires.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And there across the watery way,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">See, low above the tide at flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose beach once ran with loyal blood!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All round, no soul, no boat, no hail!<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, on the horizon's verge descried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>THE GRAND CHARTREUSE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With rain, where thick the crocus blows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Past the dark forges long disused,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through forest, up the mountain-side.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The autumnal evening darkens round<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind is up, and drives the rain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While hark! far down, with strangled sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doth the Dead Guiers' stream complain,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where that wet smoke among the woods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over his boiling cauldron broods.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Swift rush the spectral vapours white<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Past limestone scars with ragged pines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Showing—then blotting from our sight.<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High in the valley, wet and drear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The huts of Courrerie appear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Strike leftward!</i> cries our guide; and higher<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mounts up the stony forest-way.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last the encircling trees retire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look! through the showery twilight grey<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What pointed roofs are these advance?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A palace of the Kings of France?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Approach, for what we seek is here.<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alight and sparely sup and wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For rest in this outbuilding near;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then cross the sward and reach that gate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the Carthusians' world-famed home.<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his steep course? So long he seems to pause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On thy bald awful head, O sovran <span class="smcap">Blanc</span>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Arve and Arveiron at thy base<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span><span class="i0">Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How silently! Around thee and above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As with a wedge! But when I look again,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy habitation from eternity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I worshipped the Invisible alone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the mighty vision passing—there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Awake, my soul! not only passive praise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span><span class="i0">O struggling with the darkness all the night,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And visited all night by troops of stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Companion of the morning-star at dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who called you forth from night and utter death,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From dark and icy caverns called you forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down those precipitous, black, jaggèd rocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For ever shattered and the same for ever?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who gave you your invulnerable life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?<span class="linenum">46</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And who commanded (and the silence came),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adown enormous ravines slope amain—<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">God!</span> let the torrents, like a shout of nations,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, <span class="smcap">God</span>!<span class="linenum">59</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">God!</span> sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in their perilous fall shall thunder, <span class="smcap">God</span>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye signs and wonders of the element!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Utter forth <span class="smcap">God</span>, and fill the hills with praise!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In adoration, upward from thy base<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Earth, with her thousand voices, praises <span class="smcap">God</span>.<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">S. T. Coleridge.</p> + + +<h3>HOME, ROSE, AND HOME, PROVENCE AND LA PALIE<br /><br /> + +<small>ITE DOMUM SATURAE, VENIT HESPERUS</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rainy clouds are filing fast below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sweetheart wanders far away from me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In foreign land or on a foreign sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the vale the rains go sweeping by;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pleasant huts and herds he left behind?<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The feeding kine and doth he think of me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The thunder bellows far from snow to snow,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And loud and louder roars the flood below.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heigh-ho! but soon in shelter shall we be:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or shall he find before his term be sped,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For weary is work, and weary day by day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To have your comfort miles on miles away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or may it be that I shall find my mate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he returning see himself too late?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For work we must, and what we see, we see.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And God he knows, and what must be, must be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When sweethearts wander far away from me.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sky behind is brightening up anew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rain is ending, and our journey too;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heigh-ho! aha! for here at home are we:—<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>THERE LIES A VALE IN IDA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long brook falling through the clov'n ravine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In cataract after cataract to the sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the valley topmost Gargarus<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stands up and takes the morning: but in front<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Troas and Ilion's columned citadel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crown of Troas.<br /></span> +<span class="i20">Hither came at noon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grasshopper is silent in the grass:<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The purple flowers droop: the golden bee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I am all aweary of my life.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>COME DOWN, O MAID</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But cease to move so near the heavens, and cease<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And come, for Love is of the valley, come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Love is of the valley, come thou down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find him; by the happy threshold, he,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or red with spirted purple of the vats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With Death and Morning on the silver horns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But follow: let the torrent dance thee down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find him in the valley; let the wild<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like a broken purpose waste in air:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arise to thee; the children call, and I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moan of doves in immemorial elms,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And murmuring of innumerable bees.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All along the valley, stream that flashest white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All along the valley, where thy waters flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All along the valley while I walked to-day,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>CURRENTE CALAMO</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid the snowy Pyrenees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More evanescent than the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pictures come, are seen, and go:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick, quick, <i>currente calamo</i>.<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">I do not ask the tints that fill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I ask not for the hues that fleet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above the distant peaks; my feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are on a poplar-bordered road,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where with a saddle and a load<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A donkey, old and ashen-grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reluctant works his dusty way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before him, still with might and main<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pulling his rope, the rustic rein,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A girl: before both him and me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frequent she turns and lets me see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unconscious, lets me scan and trace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sunny darkness of her face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And outlines full of southern grace.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Following I notice, yet and yet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And black, and blacker e'en than jet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The escaping hair that scantly showed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since o'er it in the country mode,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For winter warmth and summer shade,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The lap of scarlet cloth is laid.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then, back-falling from the head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A crimson kerchief overspread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her jacket blue; thence passing down,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A skirt of darkest yellow-brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coarse stuff, allowing to the view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smooth limb to the woollen shoe.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But who—here's some one following too,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A priest, and reading at his book!<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Read on, O priest, and do not look;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Consider,—she is but a child,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet might your fancy be beguiled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Read on, O priest, and pass and go!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But see, succeeding in a row,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two, three, and four, a motley train,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Musicians wandering back to Spain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With fiddle and with tambourine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man with women following seen.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What dresses, ribbon ends, and flowers!<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And,—sight to wonder at for hours,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The man,—to Phillip has he sat?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With butterfly-like velvet hat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One dame his big bassoon conveys,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On one his gentle arm he lays;<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">They stop, and look, and something say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to 'España' ask the way.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But while I speak, and point them on;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas, my dearer friends are gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dark-eyed maiden and the ass<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Have had the time the bridge to pass.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vainly, beyond it far descried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, and peace with you abide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grey donkey, and your beauteous guide.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pictures come, the pictures go,<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quick, quick, <i>currente calamo</i>.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>CINTRA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In variegated maze of mount and glen.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To follow half on which the eye dilates<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than those whereof such things the bard relates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The tender azure of the unruffled deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The vine on high, the willow branch below,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>SWITZERLAND</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the holidays are nearing with the closing of July,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And experienced Alpine stagers and impetuous recruits<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are renewing with the season their continual disputes—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Those inveterate disputes<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8">On the newest Alpine routes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And inspecting the condition of their mountaineering boots:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You may stifle your reflections, you may banish them afar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You may try to draw a solace from the thought of 'Nächstes Jahr'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But your heart is with those climbers, and you'll feverishly yearn<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be crossing of the Channel with your luggage labelled 'Bern',<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Leaving England far astern<br /></span> +<span class="i8">With a ticket through to Bern,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And regarding your profession with a lordly unconcern!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>They</i> will lie beside the torrent, just as you were wont to do,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +<span class="i0">With the woodland green around them and a snow-field shining through:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They will tread the higher pastures, where celestial breezes blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the valley lies in shadow and the peaks are all aglow—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Where the airs of heaven blow<br /></span> +<span class="i8">'Twixt the pine woods and the snow,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the shades of evening deepen in the valley far below:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They will scale the mountain strongholds that in days of old you won,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They will plod behind a lantern ere the rising of the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On a 'grat' or in a chimney, on the steep and dizzy slope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a foothold or a handhold they will diligently grope—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">On the rocky, icy slope<span class="linenum">26</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8">(Where we'll charitably hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis assistance only Moral that they're getting from a rope);<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They will dine on mule and marmot, and on mutton made of goats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They will face the various horrors of Helvetian table d'hotes:<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But whate'er the paths that lead them, and the food whereon they fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They will taste the joy of living, as you only taste it there,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">As you taste it Only There<br /></span> +<span class="i8">In the higher, purer air,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span><span class="i0">Unapproachable by worries and oblivious quite of care!<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Place me somewhere in the Valais, 'mid the mountains west of Binn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">West of Binn and east of Savoy, in a decent kind of inn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a peak or two for climbing, and a glacier to explore,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any mountains will content me, though they've all been climbed before—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Yes! I care not any more<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8">Though they've all been done before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the names they keep in bottles may be numbered by the score!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though the hand of Time be heavy: though your ancient comrades fail:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though the mountains you ascended be accessible by rail:<span class="linenum">44</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though your nerve begin to weaken, and you're gouty grown and fat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And prefer to walk in places which are reasonably flat—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Though you grow so very fat<br /></span> +<span class="i8">That you climb the Gorner Grat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or perhaps the Little Scheideck,—and are rather proud of that:<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Yet I hope that till you die<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i8">You will annually sigh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a vision of the Valais with the coming of July,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the Oberland or Valais and the higher, purer air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the true delight of living, as you taste it only there!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. D. Godley.</p> + + +<h3>ZERMATT CHURCHYARD</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>'C'était une guerre avec le Matterhorn,'<br /> +said a Zermatt peasant of the many<br /> +attempts to scale this great mountain</i></p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They warred with Nature, as of old with gods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Titans; like the Titans too they fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hurled from the summit of their hopes, and dashed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sheer down precipitous tremendous crags,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand deaths in one. 'Tis o'er, and we<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sit at home, and by the peaceful hearth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Read their sad tale, made wise by the event,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May moralize of folly and a thirst<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For barren honour, fruitful of no end.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis well: we were not what we are without<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That cautious wisdom, and the sober mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of prudence, steering calm 'twixt rock and storm.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet, too, methinks, we were not what we are<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without that other fiery element—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The love, the thirst for venture, and the scorn<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That aught should be too great for mortal powers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That yet one peak in all the skyey throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should rise unchallenged with unvanquished snows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Virgin from the beginning of the world.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such fire was theirs; O not for fame alone—<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That coarser thread in all the finer skein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That draws adventure, oft by vulgar minds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deemed man's sole aim—but for the high delight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tread untrodden solitudes, and feel<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span><span class="i0">A sense of power, of fullest freedom, lost<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the loud vale where <i>Man</i> is all in all.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For this they dared too much; nor they alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They but the foremost of an Alpine band,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who in the life of cities pine and pant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For purer air, for peak, and pass, and glen,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With slow majestic glacier, born to-day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet with the trophies of a thousand years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On its scarred bosom, till its icy bonds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It burst, and rush a torrent to the main.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such sons still hast thou, England; be thou proud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To have them, relics of thy younger age.<span class="linenum">36</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor murmur if not all at once they take<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The care and burden on them. Learn of them!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Youth has its teaching, too, as well as age:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We grow too old too soon; the flaxen head<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of childhood apes experience' hoary crown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And prudent lisps ungraceful aged saws.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Tis so: yet here in Zermatt—here beneath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fatal peak, beside the heaving mound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That bears the black cross with the golden names<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of men, our friends, upon it—here we fain<span class="linenum">46</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would preach a soberer lesson. Forth they went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fearless and gay as to a festival,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One clear, cold morn: they climbed the virgin height;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They stood where still the awestruck gazer's eye<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shudders to follow. There a little while<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They spake of home, that centre whose wide arms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hold us where'er we are, in joy, or woe,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +<span class="i0">On earth, in air, and far on stormy seas.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then they turned homeward, yet not to return.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was a fearful place, and as they crept<span class="linenum">56</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fearfully down the giddy steep, there came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A slip—no more—one little slip, and down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Linked in a living avalanche they fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brothers in hope, in triumph, and in death,<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor dying were divided. One remained<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell their story, and to bury them.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. G. Butler.</p> + + +<h3>ZERMATT<br /><br /> + +<small>TO THE MATTERHORN</small><br /> + +<small>(<i>June-July, 1897</i>)</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thirty-two years since, up against the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Labouringly leapt and gained thy gabled height,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And four lives paid for what the seven had won.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They were the first by whom the deed was done,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when I look at thee, my mind takes flight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To that day's tragic feat of manly might,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As though, till then, of history thou hadst none.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou didst behold the planets lift and lower;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saw'st, maybe, Joshua's pausing sun and moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the betokening sky when Caesar's power<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Approached its bloody end; yea, even that Noon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Hardy.</p> + + +<h3>NATURA MALIGNA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Followed my feet, with azure eyes of prey;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By glacier-brink she stood—by cataract-spray—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When mists were dire, or avalanche-echoes rolled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At night she glimmered in the death-wind cold,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if a footprint shone at break of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My flesh would quail, but straight my soul would say:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">''Tis hers whose hand God's mightier hand doth hold.'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I trod her snow-bridge, for the moon was bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her icicle-arch across the sheer crevasse,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">When lo, she stood!... God made her let me pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then felled the bridge!... Oh, there in sallow light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There down the chasm, I saw her cruel, white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all my wondrous days as in a glass.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Watts-Dunton.</p> + + +<h3>NATURA BENIGNA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What power is this? what witchery wins my feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All silent as the emerald gulfs below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down whose ice-walls the wings of twilight beat?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What thrill of earth and heaven—most wild, most sweet—<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">What answering pulse that all the senses know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, far away, the skies and mountains meet?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mother, 'tis I reborn: I know thee well:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That throb I know and all it prophesies,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dumb Mother, struggling with the years to tell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Watts-Dunton.</p> + + +<h3>THE SIMPLON PASS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">——Brook and road<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with them did we journey several hours<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At a slow step. The immeasurable height<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stationary blasts of waterfalls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the narrow rent, at every turn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if a voice were in them, the sick sight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And giddy prospect of the raving stream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were all like workings of one mind, the features<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Characters of the great Apocalypse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The types and symbols of Eternity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>OBERMANN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">In front the awful Alpine track<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crawls up its rocky stair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The autumn storm-winds drive the rack<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close o'er it, in the air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Behind are the abandoned baths<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mute in their meadows lone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leaves are on the valley paths;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mists are on the Rhone—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The white mists rolling like a sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear the torrents roar.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I feel thee near once more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">How often, where the slopes are green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Jaman, hast thou sate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By some high chalet door, and seen<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The summer day grow late,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And darkness steal o'er the wet grass<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the pale crocus starred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reach that glimmering sheet of glass<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span><span class="i0">Beneath the piny sward,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Lake Leman's waters, far below:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watched the rosy light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fade from the distant peaks of snow:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the air of night<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Heard accents of the eternal tongue<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the pine branches play:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Listened, and felt thyself grow young:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Listened, and wept——Away!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Away the dreams that but deceive!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou, sad Guide, adieu!<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I go; Fate drives me: but I leave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half of my life with you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<span class="i8">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Glion?——Ah, twenty years, it cuts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All meaning from a name!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">White houses prank where once were huts!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glion, but not the same,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And yet I know not. All unchanged<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The turf, the pines, the sky!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hills in their old order ranged.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lake, with Chillon by!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stony mounts the way,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +<span class="i0">I left them yesterday.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Across the valley, on that slope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The huts of Avant shine—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its pines under their branches ope<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ways for the tinkling kine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Invite to rest the traveller there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before he climb the pass—<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gentian-flowered pass, its crown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With yellow spires aflame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whence drops the path to Allière down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And walls where Byron came.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Still in my soul the voice I heard<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Obermann—away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I turned; by some vague impulse stirred,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the rocks of Naye<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the blanched summit bare<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Malatrait, to where in haze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Valais opens fair,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the domed Velan with his snows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the upcrowding hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Doth all the heavenly opening close<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Which the Rhone's murmur fills—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">And glorious there, without a sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the glimmering lake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High in the Valais depth profound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the morning break.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>THE TERRACE AT BERNE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ten years!—and to my waking eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once more the roofs of Berne appear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rocky banks, the terrace high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stream—and do I linger here?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The clouds are on the Oberland,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Jungfrau snows look faint and far;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But bright are those green fields at hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through those fields comes down the Aar,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And from the blue twin lakes it comes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flows by the town, the church-yard fair,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And 'neath the garden-walk it hums,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The house—and is my Marguerite there?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>NEVER, OH NEVER MORE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never, oh never more shall I behold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A sunrise on the glacier:—stars of morn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Paling in primrose round the crystal horn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft curves of crimson mellowing into gold<span class="linenum">4</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er sapphire chasm, and silvery snow-field cold;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fire that o'er-floods the horizon; beacons borne<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From wind-worn peak to storm-swept peak forlorn;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Clear hallelujahs through heaven's arches rolled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never, oh never more these feet shall feel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The firm elastic tissue of upland turf,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or the crisp edge of the high rocks; or cling<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the embattled cliffs beneath them reel<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Through cloud-wreaths eddying like the Atlantic surf,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Far, far above the wheeling eagle's wing.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. A. Symonds.</p> + + +<h3>HAPPY IS ENGLAND</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Happy is England! I could be content<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To see no other verdure than its own;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To feel no other breezes than are blown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through its tall woods with high romances blent:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">For skies Italian, and an inward groan<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And half forget what world or worldling meant.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Enough their simple loveliness for me,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet do I often warmly burn to see<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And float with them about the summer waters.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. Keats.</p> + + +<h3>THE DAISY<br /><br /> + +<small>WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O love, what hours were thine and mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In lands of palm and southern pine;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What Roman strength Turbia showed<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In ruin, by the mountain road;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How like a gem, beneath, the city<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of little Monaco, basking, glowed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How richly down the rocky dell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The torrent vineyard streaming fell<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">To meet the sun and sunny waters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That only heaved with a summer swell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What slender campanili grew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By bays, the peacock's neck in hue;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where, here and there, on sandy beaches<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A milky-belled amaryllis blew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How young Columbus seemed to rove,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet present in his natal grove,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Now watching high on mountain cornice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And steering, now, from a purple cove,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now pacing mute by ocean's rim;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till, in a narrow street and dim,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I stayed the wheels at Cogoletto,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And drank, and loyally drank to him.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor knew we well what pleased us most,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not the clipt palm of which they boast;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But distant colour, happy hamlet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mouldered citadel on the coast,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A light amid its olives green;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where oleanders flushed the bed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of ice, far up on a mountain bead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We loved that hall, tho' white and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those nichèd shapes of noble mould,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A princely people's awful princes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grave, severe Genovese of old.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At Florence too what golden hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In those long galleries, were ours;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What drives about the fresh Cascinè,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In bright vignettes, and each complete,<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or palace, how the city glittered,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when we crost the Lombard plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Remember what a plague of rain;<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And stern and sad (so rare the smiles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sunlight) looked the Lombard piles;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Porch-pillars on the lion resting,<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O Milan, O the chanting quires,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The giant windows' blazoned fires,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The height, the space, the gloom, the glory!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mount of marble, a hundred spires!<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I climbed the roofs at break of day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I stood among the silent statues,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And statued pinnacles, mute as they.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair,<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was Monte Rosa, hanging there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A thousand shadowy-pencilled valleys<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And snowy dells in a golden air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Remember how we came at last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Como; shower and storm and blast<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had blown the lake beyond his limit,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And all was flooded; and how we past<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From Como, when the light was grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in my head, for half the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The rich Virgilian rustic measure<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Lari Maxume, all the way,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like ballad-burthen music, kept,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As on The Lariano crept<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To that fair port below the castle<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept;<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Or hardly slept, but watched awake<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cypress in the moonlight shake,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The moonlight touching o'er a terrace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One tall Agavè above the lake.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What more? we took our last adieu,<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And up the snowy Splugen drew,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But ere we reached the highest summit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I plucked a daisy, I gave it you.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It told of England then to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now it tells of Italy.<span class="linenum">90</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">O love, we two shall go no longer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lands of summer across the sea;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So dear a life your arms enfold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose crying is a cry for gold:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet here to-night in this dark city,<span class="linenum">95</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +<span class="i0">When ill and weary, alone and cold,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I found, though crushed to hard and dry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This nurseling of another sky<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still in the little book you lent me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where you tenderly laid it by:<span class="linenum">100</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I forgot the clouded Forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The bitter east, the misty summer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And grey metropolis of the North.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,<span class="linenum">105</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Perchance, to dream you still beside me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My fancy fled to the South again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>CADENABBIA<br /><br /> + +<small>LAKE OF COMO</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The silence of the summer day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As by the loveliest of all lakes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I while the idle hours away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I pace the leafy colonnade<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where level branches of the plane<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above me weave a roof of shade<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Impervious to the sun and rain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At times a sudden rush of air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gleams of sunshine toss and flare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like torches down the path I tread.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By Somariva's garden gate<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I make the marble stairs my seat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hear the water, as I wait,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lapping the steps beneath my feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The undulation sinks and swells<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the stony parapets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And far away the floating bells<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tinkle upon the fisher's nets.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silent and slow, by tower and town<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The freighted barges come and go,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their pendent shadows gliding down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By town and tower submerged below.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The hills sweep upward from the shore,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">With villas scattered one by one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon their wooded spurs, and lower<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bellagio blazing in the sun.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And dimly seen, a tangled mass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of walls and woods, of light and shade,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Varenna with its white cascade.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I ask myself, Is this a dream?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Will it all vanish into air?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is there a land of such supreme<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">And perfect beauty anywhere?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet vision! Do not fade away;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Linger until my heart shall take<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into itself the summer day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And all the beauty of the lake.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Linger until upon my brain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is stamped an image of the scene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then fade into the air again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And be as if thou hadst not been.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">H. W. Longfellow.</p> + + +<h3>TO VERONA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beckoning me upward. Let me rest awhile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the birds whistle hidden in the boughs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or fly away when idlers take their place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mated as well, concealed as willingly;<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Idlers whose nest must not swing there, but rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a gleaming canopy of gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid the flight of Cupids, and the smiles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Venus ever radiant o'er their couch.<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span><span class="i0">Here would I stay, here wander, slumber here,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor pass into that theatre below<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crowded with their faint memories, shades of joy.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ancient song arouses me: I hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coelius and Aufilena; I behold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lesbia, and Lesbia's linnet at her lip<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pecking the fruit that ripens and swells out<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For him whose song the Graces loved the most,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whatever land, east, west, they visited.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even he must not detain me: one there is<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Greater than he, of broader wing, of swoop<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sublimer. Open now that humid arch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Juliet sleeps the quiet sleep of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Romeo sinks aside her.<br /></span> +<span class="i27">Fare ye well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lovers! Ye have not loved in vain: the hearts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of millions throb around ye. This lone tomb,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">One greater than yon walls have ever seen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Greater than Manto's prophet-eye foresaw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In her own child or Rome's, hath hallowèd;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the last sod or stone a pilgrim knee<span class="linenum">29</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall press (Love swears it, and swears true) is here.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. S. Landor.</p> + + +<h3>THE APENNINE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once more upon the woody Apennine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The infant Alps, which—had I not before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The thundering lauwine—might be worshipped more;<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For still they soared unutterably high:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Athos, Olympus, Aetna, Atlas, made<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">These hills seem things of lesser dignity,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not <i>now</i> in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">For our remembrance, and from out the plain<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And on the curl hangs pausing.<span class="linenum">21</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>WHERE UPON APENNINE SLOPE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>'DE GUSTIBUS——'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">I<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">(If our loves remain)<br /></span> +<span class="i6">In an English lane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Making love, say,—<br /></span> +<span class="i6">The happier they!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And let them pass, as they will too soon,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">With the beanflowers' boon,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And the blackbird's tune,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +<span class="i6">And May, and June!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i8">II<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What I love best in all the world,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is, a castle, precipice-encurled,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or look for me, old fellow of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(If I get my head from out the mouth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And come again to the land of lands)—<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a sea-side house to the farther south,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the baked cicalas die of drouth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one sharp tree—'tis a cypress—stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the many hundred years red-rusted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sentinel to guard the sands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the water's edge. For, what expands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the house, but the great opaque<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blue breadth of sea without a break?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, in the house, for ever crumbles<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some fragment of the frescoed walls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And says there's news to-day—the king<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—She hopes they have not caught the felons.<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Italy, my Italy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Queen Mary's saying serves for me—<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">(When fortune's malice<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +<span class="i6">Lost her, Calais)<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Open my heart and you will see<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Graved inside of it, 'Italy,'<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Such lovers old are I and she;<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">So it always was, so shall ever be!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. Browning.</p> + + +<h3>VENICE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is a glorious City in the sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clings to the marble of her palaces.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Invisible; and from the land we went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As to a floating city—steering in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gliding up her streets as in a dream,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So smoothly, silently—by many a dome,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The statues ranged along an azure sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By many a pile in more than eastern pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of old the residence of merchant-kings;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still glowing with the richest hues of art,<span class="linenum">16</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As though the wealth within them had run o'er.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">S. Rogers.</p> + + +<h3>OCEAN'S NURSLING</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Underneath Day's azure eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A peopled labyrinth of walls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amphitrite's destined halls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which her hoary sire now paves<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his blue and beaming waves.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo! the sun upsprings behind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the level quivering line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the waters crystalline;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And before that chasm of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As within a furnace bright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Column, tower, and dome, and spire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shine like obelisks of fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pointing with inconstant motion<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the altar of dark ocean<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the sapphire-tinted skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the flames of sacrifice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the marble shrines did rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As to pierce the dome of gold<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Apollo spoke of old.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sun-girt City! thou hast been<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ocean's child, and then his queen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now is come a darker day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou soon must be his prey,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">If the power that raised thee here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hallow so thy watery bier.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">P. B. Shelley.</p> + + +<h3>VENICE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A palace and a prison on each hand:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I saw from out the wave her structures rise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A thousand years their cloudy wings expand<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Around me, and a dying Glory smiles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O'er the far times, when many a subject land<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Looked to the wingèd Lion's marble piles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rising with her tiara of proud towers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At airy distance, with majestic motion,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A ruler of the waters and their powers:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And such she was;—her daughters had their dowers<span class="linenum">14</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In purple was she robed, and of her feast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And silent rows the songless gondolier;<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And music meets not always now the ear:<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Those days are gone—but Beauty still is here.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">States fall, arts fade—but Nature doth not die,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The pleasant place of all festivity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">But unto us she hath a spell beyond<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her name in story, and her long array<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above the dogeless city's vanished sway;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ours is a trophy which will not decay<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For us repeopled were the solitary shore.<span class="linenum">36</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And, annual marriage now no more renewed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Neglected garment of her widowhood!<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stand, but in mockery of his withered power,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour<span class="linenum">44</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their gilded collars glittering in the sun;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But is not Doria's menace come to pass?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are they not <i>bridled</i>?—Venice, lost and won,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><span class="i2">Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done,<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From whom submission wrings an infamous repose.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>AT VENICE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><i>On the Lido</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">On her still lake the city sits<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While bark and boat beside her flits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor hears, her soft siesta taking,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Adriatic billows breaking.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4"><i>In the Piazza at night</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">O beautiful beneath the magic moon<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To walk the watery way of palaces;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This spacious court; with colour and with gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fantastically perfect this lone pile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of oriental glory; these long ranges<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the calm Campanile.—Beautiful!<span class="linenum">16</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">O beautiful!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>FLORENCE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Arno wins us to the fair white walls,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A softer feeling for her fairy halls.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">To laughing life, with her redundant horn.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was modern Luxury of Commerce born,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The air around with beauty; we inhale<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Part of its immortality; the veil<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We stand, and in that form and face behold<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And to the fond idolaters of old<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>AN INVITATION TO ROME</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Your London sun is here seen shining brightly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +<span class="i2">And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Romans are a kind and cordial race,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The women charming, if one takes them rightly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see them at their doors, as day is closing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More proud than duchesses,—and more imposing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A <i>far niente</i> life promotes the graces;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in their bearing and their speech one traces<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That are not found in more inclement places;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is often cold—and always in a hurry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though <i>far niente</i> is their passion, they<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seem here most eloquent in things most slight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No matter what it is they have to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The manner always sets the matter right:<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis always something that they've wished to please you!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Alone of stately palaces and streets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +<span class="i2">And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old ruins, hiding ruin even older.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sombre streets are worthy your researches:<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are missed by all who roll about in carriages.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">About one fane I deprecate all sneering,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For during Christmas-time I went there daily,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The little preachers of the <i>Ara Coeli</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Conceive a four-year-old <i>bambina</i> rearing<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her small form on a rostrum,—tricked out gaily,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With action quite dramatic and delightful.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The country's better seen when one is riding:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags<span class="linenum">51</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With giant march (now whole, now broken crags<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar,—<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That melt in light beneath the evening star.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasant<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And seems to wake the past time in the present.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fair <i>contadina</i>, mark his mirthful mood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can join with jollity your <i>salterello</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of life to unsophisticated man.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath,<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Per dar' al mio bene.</i> When you can,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And Time are grudging of Life's little span:<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I dare not speak of Michael Angelo—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if I breathe the name of Sanzio<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">(The brightest of Italian gentlemen),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is that love casts out my fear, and so<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I claim with him a kindredship. Ah, when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We love, the name is on our hearts engraven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon!<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twas built for poet of a larger daring;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world goes there with torches, I decline<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some day in May our forces we'll combine<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Just you and I), and try a midnight airing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then I'll quote this rhyme to you—and then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You'll muse upon the vanity of men!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern,<span class="linenum">89</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ashes buried in a sculptured urn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That better time, for which the patriots yearn,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Enchants the gaze, again to fade away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They wait and pine for what is long denied,<span class="linenum">95</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thus I wait till thou art by my side.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I cannot yet thy little hand resign!<span class="linenum">100</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The plain is fading into darkness chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, come to Rome—oh come, oh come to me!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">F. Locker-Lampson.</p> + + +<h3>THE COLISEUM</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I do remember me, that in my youth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I was wandering,—upon such a night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stood within the Coliseum's wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome;<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span><span class="i0">The trees which grew along the broken arches<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More near from out the Caesar's palace came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of distant sentinels the fitful song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Begun and died upon the gentle wind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A grove which springs through levelled battlements,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A noble wreck in ruinous perfection,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All this, and cast a wide and tender light,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which softened down the hoar austerity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of rugged desolation, and filled up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving that beautiful which still was so,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And making that which was not, till the place<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Became religion, and the heart ran o'er<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With silent worship of the great of old,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our spirits from their urns.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>AT ROME</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That name, a local Phantom proud to mock<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Traveller's expectation?—Could our Will<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thro' what men see and touch,—slaves wandering on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From that depression raised, to mount on high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With stronger wing, more clearly to discern<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eternal things; and, if need be, defy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>ROME<br /><br /> + +<small>AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS</small><br /> +<small>NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Who, then, was Cestius,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And what is he to me?—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +<span class="i6">One thought alone brings he.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">I can recall no word<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of anything he did;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For me he is a man who died and was interred<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To leave a pyramid<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Whose purpose was exprest<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Not with its first design,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Two countrymen of mine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Cestius in life, maybe,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Slew, breathed out threatening;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not. This I know: in death all silently<br /></span> +<span class="i6">He does a rarer thing,<span class="linenum">16</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">In beckoning pilgrim feet<br /></span> +<span class="i6">With marble finger high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Those matchless singers lie....<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">—Say, then, he lived and died<br /></span> +<span class="i6">That stones which bear his name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">It is an ample fame.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Hardy.</p> + + +<h3>THE VALLEY AND VILLA OF HORACE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:—<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace.<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">A. H. Clough.</p> + + +<h3>VALLOMBROSA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To range through the Temples of Paestum, to muse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth;<span class="linenum">6</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had a musical charm, which the winter of age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the changes it brings had no power to unbind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you<span class="linenum">21</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the realized vision is clasped to my heart.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>PAESTUM</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They stand between the mountains and the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Points to the work of magic, and moves on.<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time was they stood along the crowded street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Temples of Gods, and on their ample steps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What various habits, various tongues beset<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here the accuser stood, and there the accused,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All silent now, as in the ages past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How many centuries did the sun go round<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, by some spell rendered invisible,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, if approached, approached by him alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who saw as though he saw not, they remained<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As in the darkness of a sepulchre,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waiting the appointed time! All, all within<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And taken to herself what man renounced;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From my youth upward have I longed to tread<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +<span class="i0">This classic ground; and am I here at last?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wandering at will through the long porticoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And catching, as through some majestic grove,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Towns like the living rock from which they grew?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cloudy region, black and desolate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The air is sweet with violets, running wild<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turning to thee, divine philosophy,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On as he moved along the level shore,<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">These temples, in their splendour eminent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reflecting back the radiance of the west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suckles her young; and as alone I stand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In this, the nobler pile, the elements<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of earth and air its only floor and covering,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the rough pediment to sit and sing;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Or the green lizard rushing through the grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To vanish in the chinks that time has made.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seen at his setting, and a flood of light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Athwart the innumerable columns flung—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In such an hour he came, who saw and told,<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Led by the mighty genius of the place.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Walls of some capital city first appeared,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—And what within them? What but in the midst<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These three in more than their original grandeur,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, round about, no stone upon another?<span class="linenum">71</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, turning, left them to the elements.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">S. Rogers.</p> + + +<h3>VESUVIUS<br /><br /> + +<small>AS SEEN FROM CAPRI</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In quiet adoration, silently—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the faint currents of the upper air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dome, as of a palace, hung on high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the mountain; underneath it lie<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Vineyards and bays and cities white and fair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might we not think this beauty would engage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All living things unto one pure delight?<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hid, as within a guilty citadel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shame of his dishonourable age.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. C. Trench.</p> + + +<h3>AMALFI</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet the memory is to me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a land beyond the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the waves and mountains meet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, amid her mulberry-trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sits Amalfi in the heat,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bathing ever her white feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the tideless summer seas.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the middle of the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From its fountains in the hills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tumbling through the narrow gorge,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Canneto rushes down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turns the great wheels of the mills,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifts the hammers of the forge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis a stairway, not a street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ascends the deep ravine,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the torrent leaps between<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Rocky walls that almost meet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Toiling up from stair to stair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peasant girls their burdens bear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sunburnt daughters of the soil,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stately figures tall and straight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What inexorable fate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dooms them to this life of toil?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lord of vineyards and of lands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far above the convent stands.<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">On its terraced walk aloof<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leans a monk with folded hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Placid, satisfied, serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looking down upon the scene<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over wall and red-tiled roof;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wondering unto what good end<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All this toil and traffic tend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And why all men cannot be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Free from care and free from pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sordid love of gain,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as indolent as he.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where are now the freighted barks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the marts of east and west?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the knights in iron sarks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Journeying to the Holy Land,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glove of steel upon the hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cross of crimson on the breast?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the pomp of camp and court?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the pilgrims with their prayers?<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><span class="i0">Where the merchants with their wares,<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And their gallant brigantines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sailing safely into port<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chased by corsair Algerines?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vanished like a fleet of cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a passing trumpet-blast,<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are those splendours of the past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the commerce and the crowd!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fathoms deep beneath the seas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie the ancient wharves and quays<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swallowed by the engulfing waves;<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silent streets and vacant halls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ruined roofs and towers and walls;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hidden from all mortal eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep the sunken city lies:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even cities have their graves!<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is an enchanted land!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round the headlands far away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweeps the blue Salernian bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its sickle of white sand:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Further still and furthermost<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the dim-discovered coast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paestum with its ruins lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its roses all in bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seem to tinge the fatal skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of that lonely land of doom.<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On his terrace, high in air,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing doth the good monk care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For such worldly themes as these.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the garden just below<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Little puffs of perfume blow,<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a sound is in his ears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the murmur of the bees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the shining chestnut-trees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nothing else he heeds or hears.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the landscape seems to swoon<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the happy afternoon;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slowly o'er his senses creep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The encroaching waves of sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he sinks as sank the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unresisting, fathoms down,<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into caverns cool and deep!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Walled about with drifts of snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hearing the fierce north wind blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing all the landscape white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the river cased in ice,<span class="linenum">90</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes this memory of delight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Comes this vision unto me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a long-lost Paradise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the land beyond the sea.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">H. W. Longfellow.</p> + + +<h3>VIATOR</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving a little portion of my heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then day-dreams make the heart's division good<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With many a loved Italian solitude.<span class="linenum">4</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As sons the whole year scattered here and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gather at Christmas round their father's chair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prodigal memories tenderly come home—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rosy gold upon Verona tarry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling short<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To whisper with the rosebush in the Court!<span class="linenum">14</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan marges<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cried in the broken moonlight round the barges,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's march<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flaws in a riot at the Causeway arch!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How Cava from grey wall and silence green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Echoes the humming voice of the ravine,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The while a second spell the brain composes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How that first sunbeam on Assisi fell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the tides of noonday washed the pale<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Multitudinous colonies of my love!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But there's a single village dear above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cities and scenes, a township of kind hearts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick Boïte laughs to and departs<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My tower that climbs to see what can be seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Towards Three Crosses or the high Giaù daisies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or where the great white highway southward blazes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shows up her pillared bulwarks one by one—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dares the poor dole of <i>Here</i> and <i>Now</i> reject,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lust of larger things invades and fills—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. S. Phillimore.</p> + + +<h3>FAREWELL TO ITALY</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the high terraces, at even-tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To look supine into thy depths of sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bordering the channel of the milky-way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Murmur to me but in the poet's song.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I did believe (what have I not believed?),<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To close in thy soft clime my quiet day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thou didst promise this, and all was well.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For we are fond of thinking where to lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can lift no aspiration ... reasoning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the sight were unimpaired by death,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sun cheered corruption! Over all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And light us to our chamber at the grave.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. S. Landor.</p> + + +<h3>MESSINA</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.'</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shades of power, and those who bore a part<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the mad deeds that set the world in flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">So fret my memory here,—ah! is it blame?—<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +<span class="i0">That from my eyes the tear is fain to start.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which in each brother's history reads its own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be named man's tomb and splendid record stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. H. Newman.</p> + + +<h3>TAORMINA</h3> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>'And Jacob went on his way;<br /> +and the angels of God met him.'</p></div> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor visions met thee there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou couldst but marvel to have found<br /></span> +<span class="i2">This blighted world so fair?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And feel an awe within thee rise,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">That sinful man should see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glories far worthier Seraph's eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than to be shared by thee?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Mid coming pains and fears,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the third heaven once nerved a Saint<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For fourteen trial-years.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. H. Newman.</p> + + +<h3>HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. Browning.</p> + + +<h3>GIBRALTAR</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">England, we love thee better than we know.—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this I learned when, after wanderings long<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid people of another stock and tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard again thy martial music blow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw thy gallant children to and fro<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When first I came in sight of that brave show,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It made the very heart within me dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forward so far into the mighty sea.<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Joy was it and exultation to behold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. C. Trench.</p> + + +<h3>GIBRALTAR</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We ride into still water and the calm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a sweet evening, screened by either shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our exile is accomplished. Once again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We look on Europe, mistress as of yore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at the summons of the rock gun's roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see her red coats marching from the hill!<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. S. Blunt.</p> + + +<h3>FROM 'THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Descried at sunrise an emerging prow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fringes of a southward-facing brow<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">Among the Aegean isles;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine—<span class="linenum">9</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">And knew the intruders on his ancient home,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The young light-hearted masters of the waves—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And day and night held on indignantly<br /></span> +<span class="i2">O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">To where the Atlantic raves<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Outside the western straits; and unbent sails<br /></span> +<span class="i4">There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And on the beach undid his corded bales.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>FAREWELL TO MALTA</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye mansions where—I've ventured!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye cursèd streets of stairs!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(How surely he who mounts you swears!)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye merchants often failing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye packets—without letters!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye fools—who ape your betters!<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That gave me fever, and the spleen!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu to Peter—whom no fault's in,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But could not teach a colonel waltzing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Adieu, the supercilious air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of all that strut 'en militaire!'<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I go—but God knows when, or why,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To smoky towns and cloudy sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To things (the honest truth to say)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As bad—but in a different way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Farewell to these, but not adieu,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Triumphant sons of truest blue!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While either Adriatic shore,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proclaim you war and woman's winners.<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take my rhyme—because 'tis 'gratis'.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou little military hothouse!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll not offend with words uncivil,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wish thee rudely at the Devil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But only stare from out my casement,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ask, for what is such a place meant?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, in my solitary nook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Return to scribbling, or a book,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or take my physic while I'm able<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bless the gods I've got a fever.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>TO E[DWARD] L[EAR], ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of water, sheets of summer glass,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The long divine Peneïan pass,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The vast Akrokeraunian walls,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">With such a pencil, such a pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You shadow forth to distant men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I read and felt that I was there:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And trust me while I turned the page,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And tracked you still on classic ground,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">I grew in gladness till I found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My spirits in the golden age.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For me the torrent ever poured<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And glistened—here and there alone<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">By fountain-urns;—and Naiads oared<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A glimmering shoulder under gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of cavern pillars; on the swell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The silver lily heaved and fell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a slope was rich in bloom<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From him that on the mountain lea<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To him who sat upon the rocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fluted to the morning sea.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Tennyson.</p> + + +<h3>HELLAS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It is not only that the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Loves best these southern lands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is not for the trophies won<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of old by hero hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That nature wreathed in softer smiles<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was here the bride of art;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A closer kinship claims these isles,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The love-land of the heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is because the poet's dream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still haunts each happy vale,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That peopled every grove and stream<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To fit his fairy tale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There may be greener vales and hills<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Less bare to shelter man;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But still they want the naiad rills,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">And miss the pipe of Pan.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There may be other isles as fair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And summer seas as blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But then Odysseus touched not there<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Nor Argo beached her crew.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Nereid-haunted river shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Faun-frequented dell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Possess me with their magic more<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than sites where Caesars fell:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where the blooms of Zante blow<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Their incense to the waves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Ithaca's dark headlands show<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The legendary caves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where in the deep of olive groves<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The summer hardly dies;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maids<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Still keep their siren eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Chalcis strains with loving lips<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Towards the little bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The strand that held the thousand ships,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Aulis of delay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Oeta's ridge of granite bars<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The gate Thermopylae,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where huge Orion crowned with stars<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Looks down on Rhodope;<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where once Apollo tended flocks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">On Phera's lofty plain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To find the outer main;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Argos and Mycenae sleep<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">With all the buried wrong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And where Arcadian uplands keep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The antique shepherd song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a spirit haunts the place<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All other lands must lack,<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A speaking voice, a living grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That beckons fancy back.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dear isles and sea-indented shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till songs be no more sung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The singers that have gone before<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Will keep your lovers young:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And men will hymn your haunted skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And seek your holy streams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the soul of music dies,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And earth has done with dreams.<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Sir Rennell Rodd.</p> + + +<h3>THE VIOLET CROWN</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One asked me, as the April sun went down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the shadows of the Persian's mound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fretted crags of Salamis.<br /></span> +<span class="i30">'Look round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And see the question answered!'<br /></span> +<span class="i32">For we were<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the summit of that battled square,<span class="linenum">6</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world still worships what man made divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of half the immortalities of earth.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The last rays light the portal, a gold wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Runs up the columns to the architrave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lingers about the gable and is gone:—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Parnes, Hymettus, and Pentelicon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Show shadowy violet in the after-rose,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands close<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from this circle's heart aetherially<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Springs the white altar of the land's renown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A marble lily in a violet crown.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And fairer crown had never queen than this<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Sir Rennell Rodd.</p> + + +<h3>ATHENS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The nodding promontories and blue isles,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prophetic echoes flung dim melody<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">On the unapprehensive wild.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The vine, the corn, the olive wild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like aught that is which wraps what is to be,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span><span class="i2">Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Athens arose: a city such as vision<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Builds from the purple crags and silver towers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of battlemented cloud, as in derision<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it;<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">Its portals are inhabited<br /></span> +<span class="i6">By thunder-zonèd winds, each head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A divine work! Athens, diviner yet,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set;<span class="linenum">26</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In marble immortality, that hill<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Within the surface of Time's fleeting river<span class="linenum">31</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Immovably unquiet, and for ever<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It trembles, but it cannot pass away!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">P. B. Shelley.</p> + + +<h3>PARNASSUS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">What marvel if I thus essay to sing?<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +<span class="i0">The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I in feeblest accents must adore.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I recount thy worshippers of yore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I tremble, and can only bend the knee;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>CORINTH</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Many a vanished year and age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tempest's breath, and battle's rage,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have left untouched her hoary rock,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The keystone of a land, which still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The landmark to the double tide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That purpling rolls on either side,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if their waters chafed to meet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But could the blood before her shed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since first Timoleon's brother bled,<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span><span class="i0">Or baffled Persia's despot fled,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Arise from out the earth which drank<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stream of slaughter as it sank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That sanguine ocean would o'erflow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her isthmus idly spread below:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or could the bones of all the slain,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who perished there, be piled again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That rival pyramid would rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More mountain-like, through those clear skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than yon tower-capped Acropolis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which seems the very clouds to kiss.<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>CORINNA TO TANAGRA<br /><br /> + +<small>FROM ATHENS</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Tanagra! think not I forget<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Thy beautifully-storied streets;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Be sure my memory bathes yet<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In clear Thermodon, and yet greets<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Whose sunny bosom swells with joy<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When we accept his matted rushes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">A gift I promise: one I see<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Which thou with transport wilt receive,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The only proper gift for thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Of which no mortal shall bereave<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In later times thy mouldering walls,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until the last old turret falls;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A crown, a crown from Athens won,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +<span class="i0">A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">There may be cities who refuse<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To their own child the honours due,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And look ungently on the Muse;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">But ever shall those cities rue<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Offering no nourishment, no rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To that young head which soon shall rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">Do white-armed maidens chant my lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Flapping the while with laurel-rose<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The honey-gathering tribes away;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lisp your Corinna's early songs;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">To her with feet more graceful come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">O let thy children lean aslant<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Against the tender mother's knee,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And gaze into her face, and want<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i4">To know what magic there can be<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In words that urge some eyes to dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While others as in holy trance<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Look up to heaven: be such my praise!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. S. Landor.</p> + + +<h3>WARING</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What's become of Waring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since he gave us all the slip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chose land-travel or seafaring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Boots and chest or staff and scrip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rather than pace up and down<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any longer London-town?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ichabod, Ichabod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The glory is departed!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Travels Waring East away?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reports a man upstarted<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Somewhere as a God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hordes grown European-hearted,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Millions of the wild made tame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On a sudden at his fame?<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Vishnu-land what Avatar?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the demurest of footfalls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With serpentine and syenite,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steps, with five other Generals<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That simultaneously take snuff,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For each to have pretext enough<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To kerchiefwise unfold his sash<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And leave the grand white neck no gash?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waring, in Moscow, to those rough<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cold northern natures borne, perhaps,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the lambwhite maiden dear<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the circle of mute kings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unable to repress the tear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each as his sceptre down he flings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Dian's fane at Taurica,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where now a captive priestess, she alway<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid their barbarous twitter?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we and Waring meet again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its stiff gold blazing pall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From some black coffin-lid.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'When I last saw Waring ...'<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(How all turned to him who spoke—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You saw Waring? Truth or joke?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In land-travel, or sea-faring?)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'We were sailing by Triest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a day or two we harboured:<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +<span class="i0">A sunset was in the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When, looking over the vessel's side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One of our company espied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sudden speck to larboard.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, as a sea-duck flies and swims<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">At once, so came the light craft up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its sole lateen sail that trims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And turns (the water round its rims<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dancing, as round a sinking cup)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by us like a fish it curled,<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drew itself up close beside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its great sail on the instant furled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Buy wine of us, you English brig?<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or fruit, tobacco and cigars?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pilot for you to Triest?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without one, look you ne'er so big,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They'll never let you up the bay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We natives should know best."<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I turned, and "Just those fellows' way",<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thieves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are laughing at us in their sleeves."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one, half-hidden by his side<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the furled sail, soon I spied,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With great grass hat and kerchief black,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who looked up with his kingly throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Said somewhat, while the other shook<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span><span class="i0">His hair back from his eyes to look<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their longest at us; then the boat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know not how, turned sharply round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Laying her whole side on the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As a leaping fish does; from the lee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the weather, cut somehow<span class="linenum">90</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her sparkling path beneath our bow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so went off, as with a bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the rosy and golden half<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the sky, to overtake the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And reach the shore, like the sea-calf<span class="linenum">95</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its singing cave; yet I caught one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glance ere away the boat quite passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And neither time nor toil could mar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those features: so I saw the last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Waring!'—You? Oh, never star<span class="linenum">100</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was lost here, but it rose afar!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look East, where whole new thousands are!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Vishnu-land what Avatar?<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. Browning.</p> + + +<h3>ON THE RHINE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vain is the effort to forget.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some day I shall be cold, I know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As is the eternal moon-lit snow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the high Alps, to which I go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But ah, not yet! not yet!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vain is the agony of grief.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ties straitly up from mine thy lot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And were it snapt—thou lov'st me not!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But is despair relief?<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Awhile let me with thought have done;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that far purple mountain line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie sweetly in the look divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the slow-sinking sun;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So let me lie, and calm as they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let beam upon my inward view<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eyes too expressive to be blue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too lovely to be grey.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those blue hills too, this river's flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were restless once, but long ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their joy is in their calm.<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Arnold.</p> + + +<h3>THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The castled crag of Drachenfels<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose breast of waters broadly swells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Between the banks which bear the vine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hills all rich with blossomed trees,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fields which promise corn and wine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And scattered cities crowning these,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose far white walls along them shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have strewed a scene, which I should see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With double joy wert <i>thou</i> with me.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hands which offer early flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walk smiling o'er this paradise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above, the frequent feudal towers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through green leaves lift their walls of grey;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many a rock which steeply lowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And noble arch in proud decay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I send the lilies given to me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though long before thy hand they touch,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know that they must withered be,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But yet reject them not as such;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I have cherished them as dear,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because they yet may meet thine eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And guide thy soul to mine even here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And know'st them gathered by the Rhine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And offered from my heart to thine!<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The river nobly foams and flows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The charm of this enchanted ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all its thousand turns disclose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some fresher beauty varying round:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The haughtiest breast its wish might bound<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through life to dwell delighted here:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor could on earth a spot be found<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To nature and to me so dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could thy dear eyes in following mine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Lord Byron.</p> + + +<h3>'UP THE RHINE'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, Tourist, why<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With Passport have to do?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pr'ythee stay at home and pass<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Port and Sherry too.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, Tourist, why<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Embark for Rotterdam?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pr'ythee stay at home and take<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Thy Hollands in a dram.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, Tourist, why<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To foreign climes repair?<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pr'ythee take thy German Flute,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And breathe a German air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, Tourist, why<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Seven Mountains view?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Any one at home can tint<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">A hill with Prussian Blue.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why, Tourist, why<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To old Colonia's walls?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sure, to see a <i>Wrenish</i> Dome,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">One needn't leave St. Paul's.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Hood.</p> + + +<h3>COLOGNE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">In Köhln, a town of monks and bones,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And pavements fanged with murderous stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I counted two and seventy stenches,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">All well defined, and several stinks!<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The river Rhine, it is well known,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Doth wash your city of Cologne;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">S. T. Coleridge.</p> + + +<h3>THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the English make <i>Letters</i> still more a pursuit;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Cologne for an <i>O</i> and to Nassau for M's.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Hood.</p> + + +<h3>FROM 'DOVER TO MUNICH'</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Farewell, farewell! Before our prow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Leaps in white foam the noisy channel;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A tourist's cap is on my brow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My legs are cased in tourist's flannel:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Around me gasp the invalids—<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">(The quantity to-night is fearful)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I take a brace or so of weeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The night wears on:—my thirst I quench<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With one imperial pint of porter;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then drop upon a casual bench—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(The bench is short, but I am shorter)—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Place 'neath my head the <i>havre-sac</i><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which I have stored my little all in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sleep, though moist about the back,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Serenely in an old tarpaulin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bed at Ostend at 5 a.m.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tickets to Königswinter (mem.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The seats objectionably dirty).<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And onward through those dreary flats<br /></span> +<span class="i2">We move, with scanty space to sit on,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And waists that paralyse a Briton;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By many a tidy little town,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(The men's pursuits are, lying down,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And doze, and execrate the heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And wonder how far off Cologne is,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if we shall get aught to eat,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till we get there, save raw polonies;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until at last the 'grey old pile'<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is seen, is past, and three hours later<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We're ordering steaks, and talking vile<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.<br /></span> +</div> +<hr class="r5" /> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On, on the vessel steals;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round go the paddle wheels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now the tourist feels<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span><span class="i6">As he should;<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For king-like rolls the Rhine,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the scenery's divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the victuals and the wine<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Rather good.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From every crag we pass 'll<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rise up some hoar old castle;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hanging fir-groves tassel<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Every slope;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the vine her lithe arm stretches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er peasants singing catches—<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And you'll make no end of sketches,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">I should hope.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We've a nun here (called Therèse),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two couriers out of place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One Yankee with a face<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">Like a ferret's:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And three youths in scarlet caps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drinking chocolate and schnapps—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A diet which perhaps<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Has its merits.<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And day again declines:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shadow sleep the vines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the last ray through the pines<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Feebly glows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then sinks behind yon ridge;<span class="linenum">65</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the usual evening midge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is settling on the bridge<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +<span class="i6">Of my nose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And keen's the air and cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sheep are in the fold,<span class="linenum">70</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Night walks sable-stoled<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Through the trees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the silent river<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The floating starbeams quiver;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now, the saints deliver<span class="linenum">75</span><br /></span> +<span class="i6">Us from fleas.<br /></span> +</div> +<hr class="r5" /> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Avenues of broad white houses,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Basking in the noontide glare;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—<span class="linenum">80</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Elsewhere lawns, and vistaed gardens,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Statues white, and cool arcades,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where at eve the German warrior<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Winks upon the German maids;—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such is Munich:—broad and stately,<span class="linenum">85</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rich of hue, and fair of form;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, towards the end of August,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Unequivocally <i>warm</i>.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">C. S. Calverley.</p> + + +<h3>NUREMBERG</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Emigravit</i> is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains.<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +<span class="i0">In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the old man grey and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard;<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The nobility of labour,—the long pedigree of toil.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">H. W. Longfellow.</p> + + +<h3>AGED CITIES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through Tyrian Frankfort; and been fain to weep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Mid the green cliffs where pale Mosella laves<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Roman sepulchre, imperial Treves.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a queen-mother, on her spacious lands;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That carries age so nobly in its look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Oxford with the sun upon her towers.<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">F. W. Faber.</p> + + +<h3>BRUGES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Spirit of Antiquity—enshrined<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with devout solemnities entwined—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind:<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To an harmonious decency confined:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the streets were consecrated ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The city one vast temple, dedicate<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To mutual respect in thought and deed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To leisure, to forbearances sedate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To social cares from jarring passions freed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A deeper peace than that in deserts found!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Wordsworth.</p> + + +<h3>THE BELFRY OF BRUGES</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wreaths of snow-white smoke ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their strange unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir;<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All the Foresters of Flanders,—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">'I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!'<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">H. W. Longfellow.</p> + + +<h3>THE CARILLON<br /><br /> + +<small>ANTWERP AND BRUGES</small></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At Antwerp, there is a low wall<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Binding the city, and a moat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You pass the gates in a slow drawl<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of wheels. If it is warm at all<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Carillon will give you thought.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I climbed the stair in Antwerp church,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What time the urgent weight of sound<br /></span> +<span class="i2">At sunset seems to heave it round.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far up, the Carillon did search<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind; and the birds came to perch<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Far under, where the gables wound.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I stood along, a certain space<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of night. The mist was near my face:<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep on, the flow was heard and felt.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In music through the silent place.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At Bruges, when you leave the train,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">—A singing numbness in your ears,—<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Carillon's first sound appears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only the inner moil. Again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little minute though—your brain<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">John Memmeling and John Van Eyck<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I scanned the works that keep their name.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Carillon, which then did strike<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It set me closer unto them.<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I climbed at Bruges all the flight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The Belfry has of ancient stone.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For leagues I saw the east wind blown:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth was grey, the sky was white.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stood so near upon the height<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">That my flesh left the Carillon.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">D. G. Rossetti.</p> + + +<h3>HOLLAND</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As but the off-scouring of the British sand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so much earth as was contributed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By English pilots when they heaved the lead;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This indigested vomit of the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell to the Dutch by just propriety.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad then, as miners who have found the ore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dived as desperately for each piece<span class="linenum">11</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergris;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Collecting anxiously small loads of clay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Less than what building swallows bear away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Transfusing into them their dunghill soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How did they rivet, with gigantic piles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thorough the centre their new-catchèd miles;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to the stake a struggling country bound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where barking waves still bait the forcèd ground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Building their watery Babel far more high<span class="linenum">21</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still his claim the injured ocean laid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if on purpose it on land had come<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">To shew them what's their <i>mare liberum</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A daily deluge over them does boil;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The earth and water play at level-coil.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or, as they over the new level ranged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">Andrew Marvell.</p> + + +<h3>THE HAGUE</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in one day atone for the business of six,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +<span class="i0">On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love.<span class="linenum">6</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For her neither visits nor parties at tea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To good or ill fortune the third we resign.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I drive in my car in professional state.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But why should I stories of Athens rehearse<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where people knew love, and were partial to verse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Holland half-drownèd in interest and prose?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By Greece and past ages what need I be tried<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When The Hague and the present are both on my side;<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And is it enough for the joys of the day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">M. Prior.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 12%;"><i>The Hague, 1696.</i></span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>ROTTERDAM</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I gaze upon a city,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A city new and strange;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down many a watery vista<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My fancy takes a range;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From side to side I saunter,<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And wonder where I am;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And can <i>you</i> be in England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I at Rotterdam!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Before me lie dark waters,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In broad canals and deep,<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whereon the silver moonbeams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleep, restless in their sleep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sort of vulgar Venice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reminds me where I am,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, yes, you are in England,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'm at Rotterdam.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tall houses with quaint gables,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where frequent windows shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And quays that lead to bridges,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And trees in formal line,<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And masts of spicy vessels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From distant Surinam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All tell me you're in England,<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +<span class="i0">And I'm in Rotterdam.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Those sailors,—how outlandish<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The face and garb of each!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They deal in foreign gestures,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And use a foreign speech;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A tongue not learned near Isis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or studied by the Cam,<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Declares that you're in England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I'm at Rotterdam.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now across a market<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My doubtful way I trace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where stands a solemn statue,<span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Genius of the place;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to the great Erasmus<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I offer my salaam,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who tells me you're in England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I'm at Rotterdam.<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The coffee-room is open,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I mingle in its crowd;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dominoes are rattling,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hookahs raise a cloud;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A flavour, none of Fearon's,<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That mingles with my dram,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reminds me you're in England,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I'm in Rotterdam,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then here it goes, a bumper,—<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span><span class="i0">The toast it shall be mine.<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Schiedam, or in Sherry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tokay, or Hock of Rhine,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It well deserves the brightest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where sunbeam ever swam,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'The girl I love in England,'<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I drink at Rotterdam!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">T. Hood.</p> + + +<h3>THE PROGRESS OF ERROR</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i20">No plainer truth appears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our most important are our earliest years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mind, impressible and soft, with ease<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That education gives her, false or true.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Man's coltish disposition asks the thong;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, without discipline, the favourite child,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a neglected forester, runs wild.<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we, as if good qualities would grow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We give some Latin, and a smatch of Greek;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Teach him to fence and figure twice a week;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, having done, we think, the best we can,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Praise his proficiency, and dub him man.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thence, with all convenient speed, to Rome,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tease for cash, and quarrel with, all day;<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With memorandum-book for every town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every post, and where the chaise broke down;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His stock, a few French phrases got by heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With much to learn, but nothing to impart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The youth, obedient to his sire's commands,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With awkward gait, stretched neck, and silly stare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Discover huge cathedrals, built with stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And steeples towering high, much like our own;<span class="linenum">30</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But show peculiar light by many a grin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At popish practices observed within.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ere long, some bowing, smirking, smart abbé,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, being always primed with <i>politesse</i><span class="linenum">35</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For men of their appearance and address,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With much compassion undertakes the task<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To tell them—more than they have wit to ask:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such as, when legible, were never read,<span class="linenum">40</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, being cankered now, and half worn out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some headless hero, or some Caesar shows—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Defective only in his Roman nose;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans,<span class="linenum">45</span><br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Models of Herculanean pots and pans;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sells them medals, which, if neither rare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strange the recital! from whatever cause<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His great improvement and new lights he draws,<span class="linenum">50</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The squire, once bashful, is shame-faced no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But teems with powers he never felt before;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whether increased momentum, and the force<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With which from clime to clime he sped his course,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(As axles sometimes kindle as they go)<span class="linenum">55</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or whether clearer skies and softer air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unfolded genially, and spread the man;<span class="linenum">60</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By shrugs, and strange contortions of his face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How much a dunce that has been sent to roam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">W. Cowper.</p> + + +<h3>ADVICE AGAINST TRAVEL</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But the surest teacher is the heart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Studying that and that alone, thou learnest<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +<span class="i2">Best and soonest whence and what thou <i>art</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Time</i>, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far more light the lamp that bideth steady<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Than the wandering lantern doth <i>emit</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Moor</i>, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tread one common down-hill path of doom;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Everywhere the names are Man and Woman,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Everywhere the old sad sins find <i>room</i>.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Evil</i> angels tempt us in all places.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What but sands or snows hath earth to give?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases,<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">But look inwards, and begin to <i>live</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. C. Mangan.</p> + + +<h3>HAD CAIN BEEN SCOT</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not forced him wander, but confined him home.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">J. Cleveland.</p> + + +<h3>A SONG OF THE ROAD</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gauger walked with willing foot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And aye the gauger played the flute;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And what should Master Gauger play<br /></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +<span class="i0">But <i>Over the hills and far away</i>?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whene'er I buckle on my pack<span class="linenum">5</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And foot it gaily in the track,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O pleasant gauger, long since dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I hear you fluting on ahead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You go with me the self-same way—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The self-same air for me you play;<span class="linenum">10</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I do think and so do you,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is the tune to travel to.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For who would gravely set his face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To go to this or t'other place?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's nothing under Heav'n so blue<span class="linenum">15</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">That's fairly worth the travelling to.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On every hand the roads begin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And people walk with zeal therein;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But whereso'er the highways tend,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be sure there's nothing at the end.<span class="linenum">20</span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then follow you, wherever hie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The travelling mountains of the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or let the streams in civil mode<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Direct your choice upon a road;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For one and all, or high or low,<span class="linenum">25</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will lead you where you wish to go;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And one and all go night and day<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Over the hills and far away</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="author">R. L. Stevenson.</p> + + + +<hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES">NOTES</a></h2> + + +<p>The difficulty has been to select from a wealth of poems +with which volumes could have been filled. Indeed three +collections dealing exclusively with Greece, with Italy, and +with Switzerland have already been published by the Oxford +University Press. In this volume the traveller is not confined +to one country, and he is not asked to drag a lengthening +chain beyond the limits of Europe. Here are some poems +about travel generally, and then country by country a grand +tour is traced. My obligation to the authors or owners of +copyright poems is duly acknowledged with grateful thanks.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a>. <i>Clough.</i>—The opening lines of <i>Amours de Voyage</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a>. <i>Tennyson.</i>—A few lines only from <i>Ulysses</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_8"><b>8</b></a>. <i>Goldsmith.</i>—From <i>The Traveller</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_11"><b>11</b></a>. <i>Bridges.</i>—By kind permission of the Poet Laureate +and Messrs. Smith, Elder.</p> + +<p>Pp. <a href="#Page_12"><b>12</b></a> and <a href="#Page_13"><b>13</b></a>. <i>Arnold.</i>—From <i>Stanzas composed at Carnac</i> +and <i>Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse</i>.</p> + +<p>Pp. <a href="#Page_20"><b>20</b></a> and <a href="#Page_21"><b>21</b></a>. <i>Tennyson.</i>—The passage from <i>Oenone</i> +and the idyll from <i>The Princess</i> are given here because +their imagery was inspired by the Pyrenees, which the poet +repeatedly visited, first of all in 1830 with Hallam, intending +to aid in the Spanish revolt against Ferdinand VII. Tennyson +also spent some time in the Pyrenees with Clough in 1861. +It is Hallam who is referred to in <i>In the Valley of Cauteretz</i>, +a poem which Tennyson selected to write in Queen Victoria's +album. Swinburne has praised 'the solemn sweetness' of +these 'majestic verses'.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_25"><b>25</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto i, +18 and 19.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_26"><b>26</b></a>. <i>Godley.</i>—By permission of the author and Messrs. +Methuen.</p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_29"><b>29</b></a>. <i>Butler.</i>—By permission of Mrs. A. G. Butler. The +poem originally appeared in <i>The Times</i> shortly after the +Matterhorn accident in 1865.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_31"><b>31</b></a>. <i>Hardy.</i>—By permission of the author and Messrs. +Macmillan.</p> + +<p>Pp. <a href="#Page_32"><b>32</b></a> and <a href="#Page_33"><b>33</b></a>. <i>Watts-Dunton.</i>—By kind permission of the +author, given shortly before his death.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_35"><b>35</b></a>. <i>Arnold.</i>—The first portion is from <i>Stanzas in +Memory of the Author of 'Obermann'</i> (Étienne Pivert de +Senancour); the second from <i>Obermann once More</i>, composed +many years afterwards.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_38"><b>38</b></a>. <i>Symonds.</i>—By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_47">47</a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto iv, +73, 74, and 75.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_48"><b>48</b></a>. <i>Clough.</i>—The concluding lines of the introduction +to canto iii of <i>Amours de Voyage</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_51"><b>51</b></a>. <i>Rogers.</i>—From <i>Italy</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_52"><b>52</b></a>.<i> Shelley.</i>—From <i>Lines written among the Euganean +Hills</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_53"><b>53</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto iv, +1, 2, 3, 4, 11, and 13.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_56"><b>56</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto iv, +stanzas 48, 49.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_60"><b>60</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Manfred</i>, act III, sc. iv.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_62"><b>62</b></a>. <i>Hardy.</i>—From <i>Wessex Poems, etc.</i> By permission +of the author and Messrs. Macmillan.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_64"><b>64</b></a>. <i>Clough.</i>—From <i>Amours de Voyage</i>, canto iii. There +is a note to line 8:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">... domus Albuneæ resonantis,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Et præceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Mobilibus pomaria rivis.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_65"><b>65</b></a>. <i>Wordsworth.</i>—The first two stanzas 'Composed in +the Simplon Pass', 1820. The concluding eight lines are from +<i>At Vallombrosa</i>, written when the poet's 'fond wish' to visit +this spot had been realized in 1837. Wordsworth is at pains +to defend Milton from the charge of having blundered in +<i>Paradise Lost</i>, by suggesting that the trees are 'deciduous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +whereas they are, in fact, pines'. 'The fault-finders', +Wordsworth says, 'are themselves mistaken; the <i>natural</i> +woods of the region of Vallombrosa <i>are</i> deciduous.'</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_66"><b>66</b></a>. <i>Rogers.</i>—From <i>Italy</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_73"><b>73</b></a>. <i>Phillimore.</i>—By permission of the author.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_78"><b>78</b></a>. <i>Blunt.</i>—By permission of the author.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_81"><b>81</b></a>. <i>Tennyson.</i>—Lear was not only the inventor or +popularizer of 'Limericks', but also a highly-esteemed +artist.</p> + +<p>Pp. <a href="#Page_83"><b>83</b></a> and <a href="#Page_85"><b>85</b></a>. <i>Rodd.</i>—By permission of the author, who +wrote the introduction to the Oxford anthology, <i>The Englishman +in Greece</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_86"><b>86</b></a>. <i>Shelley.</i>—Stanzas 4 and 5 of the <i>Ode to Liberty</i>.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_87"><b>87</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto i, +60 and 61.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_91"><b>91</b></a>. <i>Browning.</i>—This poem is not complete.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_96"><b>96</b></a>. <i>Byron.</i>—From <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i>, canto iii, +55.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_99"><b>99</b></a>. <i>Calverley.</i>—This is a portion only of the poem.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_118"><b>118</b></a>. <i>Cowper.</i>—An extract from the long poem of the +same title.</p> + +<p>P. <a href="#Page_121"><b>121</b></a>. <i>Stevenson.</i>—By permission of Messrs. Chatto & +Windus (and Messrs. Scribner's Sons in regard to the American +rights).</p><hr class="chap" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2><a name="INDEX_OF_FIRST_LINES" id="INDEX_OF_FIRST_LINES">INDEX OF FIRST LINES</a></h2> + + +<ul class="index"> +<li class="ifrst">A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, <a href="#Page_68"><b>68</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!, <a href="#Page_80"><b>80</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">All along the valley, stream that flashest white, <a href="#Page_22"><b>22</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Arno wins us to the fair white walls, <a href="#Page_56"><b>56</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">At Antwerp, there is a low wall, <a href="#Page_112"><b>112</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Brook and road, <a href="#Page_34"><b>34</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, <a href="#Page_21"><b>21</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">England, we love thee better than we know, <a href="#Page_77"><b>77</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Far on its rocky knoll descried, <a href="#Page_12"><b>12</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Farewell, farewell! Before our prow, <a href="#Page_99"><b>99</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Glion?——Ah, twenty years, it cuts, <a href="#Page_36"><b>36</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, <a href="#Page_121"><b>121</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Happy is England! I could be content, <a href="#Page_39"><b>39</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star, <a href="#Page_14"><b>14</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, <a href="#Page_113"><b>113</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">I cannot rest from travel: I will drink, <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I do remember me, that in my youth, <a href="#Page_60"><b>60</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I gaze upon a city, <a href="#Page_116"><b>116</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine, <a href="#Page_107"><b>107</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more, <a href="#Page_74"><b>74</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, <a href="#Page_53"><b>53</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">I travelled among unknown men, <a href="#Page_9"><b>9</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls, <a href="#Page_81"><b>81</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">In front the awful Alpine track, <a href="#Page_35"><b>35</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">In Köhln, a town of monks and bones, <a href="#Page_98"><b>98</b></a></li> +<li><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span>In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, <a href="#Page_108"><b>108</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky, <a href="#Page_26"><b>26</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands, <a href="#Page_103"><b>103</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?, <a href="#Page_62"><b>62</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">It is not only that the sun, <a href="#Page_83"><b>83</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes, <a href="#Page_25"><b>25</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Many a vanished year and age, <a href="#Page_88"><b>88</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Never, oh never more shall I behold, <a href="#Page_38"><b>38</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">No plainer truth appears, <a href="#Page_118"><b>118</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, <a href="#Page_44"><b>44</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away, <a href="#Page_77"><b>77</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, <a href="#Page_73"><b>73</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">O beautiful beneath the magic moon, <a href="#Page_55"><b>55</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">O love, what hours were thine and mine, <a href="#Page_40"><b>40</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, <a href="#Page_56"><b>56</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, <a href="#Page_87"><b>87</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">On her still lake the city sits, <a href="#Page_55"><b>55</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Once more upon the woody Apennine, <a href="#Page_47"><b>47</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, <a href="#Page_7"><b>7</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize, <a href="#Page_23"><b>23</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, <a href="#Page_8"><b>8</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, <a href="#Page_76"><b>76</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm, <a href="#Page_78"><b>78</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Sweet the memory is to me, <a href="#Page_69"><b>69</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Tanagra! think not I forget, <a href="#Page_89"><b>89</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Ten years!—and to my waking eye, <a href="#Page_38"><b>38</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The castled crag of Drachenfels, <a href="#Page_96"><b>96</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The ceaseless rain is falling fast, <a href="#Page_5"><b>5</b></a></li> +<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span>The gauger walked with willing foot, <a href="#Page_121"><b>121</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute, <a href="#Page_99"><b>99</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold, <a href="#Page_32"><b>32</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The nodding promontories and blue isles, <a href="#Page_86"><b>86</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow, <a href="#Page_18"><b>18</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">The Spirit of Antiquity—enshrined, <a href="#Page_108"><b>108</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!, <a href="#Page_79"><b>79</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">There is a glorious City in the sea, <a href="#Page_51"><b>51</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier, <a href="#Page_20"><b>20</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">They stand between the mountains and the sea, <a href="#Page_66"><b>66</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">They warred with Nature, as of old with gods, <a href="#Page_29"><b>29</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, <a href="#Page_31"><b>31</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused, <a href="#Page_13"><b>13</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio, <a href="#Page_64"><b>64</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest, <a href="#Page_120"><b>120</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Underneath Day's azure eyes, <a href="#Page_52"><b>52</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Vain is the effort to forget, <a href="#Page_95"><b>95</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood, <a href="#Page_65"><b>65</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page, <a href="#Page_65"><b>65</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect, <a href="#Page_46"><b>46</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">What power is this? what witchery wins my feet, <a href="#Page_33"><b>33</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">What's become of Waring, <a href="#Page_91"><b>91</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?, <a href="#Page_10"><b>10</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle, <a href="#Page_48"><b>48</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?', <a href="#Page_85"><b>85</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, <a href="#Page_114"><b>114</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, <a href="#Page_11"><b>11</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Who, then, was Cestius, <a href="#Page_62"><b>62</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Why, Tourist, why, <a href="#Page_97"><b>97</b></a></li> +<li class="indx">Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart, <a href="#Page_75"><b>75</b></a></li> + +<li class="ifrst">Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, <a href="#Page_49"><b>49</b></a></li> +</ul> + + + + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems on Travel, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 39496-h.htm or 39496-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/9/39496/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: Poems on Travel + +Author: Various + +Release Date: April 21, 2012 [EBook #39496] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + + + + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +OXFORD GARLANDS + +POEMS ON TRAVEL + +SELECTED BY + +R. M. LEONARD + + + How much a dunce that has been sent to roam + Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. + COWPER. + + +HUMPHREY MILFORD +OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS +LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK +TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY +1914 + + +OXFORD: HORACE HART + +PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY + + + + +INDEX OF AUTHORS + + + ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-88), 12, 13, 35, 38, 79, 95 + BLUNT, WILFRID SCAWEN (b. 1840), 78 + BRIDGES, ROBERT (b. 1844), 11 + BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-89), 49, 77, 91 + BUTLER, ARTHUR GREY (1831-1909), 29 + BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, + LORD (1788-1824), 25, 47, 53, 56, 60, 80, 87, 88, 96 + CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART (1831-84), 99 + CLEVELAND, JOHN (1613-58), 121 + CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH (1819-61), 7, 18, 23, 48, 55, 64 + COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834), 14, 98 + COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800), 118 + FABER, FREDERICK WILLIAM (1814-63), 107 + GODLEY, ALFRED DENIS (b. 1856), 26 + GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-74), 8 + HARDY, THOMAS (b. 1840), 31, 62 + HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845), 97, 99, 116 + KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821), 39 + LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE (1775-1864), 46, 74, 89 + LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-95), 56 + LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807-82), 5, 44, 69, 103, 108 + MANGAN, JAMES CLARENCE (1803-49), 120 + MARVELL, ANDREW (1621-78), 113 + NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY (1801-90), 75, 76 + PHILLIMORE, JOHN SWINNERTON (b. 1873), 73 + PRIOR, MATTHEW (1664-1721,) 114 + RODD, SIR RENNELL (b. 1858), 83, 85 + ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855), 51, 66 + ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-82), 112 + SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822), 52, 86 + STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS (1850-94), 121 + SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON (1840-93), 38 + TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD (1809-92), 7, 20, 21, 22, 40, 81 + TRENCH, RICHARD CHENEVIX (1807-86), 68, 77 + WATTS-DUNTON, THEODORE (1832-1914), 32, 33 + WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850), 9, 10, 34, 62, 65, 108 + + + + +POEMS ON TRAVEL + + +TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE + + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, + And yonder gilded vane, + Immovable for three days past, + Points to the misty main. + + It drives me in upon myself 5 + And to the fireside gleams, + To pleasant books that crowd my shelf, + And still more pleasant dreams. + + I read whatever bards have sung + Of lands beyond the sea, 10 + And the bright days when I was young + Come thronging back to me. + + In fancy I can hear again + The Alpine torrent's roar, + The mule-bells on the hills of Spain, 15 + The sea at Elsinore. + + I see the convent's gleaming wall + Rise from its groves of pine, + And towers of old cathedrals tall, + And castles by the Rhine. 20 + + I journey on by park and spire, + Beneath centennial trees, + Through fields with poppies all on fire, + And gleams of distant seas. + + I fear no more the dust and heat, 25 + No more I fear fatigue, + While journeying with another's feet + O'er many a lengthening league. + + Let others traverse sea and land, + And toil through various climes, 30 + I turn the world round with my hand + Reading these poets' rhymes. + + From them I learn whatever lies + Beneath each changing zone, + And see, when looking with their eyes, 35 + Better than with mine own. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +FANCIES FOR MEMORIES + + Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, + Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, + Come, let us go,--to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, + Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. + Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, 'The world + that we live in, 5 + Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; + 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; + Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; + 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; + 'Tis but to go and have been.'--Come, little bark! let us go. 10 + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +THE CRY OF ULYSSES + + I cannot rest from travel: I will drink + Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed + Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those + That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when + Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 5 + Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name; + For always roaming with a hungry heart + Much have I seen and known; cities of men, + And manners, climates, councils, governments, + Myself not least, but honoured of them all; 10 + And drunk delight of battle with my peers, + Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. + I am a part of all that I have met; + Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough + Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades + For ever and for ever when I move. 16 + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +THE TRAVELLER + + Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, + Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po; + Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor + Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; + Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 5 + A weary waste expanding to the skies: + Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, + My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee; + Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, + And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 10 + In all my wanderings round this world of care, + In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- + still had hopes my latest hours to crown, + Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; + To husband out life's taper at the close, 15 + And keep the flame from wasting by repose. + I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, + Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, + Around my fire an evening group to draw, + And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 20 + And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, + Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, + I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, + Here to return--and die at home at last. + + O. GOLDSMITH. + + +I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN + + I travelled among unknown men, + In lands beyond the sea; + Nor, England! did I know till then + What love I bore to thee. + + 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 5 + Nor will I quit thy shore + A second time; for still I seem + To love thee more and more. + + Among thy mountains did I feel + The joy of my desire; 10 + And she I cherished turned her wheel + Beside an English fire. + + Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, + The bowers where Lucy played; + And thine too is the last green field 15 + That Lucy's eyes surveyed. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +WHERE LIES THE LAND + + Where lies the land to which yon ship must go? + Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, + Festively she puts forth in trim array; + Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? + What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe 5 + She cares for; let her travel where she may, + She finds familiar names, a beaten way + Ever before her, and a wind to blow. + Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? + And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 10 + (From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there + Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, + Of the old sea some reverential fear, + Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark! + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +A PASSER-BY + + Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, + Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, + That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, + Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? + Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, 5 + When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, + Wilt thou glide on the blue Pacific, or rest + In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. + + I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, + Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: 10 + I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, + And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, + Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; + Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest + Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair 15 + Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest. + + And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless, + I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine + That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, + Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. 20 + But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, + As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, + From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line + In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding. + + R. BRIDGES. + + +AT CARNAC + + Far on its rocky knoll descried + Saint Michael's chapel cuts the sky. + I climbed;--beneath me, bright and wide, + Lay the lone coast of Brittany. + + Bright in the sunset, weird and still 5 + It lay beside the Atlantic wave, + As if the wizard Merlin's will + Yet charmed it from his forest grave. + + Behind me on their grassy sweep, + Bearded with lichen, scrawled and grey, 10 + The giant stones of Carnac sleep, + In the mild evening of the May. + + No priestly stern procession now + Streams through their rows of pillars old; + No victims bleed, no Druids bow; 15 + Sheep make the furze-grown aisles their fold. + + From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, + The orchis red gleams everywhere; + Gold broom with furze in blossom vies, + The blue-bells perfume all the air. 20 + + And o'er the glistening, lonely land, + Rise up, all round, the Christian spires. + The church of Carnac, by the strand, + Catches the westering sun's last fires. + + And there across the watery way, 25 + See, low above the tide at flood, + The sickle-sweep of Quiberon bay + Whose beach once ran with loyal blood! + + And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!-- + All round, no soul, no boat, no hail! 30 + But, on the horizon's verge descried, + Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail! + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE GRAND CHARTREUSE + + Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused + With rain, where thick the crocus blows, + Past the dark forges long disused, + The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. + The bridge is crossed, and slow we ride, 5 + Through forest, up the mountain-side. + + The autumnal evening darkens round + The wind is up, and drives the rain; + While hark! far down, with strangled sound + Doth the Dead Guiers' stream complain, 10 + Where that wet smoke among the woods + Over his boiling cauldron broods. + + Swift rush the spectral vapours white + Past limestone scars with ragged pines, + Showing--then blotting from our sight. 15 + Halt! through the cloud-drift something shines! + High in the valley, wet and drear, + The huts of Courrerie appear. + + _Strike leftward!_ cries our guide; and higher + Mounts up the stony forest-way. 20 + At last the encircling trees retire; + Look! through the showery twilight grey + What pointed roofs are these advance? + A palace of the Kings of France? + + Approach, for what we seek is here. 25 + Alight and sparely sup and wait + For rest in this outbuilding near; + Then cross the sward and reach that gate; + Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come + To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 30 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI + + Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star + In his steep course? So long he seems to pause + On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC, + The Arve and Arveiron at thy base + Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 5 + Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, + How silently! Around thee and above + Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, + An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, + As with a wedge! But when I look again, 10 + It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, + Thy habitation from eternity + O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, + Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, + Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer 15 + I worshipped the Invisible alone. + + Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, + So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, + Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, + Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: 20 + Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, + Into the mighty vision passing--there + As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! + + Awake, my soul! not only passive praise + Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 25 + Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, + Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! + Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. + + Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! + O struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 + And visited all night by troops of stars, + Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: + Companion of the morning-star at dawn, + Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn + Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! 35 + Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? + Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? + Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? + + And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! + Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 + From dark and icy caverns called you forth, + Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, + For ever shattered and the same for ever? + Who gave you your invulnerable life, + Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 + Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? + And who commanded (and the silence came), + Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? + + Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow + Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- 50 + Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, + And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! + Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! + Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven + Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 + Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers + Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- + GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, + Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD! + GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! 60 + Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! + And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, + And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD! + + Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! + Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 65 + Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! + Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! + Ye signs and wonders of the element! + Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! + + Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 70 + Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, + Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene + Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-- + Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou + That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 75 + In adoration, upward from thy base + Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, + Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, + To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise, + Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth! 80 + Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, + Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, + Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, + And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun + Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD. 85 + + S. T. COLERIDGE. + + +HOME, ROSE, AND HOME, PROVENCE AND LA PALIE + +ITE DOMUM SATURAE, VENIT HESPERUS + + The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + The rainy clouds are filing fast below, + And wet will be the path, and wet shall we. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 5 + + Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone + Who stepped beside and cheered us on and on? + My sweetheart wanders far away from me, + In foreign land or on a foreign sea. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 10 + + The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + And through the vale the rains go sweeping by; + Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 15 + + Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they + O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray. + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.) + And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind + The pleasant huts and herds he left behind? 20 + And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see + The feeding kine and doth he think of me, + My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it be? + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + The thunder bellows far from snow to snow, 25 + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + And loud and louder roars the flood below. + Heigh-ho! but soon in shelter shall we be: + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + Or shall he find before his term be sped, 30 + Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed? + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.) + For weary is work, and weary day by day + To have your comfort miles on miles away. + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. 35 + + Or may it be that I shall find my mate, + And he returning see himself too late? + For work we must, and what we see, we see. + And God he knows, and what must be, must be, + When sweethearts wander far away from me. 40 + Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. + + The sky behind is brightening up anew, + (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie,) + The rain is ending, and our journey too; + Heigh-ho! aha! for here at home are we:-- 45 + In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie. + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +THERE LIES A VALE IN IDA + + There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier + Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. + The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, + Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, + And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 5 + The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down + Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars + The long brook falling through the clov'n ravine + In cataract after cataract to the sea. + Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 10 + Stands up and takes the morning: but in front + The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal + Troas and Ilion's columned citadel, + The crown of Troas. + Hither came at noon + Mournful Oenone, wandering forlorn 15 + Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. + Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck + Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. + She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, + Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 20 + Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. + 'O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, + Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. + For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: + The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 25 + The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, + Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. + The purple flowers droop: the golden bee + Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. + My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 30 + My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, + And I am all aweary of my life.' + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +COME DOWN, O MAID + + Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: + What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), + In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? + But cease to move so near the heavens, and cease + To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine, 5 + To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; + And come, for Love is of the valley, come, + For Love is of the valley, come thou down + And find him; by the happy threshold, he, + Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 10 + Or red with spirted purple of the vats, + Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk + With Death and Morning on the silver horns, + Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, + Nor find him dropped upon the firths of ice, 15 + That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls + To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: + But follow: let the torrent dance thee down + To find him in the valley; let the wild + Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 20 + The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill + Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, + That like a broken purpose waste in air: + So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales + Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth 25 + Arise to thee; the children call, and I + Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, + Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; + Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, + The moan of doves in immemorial elms, 30 + And murmuring of innumerable bees. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ + + All along the valley, stream that flashest white, + Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, + All along the valley, where thy waters flow, + I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago. + All along the valley while I walked to-day, 5 + The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; + For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed, + Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, + And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree, + The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 10 + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +CURRENTE CALAMO + + Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize + Amid the snowy Pyrenees; + More evanescent than the snow, + The pictures come, are seen, and go: + Quick, quick, _currente calamo_. 5 + I do not ask the tints that fill + The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill; + I ask not for the hues that fleet + Above the distant peaks; my feet + Are on a poplar-bordered road, 10 + Where with a saddle and a load + A donkey, old and ashen-grey, + Reluctant works his dusty way. + Before him, still with might and main + Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, 15 + A girl: before both him and me, + Frequent she turns and lets me see, + Unconscious, lets me scan and trace + The sunny darkness of her face + And outlines full of southern grace. 20 + Following I notice, yet and yet, + Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set, + And black, and blacker e'en than jet, + The escaping hair that scantly showed, + Since o'er it in the country mode, 25 + For winter warmth and summer shade, + The lap of scarlet cloth is laid. + And then, back-falling from the head, + A crimson kerchief overspread + Her jacket blue; thence passing down, 30 + A skirt of darkest yellow-brown, + Coarse stuff, allowing to the view + The smooth limb to the woollen shoe. + But who--here's some one following too,-- + A priest, and reading at his book! 35 + Read on, O priest, and do not look; + Consider,--she is but a child,-- + Yet might your fancy be beguiled. + Read on, O priest, and pass and go! + But see, succeeding in a row, 40 + Two, three, and four, a motley train, + Musicians wandering back to Spain; + With fiddle and with tambourine, + A man with women following seen. + What dresses, ribbon ends, and flowers! 45 + And,--sight to wonder at for hours,-- + The man,--to Phillip has he sat?-- + With butterfly-like velvet hat; + One dame his big bassoon conveys, + On one his gentle arm he lays; 50 + They stop, and look, and something say, + And to 'Espana' ask the way. + But while I speak, and point them on; + Alas, my dearer friends are gone, + The dark-eyed maiden and the ass 55 + Have had the time the bridge to pass. + Vainly, beyond it far descried, + Adieu, and peace with you abide, + Grey donkey, and your beauteous guide. + The pictures come, the pictures go, 60 + Quick, quick, _currente calamo_. + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +CINTRA + + Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes + In variegated maze of mount and glen. + Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, + To follow half on which the eye dilates + Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 5 + Than those whereof such things the bard relates, + Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium's gates? + + The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, + The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, + The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 10 + The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, + The tender azure of the unruffled deep, + The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, + The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, + The vine on high, the willow branch below, 15 + Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. + + LORD BYRON. + + +SWITZERLAND + + In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky, + When the holidays are nearing with the closing of July, + And experienced Alpine stagers and impetuous recruits + Are renewing with the season their continual disputes-- + Those inveterate disputes 5 + On the newest Alpine routes-- + And inspecting the condition of their mountaineering boots: + + You may stifle your reflections, you may banish them afar, + You may try to draw a solace from the thought of 'Naechstes Jahr'-- + But your heart is with those climbers, and you'll feverishly yearn 10 + To be crossing of the Channel with your luggage labelled 'Bern', + Leaving England far astern + With a ticket through to Bern, + And regarding your profession with a lordly unconcern! + + _They_ will lie beside the torrent, just as you were wont to do, 15 + With the woodland green around them and a snow-field shining through: + They will tread the higher pastures, where celestial breezes blow, + While the valley lies in shadow and the peaks are all aglow-- + Where the airs of heaven blow + 'Twixt the pine woods and the snow, 20 + And the shades of evening deepen in the valley far below: + + They will scale the mountain strongholds that in days of old you won, + They will plod behind a lantern ere the rising of the sun, + On a 'grat' or in a chimney, on the steep and dizzy slope, + For a foothold or a handhold they will diligently grope-- + On the rocky, icy slope 26 + (Where we'll charitably hope + 'Tis assistance only Moral that they're getting from a rope); + + They will dine on mule and marmot, and on mutton made of goats, + They will face the various horrors of Helvetian table d'hotes: 30 + But whate'er the paths that lead them, and the food whereon they fare, + They will taste the joy of living, as you only taste it there, + As you taste it Only There + In the higher, purer air, + Unapproachable by worries and oblivious quite of care! 35 + + Place me somewhere in the Valais, 'mid the mountains west of Binn, + West of Binn and east of Savoy, in a decent kind of inn, + With a peak or two for climbing, and a glacier to explore,-- + Any mountains will content me, though they've all been climbed before-- + Yes! I care not any more 40 + Though they've all been done before, + And the names they keep in bottles may be numbered by the score! + + Though the hand of Time be heavy: though your ancient comrades fail: + Though the mountains you ascended be accessible by rail: 44 + Though your nerve begin to weaken, and you're gouty grown and fat, + And prefer to walk in places which are reasonably flat-- + Though you grow so very fat + That you climb the Gorner Grat + Or perhaps the Little Scheideck,--and are rather proud of that: + Yet I hope that till you die 50 + You will annually sigh + For a vision of the Valais with the coming of July, + For the Oberland or Valais and the higher, purer air, + And the true delight of living, as you taste it only there! + + A. D. GODLEY. + + +ZERMATT CHURCHYARD + + _'C'etait une guerre avec le Matterhorn,' said a Zermatt peasant + of the many attempts to scale this great mountain_ + + They warred with Nature, as of old with gods + The Titans; like the Titans too they fell, + Hurled from the summit of their hopes, and dashed + Sheer down precipitous tremendous crags, + A thousand deaths in one. 'Tis o'er, and we 5 + Who sit at home, and by the peaceful hearth + Read their sad tale, made wise by the event, + May moralize of folly and a thirst + For barren honour, fruitful of no end. + 'Tis well: we were not what we are without 10 + That cautious wisdom, and the sober mind + Of prudence, steering calm 'twixt rock and storm. + Yet, too, methinks, we were not what we are + Without that other fiery element-- + The love, the thirst for venture, and the scorn 15 + That aught should be too great for mortal powers + That yet one peak in all the skyey throng + Should rise unchallenged with unvanquished snows, + Virgin from the beginning of the world. + Such fire was theirs; O not for fame alone-- 20 + That coarser thread in all the finer skein + That draws adventure, oft by vulgar minds + Deemed man's sole aim--but for the high delight + To tread untrodden solitudes, and feel + A sense of power, of fullest freedom, lost 25 + In the loud vale where _Man_ is all in all. + For this they dared too much; nor they alone, + They but the foremost of an Alpine band, + Who in the life of cities pine and pant + For purer air, for peak, and pass, and glen, 30 + With slow majestic glacier, born to-day, + Yet with the trophies of a thousand years + On its scarred bosom, till its icy bonds + It burst, and rush a torrent to the main. + Such sons still hast thou, England; be thou proud + To have them, relics of thy younger age. 36 + Nor murmur if not all at once they take + The care and burden on them. Learn of them! + Youth has its teaching, too, as well as age: + We grow too old too soon; the flaxen head 40 + Of childhood apes experience' hoary crown, + And prudent lisps ungraceful aged saws. + 'Tis so: yet here in Zermatt--here beneath + The fatal peak, beside the heaving mound + That bears the black cross with the golden names 45 + Of men, our friends, upon it--here we fain + Would preach a soberer lesson. Forth they went, + Fearless and gay as to a festival, + One clear, cold morn: they climbed the virgin height; + They stood where still the awestruck gazer's eye 50 + Shudders to follow. There a little while + They spake of home, that centre whose wide arms + Hold us where'er we are, in joy, or woe, + On earth, in air, and far on stormy seas. + Then they turned homeward, yet not to return. 55 + It was a fearful place, and as they crept + Fearfully down the giddy steep, there came + A slip--no more--one little slip, and down + Linked in a living avalanche they fell, + Brothers in hope, in triumph, and in death, 60 + Nor dying were divided. One remained + To tell their story, and to bury them. + + A. G. BUTLER. + + +ZERMATT + +TO THE MATTERHORN + +(_June-July, 1897_) + + Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, + Seven shapes, thin atomies to lower sight, + Labouringly leapt and gained thy gabled height, + And four lives paid for what the seven had won. + + They were the first by whom the deed was done, 5 + And when I look at thee, my mind takes flight + To that day's tragic feat of manly might, + As though, till then, of history thou hadst none. + + Yet ages ere men topped thee, late and soon + Thou didst behold the planets lift and lower; 10 + Saw'st, maybe, Joshua's pausing sun and moon, + And the betokening sky when Caesar's power + Approached its bloody end; yea, even that Noon + When darkness filled the earth till the ninth hour. + + T. HARDY. + + +NATURA MALIGNA + + The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold + Followed my feet, with azure eyes of prey; + By glacier-brink she stood--by cataract-spray-- + When mists were dire, or avalanche-echoes rolled. + At night she glimmered in the death-wind cold, 5 + And if a footprint shone at break of day, + My flesh would quail, but straight my soul would say: + ''Tis hers whose hand God's mightier hand doth hold.' + + I trod her snow-bridge, for the moon was bright, + Her icicle-arch across the sheer crevasse, 10 + When lo, she stood!... God made her let me pass, + Then felled the bridge!... Oh, there in sallow light + There down the chasm, I saw her cruel, white, + And all my wondrous days as in a glass. + + T. WATTS-DUNTON. + + +NATURA BENIGNA + + What power is this? what witchery wins my feet + To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow, + All silent as the emerald gulfs below, + Down whose ice-walls the wings of twilight beat? + What thrill of earth and heaven--most wild, most sweet-- 5 + What answering pulse that all the senses know, + Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow + Where, far away, the skies and mountains meet? + + Mother, 'tis I reborn: I know thee well: + That throb I know and all it prophesies, 10 + O Mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell + Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies! + Dumb Mother, struggling with the years to tell + The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes! + + T. WATTS-DUNTON. + + +THE SIMPLON PASS + + ----Brook and road + Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, + And with them did we journey several hours + At a slow step. The immeasurable height + Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 5 + The stationary blasts of waterfalls, + And in the narrow rent, at every turn, + Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, + The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, + The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 10 + Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside + As if a voice were in them, the sick sight + And giddy prospect of the raving stream, + The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, + Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light-- 15 + Were all like workings of one mind, the features + Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, + Characters of the great Apocalypse, + The types and symbols of Eternity, + Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 20 + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +OBERMANN + +I + + In front the awful Alpine track + Crawls up its rocky stair; + The autumn storm-winds drive the rack + Close o'er it, in the air. + + Behind are the abandoned baths 5 + Mute in their meadows lone; + The leaves are on the valley paths; + The mists are on the Rhone-- + + The white mists rolling like a sea. + I hear the torrents roar. 10 + --Yes, Obermann, all speaks of thee! + I feel thee near once more. + + How often, where the slopes are green + On Jaman, hast thou sate + By some high chalet door, and seen 15 + The summer day grow late, + + And darkness steal o'er the wet grass + With the pale crocus starred, + And reach that glimmering sheet of glass + Beneath the piny sward, 20 + + Lake Leman's waters, far below: + And watched the rosy light + Fade from the distant peaks of snow: + And on the air of night + + Heard accents of the eternal tongue 25 + Through the pine branches play: + Listened, and felt thyself grow young: + Listened, and wept----Away! + + Away the dreams that but deceive! + And thou, sad Guide, adieu! 30 + I go; Fate drives me: but I leave + Half of my life with you. + + +II + + Glion?----Ah, twenty years, it cuts + All meaning from a name! + White houses prank where once were huts! + Glion, but not the same, + + And yet I know not. All unchanged 5 + The turf, the pines, the sky! + The hills in their old order ranged. + The lake, with Chillon by! + + And 'neath those chestnut-trees, where stiff + And stony mounts the way, 10 + Their crackling husk-heaps burn, as if + I left them yesterday. + + Across the valley, on that slope, + The huts of Avant shine-- + Its pines under their branches ope 15 + Ways for the tinkling kine. + + Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, + Sweet heaps of fresh-cut grass, + Invite to rest the traveller there + Before he climb the pass-- 20 + + The gentian-flowered pass, its crown + With yellow spires aflame, + Whence drops the path to Alliere down + And walls where Byron came. + + Still in my soul the voice I heard 25 + Of Obermann--away + I turned; by some vague impulse stirred, + Along the rocks of Naye + + And Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze + And the blanched summit bare 30 + Of Malatrait, to where in haze + The Valais opens fair, + + And the domed Velan with his snows + Behind the upcrowding hills + Doth all the heavenly opening close 35 + Which the Rhone's murmur fills-- + + And glorious there, without a sound, + Across the glimmering lake, + High in the Valais depth profound, + I saw the morning break. 40 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE TERRACE AT BERNE + + Ten years!--and to my waking eye + Once more the roofs of Berne appear; + The rocky banks, the terrace high, + The stream--and do I linger here? + + The clouds are on the Oberland, 5 + The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; + But bright are those green fields at hand, + And through those fields comes down the Aar, + + And from the blue twin lakes it comes, + Flows by the town, the church-yard fair, 10 + And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, + The house--and is my Marguerite there? + + M. ARNOLD. + + +NEVER, OH NEVER MORE + + Never, oh never more shall I behold + A sunrise on the glacier:--stars of morn + Paling in primrose round the crystal horn; + Soft curves of crimson mellowing into gold 4 + O'er sapphire chasm, and silvery snow-field cold; + Fire that o'er-floods the horizon; beacons borne + From wind-worn peak to storm-swept peak forlorn; + Clear hallelujahs through heaven's arches rolled. + + Never, oh never more these feet shall feel + The firm elastic tissue of upland turf, 10 + Or the crisp edge of the high rocks; or cling + Where the embattled cliffs beneath them reel + Through cloud-wreaths eddying like the Atlantic surf, + Far, far above the wheeling eagle's wing. + + J. A. SYMONDS. + + +HAPPY IS ENGLAND + + Happy is England! I could be content + To see no other verdure than its own; + To feel no other breezes than are blown + Through its tall woods with high romances blent: + Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 5 + For skies Italian, and an inward groan + To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, + And half forget what world or worldling meant. + Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; + Enough their simple loveliness for me, 10 + Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging: + Yet do I often warmly burn to see + Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, + And float with them about the summer waters. + + J. KEATS. + + +THE DAISY + +WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH + + O love, what hours were thine and mine, + In lands of palm and southern pine; + In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, + Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine. + + What Roman strength Turbia showed 5 + In ruin, by the mountain road; + How like a gem, beneath, the city + Of little Monaco, basking, glowed. + + How richly down the rocky dell + The torrent vineyard streaming fell 10 + To meet the sun and sunny waters, + That only heaved with a summer swell. + + What slender campanili grew + By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; + Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 15 + A milky-belled amaryllis blew. + + How young Columbus seemed to rove, + Yet present in his natal grove, + Now watching high on mountain cornice, + And steering, now, from a purple cove, 20 + + Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; + Till, in a narrow street and dim, + I stayed the wheels at Cogoletto, + And drank, and loyally drank to him. + + Nor knew we well what pleased us most, 25 + Not the clipt palm of which they boast; + But distant colour, happy hamlet, + A mouldered citadel on the coast, + + Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen + A light amid its olives green; 30 + Or olive-hoary cape in ocean; + Or rosy blossom in hot ravine, + + Where oleanders flushed the bed + Of silent torrents, gravel-spread; + And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 35 + Of ice, far up on a mountain head. + + 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. 40 + + At Florence too what golden hours, + In those long galleries, were ours; + What drives about the fresh Cascine, + Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. + + In bright vignettes, and each complete, 45 + Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, + Or palace, how the city glittered, + Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. + + But when we crost the Lombard plain + Remember what a plague of rain; 50 + Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; + At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. + + And stern and sad (so rare the smiles + Of sunlight) looked the Lombard piles; + Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 55 + And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. + + O Milan, O the chanting quires, + The giant windows' blazoned fires, + The height, the space, the gloom, the glory! + A mount of marble, a hundred spires! 60 + + I climbed the roofs at break of day; + Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. + I stood among the silent statues, + And statued pinnacles, mute as they. + + How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair, 65 + Was Monte Rosa, hanging there + A thousand shadowy-pencilled valleys + And snowy dells in a golden air. + + Remember how we came at last + To Como; shower and storm and blast 70 + Had blown the lake beyond his limit, + And all was flooded; and how we past + + From Como, when the light was grey, + And in my head, for half the day, + The rich Virgilian rustic measure 75 + Of Lari Maxume, all the way, + + Like ballad-burthen music, kept, + As on The Lariano crept + To that fair port below the castle + Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; 80 + + Or hardly slept, but watched awake + A cypress in the moonlight shake, + The moonlight touching o'er a terrace + One tall Agave above the lake. + + What more? we took our last adieu, 85 + And up the snowy Splugen drew, + But ere we reached the highest summit + I plucked a daisy, I gave it you. + + It told of England then to me, + And now it tells of Italy. 90 + O love, we two shall go no longer + To lands of summer across the sea; + + So dear a life your arms enfold + Whose crying is a cry for gold: + Yet here to-night in this dark city, 95 + When ill and weary, alone and cold, + + I found, though crushed to hard and dry, + This nurseling of another sky + Still in the little book you lent me, + And where you tenderly laid it by: 100 + + And I forgot the clouded Forth, + The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, + The bitter east, the misty summer + And grey metropolis of the North. + + Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 105 + Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, + Perchance, to dream you still beside me, + My fancy fled to the South again. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +CADENABBIA + +LAKE OF COMO + + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks + The silence of the summer day, + As by the loveliest of all lakes + I while the idle hours away. + + I pace the leafy colonnade 5 + Where level branches of the plane + Above me weave a roof of shade + Impervious to the sun and rain. + + At times a sudden rush of air + Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead, 10 + And gleams of sunshine toss and flare + Like torches down the path I tread. + + By Somariva's garden gate + I make the marble stairs my seat, + And hear the water, as I wait, 15 + Lapping the steps beneath my feet. + + The undulation sinks and swells + Along the stony parapets, + And far away the floating bells + Tinkle upon the fisher's nets. 20 + + Silent and slow, by tower and town + The freighted barges come and go, + Their pendent shadows gliding down + By town and tower submerged below. + + The hills sweep upward from the shore, 25 + With villas scattered one by one + Upon their wooded spurs, and lower + Bellagio blazing in the sun. + + And dimly seen, a tangled mass + Of walls and woods, of light and shade, 30 + Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass + Varenna with its white cascade. + + I ask myself, Is this a dream? + Will it all vanish into air? + Is there a land of such supreme 35 + And perfect beauty anywhere? + + Sweet vision! Do not fade away; + Linger until my heart shall take + Into itself the summer day, + And all the beauty of the lake. 40 + + Linger until upon my brain + Is stamped an image of the scene, + Then fade into the air again, + And be as if thou hadst not been. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +TO VERONA + + Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect + Beckoning me upward. Let me rest awhile + Where the birds whistle hidden in the boughs, + Or fly away when idlers take their place, + Mated as well, concealed as willingly; 5 + Idlers whose nest must not swing there, but rise + Beneath a gleaming canopy of gold, + Amid the flight of Cupids, and the smiles + Of Venus ever radiant o'er their couch. + Here would I stay, here wander, slumber here, 10 + Nor pass into that theatre below + Crowded with their faint memories, shades of joy. + But ancient song arouses me: I hear + Coelius and Aufilena; I behold + Lesbia, and Lesbia's linnet at her lip 15 + Pecking the fruit that ripens and swells out + For him whose song the Graces loved the most, + Whatever land, east, west, they visited. + Even he must not detain me: one there is + Greater than he, of broader wing, of swoop 20 + Sublimer. Open now that humid arch + Where Juliet sleeps the quiet sleep of death, + And Romeo sinks aside her. + Fare ye well, + Lovers! Ye have not loved in vain: the hearts + Of millions throb around ye. This lone tomb, 25 + One greater than yon walls have ever seen, + Greater than Manto's prophet-eye foresaw + In her own child or Rome's, hath hallowed; + And the last sod or stone a pilgrim knee 29 + Shall press (Love swears it, and swears true) is here. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +THE APENNINE + + Once more upon the woody Apennine, + The infant Alps, which--had I not before + Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine + Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar + The thundering lauwine--might be worshipped more; 5 + But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear + Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar + Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, + And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, + + Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 10 + And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly + Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, + For still they soared unutterably high: + I've looked on Ida with a Trojan's eye; + Athos, Olympus, Aetna, Atlas, made 15 + These hills seem things of lesser dignity, + All, save the lone Soracte's height, displayed + Not _now_ in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid + + For our remembrance, and from out the plain + Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, + And on the curl hangs pausing. 21 + + LORD BYRON. + + +WHERE UPON APENNINE SLOPE + + Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the oak-trees immingle, + Where amid odorous copse bridle-paths wander and wind, + Where under mulberry-branches the diligent rivulet sparkles, + Or amid cotton and maize peasants their water-works ply, + Where, over fig-tree and orange in tier upon tier still repeated, 5 + Garden on garden upreared, balconies step to the sky,-- + Ah, that I were far away from the crowd and the streets of the city, + Under the vine-trellis laid, O my beloved, with thee! + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +'DE GUSTIBUS----' + +I + + Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, + (If our loves remain) + In an English lane, + By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. + Hark, those two in the hazel coppice-- 5 + A boy and a girl, if the good fates please, + Making love, say,-- + The happier they! + Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, + And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10 + With the beanflowers' boon, + And the blackbird's tune, + And May, and June! + + +II + + What I love best in all the world, + Is, a castle, precipice-encurled, 15 + In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. + Or look for me, old fellow of mine, + (If I get my head from out the mouth + O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, + And come again to the land of lands)-- 20 + In a sea-side house to the farther south, + Where the baked cicalas die of drouth, + And one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands, + By the many hundred years red-rusted, + Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted, 25 + My sentinel to guard the sands + To the water's edge. For, what expands + Before the house, but the great opaque + Blue breadth of sea without a break? + While, in the house, for ever crumbles 30 + Some fragment of the frescoed walls, + From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. + A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles + Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons, + And says there's news to-day--the king 35 + Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing, + Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: + --She hopes they have not caught the felons. + Italy, my Italy! + Queen Mary's saying serves for me-- 40 + (When fortune's malice + Lost her, Calais) + + Open my heart and you will see + Graved inside of it, 'Italy,' + Such lovers old are I and she; 45 + So it always was, so shall ever be! + + R. BROWNING. + + +VENICE + + There is a glorious City in the sea. + The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, + Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed + Clings to the marble of her palaces. + No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 5 + Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, + Invisible; and from the land we went, + As to a floating city--steering in, + And gliding up her streets as in a dream, + So smoothly, silently--by many a dome, 10 + Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, + The statues ranged along an azure sky; + By many a pile in more than eastern pride, + Of old the residence of merchant-kings; + The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, + Still glowing with the richest hues of art, 16 + As though the wealth within them had run o'er. + + S. ROGERS. + + +OCEAN'S NURSLING + + Underneath Day's azure eyes + Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, + A peopled labyrinth of walls, + Amphitrite's destined halls, + Which her hoary sire now paves 5 + With his blue and beaming waves. + Lo! the sun upsprings behind, + Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined + On the level quivering line + Of the waters crystalline; 10 + And before that chasm of light, + As within a furnace bright, + Column, tower, and dome, and spire, + Shine like obelisks of fire, + Pointing with inconstant motion 15 + From the altar of dark ocean + To the sapphire-tinted skies; + As the flames of sacrifice + From the marble shrines did rise, + As to pierce the dome of gold 20 + Where Apollo spoke of old. + Sun-girt City! thou hast been + Ocean's child, and then his queen; + Now is come a darker day, + And thou soon must be his prey, 25 + If the power that raised thee here + Hallow so thy watery bier. + + P. B. SHELLEY. + + +VENICE + + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; + A palace and a prison on each hand: + I saw from out the wave her structures rise + As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: + A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 5 + Around me, and a dying Glory smiles + O'er the far times, when many a subject land + Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, + Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! + + She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 10 + Rising with her tiara of proud towers + At airy distance, with majestic motion, + A ruler of the waters and their powers: + And such she was;--her daughters had their dowers + From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 15 + Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. + In purple was she robed, and of her feast + Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. + + In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, + And silent rows the songless gondolier; 20 + Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, + And music meets not always now the ear: + Those days are gone--but Beauty still is here. + States fall, arts fade--but Nature doth not die, + Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 25 + The pleasant place of all festivity, + The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! + + But unto us she hath a spell beyond + Her name in story, and her long array + Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 30 + Above the dogeless city's vanished sway; + Ours is a trophy which will not decay + With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor, + And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away-- + The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er, 35 + For us repeopled were the solitary shore. + + The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; + And, annual marriage now no more renewed, + The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, + Neglected garment of her widowhood! 40 + St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood + Stand, but in mockery of his withered power, + Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, + And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour + When Venice was a queen with an unequalled dower. 45 + + Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, + Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; + But is not Doria's menace come to pass? + Are they not _bridled_?--Venice, lost and won, + Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 50 + Sinks, like a seaweed, into whence she rose! + Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, + Even in destruction's death, her foreign foes, + From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AT VENICE + + _On the Lido_ + + On her still lake the city sits + While bark and boat beside her flits, + Nor hears, her soft siesta taking, + The Adriatic billows breaking. + + _In the Piazza at night_ + + O beautiful beneath the magic moon 5 + To walk the watery way of palaces; + O beautiful, o'er-vaulted with gemmed blue + This spacious court; with colour and with gold, + With cupolas, and pinnacles, and points, + And crosses multiplex, and tips, and balls, 10 + (Wherewith the bright stars unreproving mix, + Nor scorn by hasty eyes to be confused;) + Fantastically perfect this lone pile + Of oriental glory; these long ranges + Of classic chiselling; this gay flickering crowd, 15 + And the calm Campanile.--Beautiful! + O beautiful! + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +FLORENCE + + Arno wins us to the fair white walls, + Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps + A softer feeling for her fairy halls. + Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps + Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 5 + To laughing life, with her redundant horn. + Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps + Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, + And buried Learning rose, redeemed to a new morn. + + There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 10 + The air around with beauty; we inhale + The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils + Part of its immortality; the veil + Of heaven is half undrawn; within the pale + We stand, and in that form and face behold 15 + What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail; + And to the fond idolaters of old + Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AN INVITATION TO ROME + + Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, + Your London sun is here seen shining brightly; + The Briton, too, puts on a cheery face, + And Mrs. Bull is suave and even sprightly. + The Romans are a kind and cordial race, 5 + The women charming, if one takes them rightly; + I see them at their doors, as day is closing, + More proud than duchesses,--and more imposing. + + A _far niente_ life promotes the graces; + They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee, 10 + And in their bearing and their speech one traces + A breadth of grace and depth of courtesy + That are not found in more inclement places; + Their clime and tongue seem much in harmony: + The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey, 15 + Is often cold--and always in a hurry. + + Though _far niente_ is their passion, they + Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; + No matter what it is they have to say, + The manner always sets the matter right: 20 + And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day, + They sweetly wish you 'a most happy night'. + Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, + 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you! + + Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read 25 + Alone of stately palaces and streets + Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed, + And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets + Great Memnon's monoliths, or, gay with weed, + Rich capitals, as corner-stones, or seats, 30 + The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder + Old ruins, hiding ruin even older. + + Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, + Although the last are commonplace, or florid.-- + Some say 'tis here that superstition perches, 35 + Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. + The sombre streets are worthy your researches: + The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, + But pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages, + Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. 40 + + About one fane I deprecate all sneering, + For during Christmas-time I went there daily, + Amused, or edified, or both, by hearing + The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. + Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing 45 + Her small form on a rostrum,--tricked out gaily, + And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, + With action quite dramatic and delightful. + + Oh come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! + The country's better seen when one is riding: 50 + We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags + At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding + With giant march (now whole, now broken crags + With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding + Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar,-- 55 + That melt in light beneath the evening star. + + A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant; + The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; + There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sunburnt peasant + Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, 60 + And seems to wake the past time in the present. + Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, + No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow + Can join with jollity your _salterello_. + + Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath 65 + Of life to unsophisticated man. + Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, + _Per dar' al mio bene._ When you can, + Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death + And Time are grudging of Life's little span: 70 + Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the waving corn, + Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn. + + I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- + Such theme were all too splendid for my pen: + And if I breathe the name of Sanzio 75 + (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), + It is that love casts out my fear, and so + I claim with him a kindredship. Ah, when + We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, + As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon! 80 + + Nor is the Coliseum theme of mine, + 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; + The world goes there with torches, I decline + Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. + Some day in May our forces we'll combine 85 + (Just you and I), and try a midnight airing, + And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then + You'll muse upon the vanity of men! + + Oh, come! I send a leaf of tender fern, + 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: 90 + The ashes buried in a sculptured urn + Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! + That better time, for which the patriots yearn, + Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. + They wait and pine for what is long denied, 95 + And thus I wait till thou art by my side. + + Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still + Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; + I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, + I cannot yet thy little hand resign! 100 + The plain is fading into darkness chill, + The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, + I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee; + Oh, come to Rome--oh come, oh come to me! + + F. LOCKER-LAMPSON. + + +THE COLISEUM + + I do remember me, that in my youth, + When I was wandering,--upon such a night + I stood within the Coliseum's wall, + 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; + The trees which grew along the broken arches 5 + Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars + Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar + The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and + More near from out the Caesar's palace came + The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 10 + Of distant sentinels the fitful song + Begun and died upon the gentle wind. + Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach + Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood + Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt, 15 + And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst + A grove which springs through levelled battlements, + And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, + Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; + But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 20 + A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, + While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, + Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. + And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon + All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 25 + Which softened down the hoar austerity + Of rugged desolation, and filled up, + As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries; + Leaving that beautiful which still was so, + And making that which was not, till the place 30 + Became religion, and the heart ran o'er + With silent worship of the great of old,-- + The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule + Our spirits from their urns. + + LORD BYRON. + + +AT ROME + + Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? + Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, + Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still + That name, a local Phantom proud to mock + The Traveller's expectation?--Could our Will 5 + Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done + Thro' what men see and touch,--slaves wandering on, + Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. + Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; + Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 10 + From that depression raised, to mount on high + With stronger wing, more clearly to discern + Eternal things; and, if need be, defy + Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +ROME + +AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY AND KEATS + + Who, then, was Cestius, + And what is he to me?-- + Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous + One thought alone brings he. + + I can recall no word 5 + Of anything he did; + For me he is a man who died and was interred + To leave a pyramid + + Whose purpose was exprest + Not with its first design, 10 + Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest + Two countrymen of mine. + + Cestius in life, maybe, + Slew, breathed out threatening; + I know not. This I know: in death all silently + He does a rarer thing, 16 + + In beckoning pilgrim feet + With marble finger high + To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street, + Those matchless singers lie.... 20 + + --Say, then, he lived and died + That stones which bear his name + Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide; + It is an ample fame. + + T. HARDY. + + +THE VALLEY AND VILLA OF HORACE + + Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio + Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence; + Tibur and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis ever, + With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain, + Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:-- 5 + So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening say I, + Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl, + Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me; + Tibur beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone, + Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters! 10 + Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair unto Monte Gennaro, + (Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows, + Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces,) + Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations, + Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace. 15 + + A. H. CLOUGH. + + +VALLOMBROSA + + Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood + To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor, + To listen to Anio's precipitous flood, + When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar; + To range through the Temples of Paestum, to muse + In Pompeii preserved by her burial in earth; 6 + On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues; + And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth! + The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome, + Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret? + With a hope (and no more) for a season to come, 11 + Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt? + Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned + Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust; + Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned 15 + From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just. + + Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page + Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind + Had a musical charm, which the winter of age + And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. + And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you 21 + I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, + While your leaves I behold and the works they will strew, + And the realized vision is clasped to my heart. + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +PAESTUM + + They stand between the mountains and the sea; + Awful memorials, but of whom we know not! + The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck; + The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, + Points to the work of magic, and moves on. 5 + Time was they stood along the crowded street, + Temples of Gods, and on their ample steps + What various habits, various tongues beset + The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice! + Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; 10 + And here the accuser stood, and there the accused, + And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. + All silent now, as in the ages past, + Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. + How many centuries did the sun go round 15 + From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, + While, by some spell rendered invisible, + Or, if approached, approached by him alone + Who saw as though he saw not, they remained + As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 20 + Waiting the appointed time! All, all within + Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, + And taken to herself what man renounced; + No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, + But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, 25 + Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! + From my youth upward have I longed to tread + This classic ground; and am I here at last? + Wandering at will through the long porticoes, + And catching, as through some majestic grove, 30 + Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, + Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, + Towns like the living rock from which they grew? + A cloudy region, black and desolate, + Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. 35 + The air is sweet with violets, running wild + 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; + Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, + Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost-- + Turning to thee, divine philosophy, 40 + Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul-- + Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, + For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds + Blew from the Paestan gardens, slacked her course. + On as he moved along the level shore, 45 + These temples, in their splendour eminent + 'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, + Reflecting back the radiance of the west, + Well might he dream of glory! Now, coiled up, + The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf 50 + Suckles her young; and as alone I stand + In this, the nobler pile, the elements + Of earth and air its only floor and covering, + How solemn is the stillness! Nothing stirs + Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 55 + On the rough pediment to sit and sing; + Or the green lizard rushing through the grass, + And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, + To vanish in the chinks that time has made. + In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 60 + Seen at his setting, and a flood of light + Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries-- + Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, + Athwart the innumerable columns flung-- + In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 65 + Led by the mighty genius of the place. + Walls of some capital city first appeared, + Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn; + --And what within them? What but in the midst + These three in more than their original grandeur, + And, round about, no stone upon another? 71 + As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, + And, turning, left them to the elements. + + S. ROGERS. + + +VESUVIUS + +AS SEEN FROM CAPRI + + A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, + Mounts, scarcely seen against the bluer sky, + In quiet adoration, silently-- + Till the faint currents of the upper air + Dislimn it, and it forms, dissolving there, 5 + The dome, as of a palace, hung on high + Over the mountain; underneath it lie + Vineyards and bays and cities white and fair. + Might we not think this beauty would engage + All living things unto one pure delight? 10 + Oh vain belief! for here, our records tell, + Rome's understanding tyrant from men's sight + Hid, as within a guilty citadel, + The shame of his dishonourable age. + + R. C. TRENCH. + + +AMALFI + + Sweet the memory is to me + Of a land beyond the sea, + Where the waves and mountains meet, + Where, amid her mulberry-trees, + Sits Amalfi in the heat, 5 + Bathing ever her white feet + In the tideless summer seas. + In the middle of the town, + From its fountains in the hills, + Tumbling through the narrow gorge, 10 + The Canneto rushes down, + Turns the great wheels of the mills, + Lifts the hammers of the forge. + + 'Tis a stairway, not a street, + That ascends the deep ravine, 15 + Where the torrent leaps between + Rocky walls that almost meet. + Toiling up from stair to stair + Peasant girls their burdens bear; + Sunburnt daughters of the soil, 20 + Stately figures tall and straight, + What inexorable fate + Dooms them to this life of toil? + + Lord of vineyards and of lands, + Far above the convent stands. 25 + On its terraced walk aloof + Leans a monk with folded hands, + Placid, satisfied, serene, + Looking down upon the scene + Over wall and red-tiled roof; 30 + Wondering unto what good end + All this toil and traffic tend, + And why all men cannot be + Free from care and free from pain, + And the sordid love of gain, 35 + And as indolent as he. + + Where are now the freighted barks + From the marts of east and west? + Where the knights in iron sarks + Journeying to the Holy Land, 40 + Glove of steel upon the hand, + Cross of crimson on the breast? + Where the pomp of camp and court? + Where the pilgrims with their prayers? + Where the merchants with their wares, 45 + And their gallant brigantines + Sailing safely into port + Chased by corsair Algerines? + + Vanished like a fleet of cloud, + Like a passing trumpet-blast, 50 + Are those splendours of the past, + And the commerce and the crowd! + Fathoms deep beneath the seas + Lie the ancient wharves and quays + Swallowed by the engulfing waves; 55 + Silent streets and vacant halls, + Ruined roofs and towers and walls; + Hidden from all mortal eyes + Deep the sunken city lies: + Even cities have their graves! 60 + + This is an enchanted land! + Round the headlands far away + Sweeps the blue Salernian bay + With its sickle of white sand: + Further still and furthermost 65 + On the dim-discovered coast + Paestum with its ruins lies, + And its roses all in bloom + Seem to tinge the fatal skies + Of that lonely land of doom. 70 + + On his terrace, high in air, + Nothing doth the good monk care + For such worldly themes as these. + From the garden just below + Little puffs of perfume blow, 75 + And a sound is in his ears + Of the murmur of the bees + In the shining chestnut-trees; + Nothing else he heeds or hears. + All the landscape seems to swoon 80 + In the happy afternoon; + Slowly o'er his senses creep + The encroaching waves of sleep, + And he sinks as sank the town, + Unresisting, fathoms down, 85 + Into caverns cool and deep! + + Walled about with drifts of snow, + Hearing the fierce north wind blow, + Seeing all the landscape white, + And the river cased in ice, 90 + Comes this memory of delight, + Comes this vision unto me + Of a long-lost Paradise + In the land beyond the sea. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +VIATOR + + Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, + Leaving a little portion of my heart; + Then day-dreams make the heart's division good + With many a loved Italian solitude. 4 + As sons the whole year scattered here and there + Gather at Christmas round their father's chair, + Prodigal memories tenderly come home-- + Suns Neapolitan, white noons at Rome; + Watches that from the wreck'd Arena wall + Saw Alps and Plain deny the Sun in his fall, 10 + And rosy gold upon Verona tarry. + O Cloister-Castle that the high winds harry, + Butting Saint Benet's tower and doubling short + To whisper with the rosebush in the Court! 14 + How sweet the frogs by reedy Mantuan marges + Cried in the broken moonlight round the barges, + Where, glib decline of glass, the Mincio's march + Flaws in a riot at the Causeway arch! + How Cava from grey wall and silence green + Echoes the humming voice of the ravine, 20 + The while a second spell the brain composes, + Fresh elder mixt with sun-dishevelled roses! + How that first sunbeam on Assisi fell + To wake Saint-Mary-of-the-Angels' bell, + Before the tides of noonday washed the pale 25 + Mist-bloom from off the purple Umbrian vale! + Multitudinous colonies of my love! + But there's a single village dear above + Cities and scenes, a township of kind hearts, + The quick Boite laughs to and departs 30 + Burying his snowy leaps in pools of green. + My tower that climbs to see what can be seen + Towards Three Crosses or the high Giau daisies, + Or where the great white highway southward blazes! + My sloping barley plots, my hayfield lawn 35 + Breathing heavy and sweet, before the dawn + Shows up her pillared bulwarks one by one-- + Cortina, open-hearted to the Sun! + Oft as the pilgrim spirit, most erect, + Dares the poor dole of _Here_ and _Now_ reject, 40 + The lust of larger things invades and fills-- + The heart's homesickness for the hills, the hills! + + J. S. PHILLIMORE. + + +FAREWELL TO ITALY + + I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more + From the high terraces, at even-tide, + To look supine into thy depths of sky, + Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, + Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 5 + Bordering the channel of the milky-way. + Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams + Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico + Murmur to me but in the poet's song. + I did believe (what have I not believed?), 10 + Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, + To close in thy soft clime my quiet day + And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. + Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little; + Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; 15 + But thou didst promise this, and all was well. + For we are fond of thinking where to lie + When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart + Can lift no aspiration ... reasoning + As if the sight were unimpaired by death, 20 + Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid, + And the sun cheered corruption! Over all + The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, + And light us to our chamber at the grave. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +MESSINA + + 'Homo sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.' + + Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart + Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame? + Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came + Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art, + And shades of power, and those who bore a part 5 + In the mad deeds that set the world in flame, + So fret my memory here,--ah! is it blame?-- + That from my eyes the tear is fain to start. + Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise; + 'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race 10 + Which in each brother's history reads its own. + So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place + Be named man's tomb and splendid record stone, + High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize. + + J. H. NEWMAN. + + +TAORMINA + + 'And Jacob went on his way; and the angels of God met him.' + + Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, + Nor visions met thee there, + Thou couldst but marvel to have found + This blighted world so fair? + + And feel an awe within thee rise, 5 + That sinful man should see + Glories far worthier Seraph's eyes + Than to be shared by thee? + + Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint + 'Mid coming pains and fears, 10 + As the third heaven once nerved a Saint + For fourteen trial-years. + + J. H. NEWMAN. + + +HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA + + Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; + Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; + Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; + In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; + 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, 5 + Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, + While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. + + R. BROWNING. + + +GIBRALTAR + + England, we love thee better than we know.-- + And this I learned when, after wanderings long + 'Mid people of another stock and tongue, + I heard again thy martial music blow, + And saw thy gallant children to and fro 5 + Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, + Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits. + When first I came in sight of that brave show, + It made the very heart within me dance, + To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance + Forward so far into the mighty sea. 11 + Joy was it and exultation to behold + Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry, + A glorious picture by the wind unrolled. + + R. C. TRENCH. + + +GIBRALTAR + + Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm + Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more + We ride into still water and the calm + Of a sweet evening, screened by either shore + Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, 5 + Our exile is accomplished. Once again + We look on Europe, mistress as of yore + Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. + Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules + And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this door + England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill 11 + Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, + And at the summons of the rock gun's roar + To see her red coats marching from the hill! + + W. S. BLUNT. + + +FROM 'THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY' + + Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! + --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, + Descried at sunrise an emerging prow + Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, + The fringes of a southward-facing brow 5 + Among the Aegean isles; + And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, + Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, + Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine-- 9 + And knew the intruders on his ancient home, + + The young light-hearted masters of the waves-- + And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail; + And day and night held on indignantly + O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, + Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 15 + To where the Atlantic raves + Outside the western straits; and unbent sails + There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, + Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; + And on the beach undid his corded bales. 20 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +FAREWELL TO MALTA + + Adieu, ye joys of La Valette! + Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! + Adieu, thou palace rarely entered! + Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured! + Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs! 5 + (How surely he who mounts you swears!) + Adieu, ye merchants often failing! + Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! + Adieu, ye packets--without letters! + Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters! 10 + Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, + That gave me fever, and the spleen! + Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, + Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! + Adieu to Peter--whom no fault's in, 15 + But could not teach a colonel waltzing; + Adieu, ye females fraught with graces! + Adieu, red coats, and redder faces! + Adieu, the supercilious air + Of all that strut 'en militaire!' 20 + I go--but God knows when, or why, + To smoky towns and cloudy sky, + To things (the honest truth to say) + As bad--but in a different way. + Farewell to these, but not adieu, 25 + Triumphant sons of truest blue! + While either Adriatic shore, + And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, + And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, + Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 30 + Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is, + And take my rhyme--because 'tis 'gratis'. + + And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, + Thou little military hothouse! + I'll not offend with words uncivil, 35 + And wish thee rudely at the Devil, + But only stare from out my casement, + And ask, for what is such a place meant? + Then, in my solitary nook, + Return to scribbling, or a book, 40 + Or take my physic while I'm able + (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), + Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, + And bless the gods I've got a fever. + + LORD BYRON. + + +TO E[DWARD] L[EAR], ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE + + Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls + Of water, sheets of summer glass, + The long divine Peneian pass, + The vast Akrokeraunian walls, + + Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 5 + With such a pencil, such a pen, + You shadow forth to distant men, + I read and felt that I was there: + + And trust me while I turned the page, + And tracked you still on classic ground, 10 + I grew in gladness till I found + My spirits in the golden age. + + For me the torrent ever poured + And glistened--here and there alone + The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown 15 + By fountain-urns;--and Naiads oared + + A glimmering shoulder under gloom + Of cavern pillars; on the swell + The silver lily heaved and fell; + And many a slope was rich in bloom 20 + + From him that on the mountain lea + By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, + To him who sat upon the rocks, + And fluted to the morning sea. + + LORD TENNYSON. + + +HELLAS + + It is not only that the sun + Loves best these southern lands, + It is not for the trophies won + Of old by hero hands, + That nature wreathed in softer smiles 5 + Was here the bride of art; + A closer kinship claims these isles, + The love-land of the heart. + It is because the poet's dream + Still haunts each happy vale, 10 + That peopled every grove and stream + To fit his fairy tale. + + There may be greener vales and hills + Less bare to shelter man; + But still they want the naiad rills, 15 + And miss the pipe of Pan. + There may be other isles as fair + And summer seas as blue, + But then Odysseus touched not there + Nor Argo beached her crew. 20 + The Nereid-haunted river shore, + The Faun-frequented dell, + Possess me with their magic more + Than sites where Caesars fell: + And where the blooms of Zante blow 25 + Their incense to the waves; + Where Ithaca's dark headlands show + The legendary caves; + Where in the deep of olive groves + The summer hardly dies; 30 + Where fair Phaeacia's sun-brown maids + Still keep their siren eyes; + Where Chalcis strains with loving lips + Towards the little bay, + The strand that held the thousand ships, 35 + The Aulis of delay; + Where Oeta's ridge of granite bars + The gate Thermopylae, + Where huge Orion crowned with stars + Looks down on Rhodope; 40 + Where once Apollo tended flocks + On Phera's lofty plain, + Where Peneus cleaves the stubborn rocks + To find the outer main; + Where Argos and Mycenae sleep 45 + With all the buried wrong, + And where Arcadian uplands keep + The antique shepherd song, + There is a spirit haunts the place + All other lands must lack, 50 + A speaking voice, a living grace, + That beckons fancy back. + + Dear isles and sea-indented shore, + Till songs be no more sung, + The singers that have gone before 55 + Will keep your lovers young: + And men will hymn your haunted skies, + And seek your holy streams, + Until the soul of music dies, + And earth has done with dreams. 60 + + SIR RENNELL RODD. + + +THE VIOLET CROWN + + 'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?' + One asked me, as the April sun went down + Behind the shadows of the Persian's mound, + The fretted crags of Salamis. + 'Look round, + And see the question answered!' + For we were + Upon the summit of that battled square, 6 + The rock of ruin, in whose fallen shrine + The world still worships what man made divine, + The maiden fane, that yet may boast the birth + Of half the immortalities of earth. 10 + + The last rays light the portal, a gold wave + Runs up the columns to the architrave, + Lingers about the gable and is gone:-- + Parnes, Hymettus, and Pentelicon + Show shadowy violet in the after-rose, 15 + Cithaeron's ridge and all the islands close + The mountain ring, like sapphires o'er the sea, + And from this circle's heart aetherially + Springs the white altar of the land's renown, + A marble lily in a violet crown. 20 + + And fairer crown had never queen than this + That girds thee round, far-famed Acropolis! + So of these isles, these mountains, and this sea, + I wove a crown of song to dedicate to thee. + + SIR RENNELL RODD. + + +ATHENS + + The nodding promontories and blue isles, + And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves + Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles + Of favouring heaven: from their enchanted caves + Prophetic echoes flung dim melody 5 + On the unapprehensive wild. + The vine, the corn, the olive wild, + Grew, savage yet, to human use unreconciled; + And like unfolded flowers beneath the sea, + Like the man's thought dark in the infant's brain, 10 + Like aught that is which wraps what is to be, + Art's deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein + Of Parian stone; and yet a speechless child, + Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain + Her lidless eyes for thee; when o'er the Aegean main 15 + Athens arose: a city such as vision + Builds from the purple crags and silver towers + Of battlemented cloud, as in derision + Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors + Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it; 20 + Its portals are inhabited + By thunder-zoned winds, each head + Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,-- + A divine work! Athens, diviner yet, + Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will + Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set; 26 + For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill + Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead + In marble immortality, that hill + Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle. + Within the surface of Time's fleeting river 31 + Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay + Immovably unquiet, and for ever + It trembles, but it cannot pass away! + + P. B. SHELLEY. + + +PARNASSUS + + Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, + Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, + Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, + But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, + In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 5 + What marvel if I thus essay to sing? + The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by + Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, + Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. + Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name + Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: 11 + And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame + That I in feeblest accents must adore. + When I recount thy worshippers of yore + I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 15 + Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, + But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy + In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! + + LORD BYRON. + + +CORINTH + + Many a vanished year and age, + And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, + Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, + A fortress formed to Freedom's hands. + The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 5 + Have left untouched her hoary rock, + The keystone of a land, which still, + Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill, + The landmark to the double tide + That purpling rolls on either side, 10 + As if their waters chafed to meet, + Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. + But could the blood before her shed, + Since first Timoleon's brother bled, + Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 15 + Arise from out the earth which drank + The stream of slaughter as it sank, + That sanguine ocean would o'erflow + Her isthmus idly spread below: + Or could the bones of all the slain, 20 + Who perished there, be piled again, + That rival pyramid would rise + More mountain-like, through those clear skies, + Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, + Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 25 + + LORD BYRON. + + +CORINNA TO TANAGRA + +FROM ATHENS + + Tanagra! think not I forget + Thy beautifully-storied streets; + Be sure my memory bathes yet + In clear Thermodon, and yet greets + The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy, 5 + Whose sunny bosom swells with joy + When we accept his matted rushes + Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes. + + A gift I promise: one I see + Which thou with transport wilt receive, 10 + The only proper gift for thee, + Of which no mortal shall bereave + In later times thy mouldering walls, + Until the last old turret falls; + A crown, a crown from Athens won, 15 + A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son. + + There may be cities who refuse + To their own child the honours due, + And look ungently on the Muse; + But ever shall those cities rue 20 + The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, + Offering no nourishment, no rest, + To that young head which soon shall rise + Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies. + + Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows 25 + Do white-armed maidens chant my lay, + Flapping the while with laurel-rose + The honey-gathering tribes away; + And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues + Lisp your Corinna's early songs; 30 + To her with feet more graceful come + The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home. + + O let thy children lean aslant + Against the tender mother's knee, + And gaze into her face, and want 35 + To know what magic there can be + In words that urge some eyes to dance, + While others as in holy trance + Look up to heaven: be such my praise! + Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays. + + W. S. LANDOR. + + +WARING + + What's become of Waring + Since he gave us all the slip, + Chose land-travel or seafaring, + Boots and chest or staff and scrip, + Rather than pace up and down 5 + Any longer London-town? + + Ichabod, Ichabod, + The glory is departed! + Travels Waring East away? + Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, 10 + Reports a man upstarted + Somewhere as a God, + Hordes grown European-hearted, + Millions of the wild made tame + On a sudden at his fame? 15 + In Vishnu-land what Avatar? + Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar, + With the demurest of footfalls + Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright + With serpentine and syenite, 20 + Steps, with five other Generals + That simultaneously take snuff, + For each to have pretext enough + To kerchiefwise unfold his sash + Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 25 + To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, + And leave the grand white neck no gash? + Waring, in Moscow, to those rough + Cold northern natures borne, perhaps, + Like the lambwhite maiden dear 30 + From the circle of mute kings + Unable to repress the tear, + Each as his sceptre down he flings, + To Dian's fane at Taurica, + Where now a captive priestess, she alway 35 + Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech + With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, + As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands + Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands + Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry 40 + Amid their barbarous twitter? + In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! + Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain + That we and Waring meet again + Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane + Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 45 + All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid + Its stiff gold blazing pall + From some black coffin-lid. + + 'When I last saw Waring....' 50 + (How all turned to him who spoke-- + You saw Waring? Truth or joke? + In land-travel, or sea-faring?) + 'We were sailing by Triest, + Where a day or two we harboured: 55 + A sunset was in the West, + When, looking over the vessel's side, + One of our company espied + A sudden speck to larboard. + And, as a sea-duck flies and swims 60 + At once, so came the light craft up, + With its sole lateen sail that trims + And turns (the water round its rims + Dancing, as round a sinking cup) + And by us like a fish it curled, 65 + And drew itself up close beside, + Its great sail on the instant furled, + And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried + (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's), + "Buy wine of us, you English brig? 70 + Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? + A pilot for you to Triest? + Without one, look you ne'er so big, + They'll never let you up the bay! + We natives should know best." 75 + I turned, and "Just those fellows' way", + Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thieves + Are laughing at us in their sleeves." + + 'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; + And one, half-hidden by his side 80 + Under the furled sail, soon I spied, + With great grass hat and kerchief black, + Who looked up with his kingly throat, + Said somewhat, while the other shook + His hair back from his eyes to look 85 + Their longest at us; then the boat, + I know not how, turned sharply round, + Laying her whole side on the sea + As a leaping fish does; from the lee, + Into the weather, cut somehow 90 + Her sparkling path beneath our bow; + And so went off, as with a bound, + Into the rosy and golden half + Of the sky, to overtake the sun + And reach the shore, like the sea-calf 95 + Its singing cave; yet I caught one + Glance ere away the boat quite passed, + And neither time nor toil could mar + Those features: so I saw the last + Of Waring!'--You? Oh, never star 100 + Was lost here, but it rose afar! + Look East, where whole new thousands are! + In Vishnu-land what Avatar? + + R. BROWNING. + + +ON THE RHINE + + Vain is the effort to forget. + Some day I shall be cold, I know, + As is the eternal moon-lit snow + Of the high Alps, to which I go + But ah, not yet! not yet! 5 + + Vain is the agony of grief. + 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot + Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, + And were it snapt--thou lov'st me not! + But is despair relief? 10 + + Awhile let me with thought have done; + And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine + And that far purple mountain line + Lie sweetly in the look divine + Of the slow-sinking sun; 15 + + So let me lie, and calm as they + Let beam upon my inward view + Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue-- + Eyes too expressive to be blue, + Too lovely to be grey. 20 + + Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! + Those blue hills too, this river's flow, + Were restless once, but long ago. + Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow: + Their joy is in their calm. 25 + + M. ARNOLD. + + +THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS + + The castled crag of Drachenfels + Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, + Whose breast of waters broadly swells + Between the banks which bear the vine, + And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 5 + And fields which promise corn and wine, + And scattered cities crowning these, + Whose far white walls along them shine, + Have strewed a scene, which I should see + With double joy wert _thou_ with me. 10 + + And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes + And hands which offer early flowers, + Walk smiling o'er this paradise; + Above, the frequent feudal towers + Through green leaves lift their walls of grey; 15 + And many a rock which steeply lowers, + And noble arch in proud decay, + Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; + But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-- + Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 20 + + I send the lilies given to me; + Though long before thy hand they touch, + I know that they must withered be, + But yet reject them not as such; + For I have cherished them as dear, 25 + Because they yet may meet thine eye, + And guide thy soul to mine even here, + When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, + And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, + And offered from my heart to thine! 30 + + The river nobly foams and flows, + The charm of this enchanted ground, + And all its thousand turns disclose + Some fresher beauty varying round: + The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 35 + Through life to dwell delighted here: + Nor could on earth a spot be found + To nature and to me so dear, + Could thy dear eyes in following mine + Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 40 + + LORD BYRON. + + +'UP THE RHINE' + + Why, Tourist, why + With Passport have to do? + Pr'ythee stay at home and pass + The Port and Sherry too. + + Why, Tourist, why 5 + Embark for Rotterdam? + Pr'ythee stay at home and take + Thy Hollands in a dram. + + Why, Tourist, why + To foreign climes repair? 10 + Pr'ythee take thy German Flute, + And breathe a German air. + + Why, Tourist, why + The Seven Mountains view? + Any one at home can tint 15 + A hill with Prussian Blue. + + Why, Tourist, why + To old Colonia's walls? + Sure, to see a _Wrenish_ Dome, + One needn't leave St. Paul's. 20 + + T. HOOD. + + +COLOGNE + + In Koehln, a town of monks and bones, + And pavements fanged with murderous stones, + And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; + I counted two and seventy stenches, + All well defined, and several stinks! 5 + Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, + The river Rhine, it is well known, + Doth wash your city of Cologne; + But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine + Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 10 + + S. T. COLERIDGE. + + +THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS + + The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute; + But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit; + For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames + To Cologne for an _O_ and to Nassau for M's. + + T. HOOD. + + +FROM 'DOVER TO MUNICH' + + Farewell, farewell! Before our prow + Leaps in white foam the noisy channel; + A tourist's cap is on my brow, + My legs are cased in tourist's flannel: + + Around me gasp the invalids-- 5 + (The quantity to-night is fearful) + I take a brace or so of weeds, + And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful. + + The night wears on:--my thirst I quench + With one imperial pint of porter; 10 + Then drop upon a casual bench-- + (The bench is short, but I am shorter)-- + + Place 'neath my head the _havre-sac_ + Which I have stored my little all in, + And sleep, though moist about the back, 15 + Serenely in an old tarpaulin. + + Bed at Ostend at 5 a.m. + Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30, + Tickets to Koenigswinter (mem. + The seats objectionably dirty). 20 + + And onward through those dreary flats + We move, with scanty space to sit on, + Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, + And waists that paralyse a Briton;-- + + By many a tidy little town, 25 + Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting, + (The men's pursuits are, lying down, + Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;) + + And doze, and execrate the heat, + And wonder how far off Cologne is, 30 + And if we shall get aught to eat, + Till we get there, save raw polonies; + + Until at last the 'grey old pile' + Is seen, is past, and three hours later + We're ordering steaks, and talking vile 35 + Mock-German to an Austrian waiter. + + * * * * * + + On, on the vessel steals; + Round go the paddle wheels, + And now the tourist feels + As he should; 40 + For king-like rolls the Rhine, + And the scenery's divine, + And the victuals and the wine + Rather good. + + From every crag we pass 'll 45 + Rise up some hoar old castle; + The hanging fir-groves tassel + Every slope; + And the vine her lithe arm stretches + O'er peasants singing catches-- 50 + And you'll make no end of sketches, + I should hope. + + We've a nun here (called Therese), + Two couriers out of place, + One Yankee with a face 55 + Like a ferret's: + And three youths in scarlet caps + Drinking chocolate and schnapps-- + A diet which perhaps + Has its merits. 60 + + And day again declines: + In shadow sleep the vines, + And the last ray through the pines + Feebly glows, + Then sinks behind yon ridge; 65 + And the usual evening midge + Is settling on the bridge + Of my nose. + + And keen's the air and cold, + And the sheep are in the fold, 70 + And Night walks sable-stoled + Through the trees; + And on the silent river + The floating starbeams quiver;-- + And now, the saints deliver 75 + Us from fleas. + + * * * * * + + Avenues of broad white houses, + Basking in the noontide glare;-- + Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, + As on hot plates shrinks the bear;-- 80 + + Elsewhere lawns, and vistaed gardens, + Statues white, and cool arcades, + Where at eve the German warrior + Winks upon the German maids;-- + + Such is Munich:--broad and stately, 85 + Rich of hue, and fair of form; + But, towards the end of August, + Unequivocally _warm_. + + C. S. CALVERLEY. + + +NUREMBERG + + In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands + Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. + + Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, + Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng: + + Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 5 + Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old; + + And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, + That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. + + In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, + Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; 10 + + On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days + Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. + + Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: + Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; + + And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 15 + By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. + + In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, + And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; + + In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, + Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 20 + + Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, + Lived and laboured Albrecht Duerer, the Evangelist of Art; + + Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, + Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. + + _Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; 25 + Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies. + + Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, + That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air! + + Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and + dismal lanes, + Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 30 + + From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, + Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. + + As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, + And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime; + + Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom + In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 36 + + Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, + Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed. + + But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, + And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; 40 + + Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, + As the old man grey and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. + + And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, + Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. + + Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 45 + Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. + + Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; + But thy painter, Albrecht Duerer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. + + Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, + As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: + + Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 51 + The nobility of labour,--the long pedigree of toil. + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +AGED CITIES + + I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine + Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep; + And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine + Through Tyrian Frankfort; and been fain to weep + 'Mid the green cliffs where pale Mosella laves 5 + That Roman sepulchre, imperial Treves. + Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square; + And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands, + Like a queen-mother, on her spacious lands; + And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air. 10 + Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook, + Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers, + That carries age so nobly in its look, + As Oxford with the sun upon her towers. + + F. W. FABER. + + +BRUGES + + The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined + In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, + In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, + And with devout solemnities entwined-- + Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind: 5 + Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, + Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, + To an harmonious decency confined: + As if the streets were consecrated ground, + The city one vast temple, dedicate 10 + To mutual respect in thought and deed; + To leisure, to forbearances sedate; + To social cares from jarring passions freed; + A deeper peace than that in deserts found! + + W. WORDSWORTH. + + +THE BELFRY OF BRUGES + + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; + Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. + + As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, + And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 4 + + Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray, + Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. + + At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, + Wreaths of snow-white smoke ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. + + Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, + But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 10 + + From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; + And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. + + Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, + With their strange unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, + + Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; + And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 16 + + Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; + They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; + + All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, + Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 20 + + I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; + Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece + of Gold. + + Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; + Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. + + I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; 25 + I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; + + And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, + And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between. + + I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, + Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; 30 + + Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, + Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. + + And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; + And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; + + Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 35 + 'I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!' + + Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar + Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. + + Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, + Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 40 + + H. W. LONGFELLOW. + + +THE CARILLON + +ANTWERP AND BRUGES + + At Antwerp, there is a low wall + Binding the city, and a moat + Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat. + You pass the gates in a slow drawl + Of wheels. If it is warm at all 5 + The Carillon will give you thought. + + I climbed the stair in Antwerp church, + What time the urgent weight of sound + At sunset seems to heave it round. + Far up, the Carillon did search 10 + The wind; and the birds came to perch + Far under, where the gables wound. + + In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt + I stood along, a certain space + Of night. The mist was near my face: 15 + Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. + The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt + In music through the silent place. + + At Bruges, when you leave the train, + --A singing numbness in your ears,-- 20 + The Carillon's first sound appears + Only the inner moil. Again + A little minute though--your brain + Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears. + + John Memmeling and John Van Eyck 25 + Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame + I scanned the works that keep their name. + The Carillon, which then did strike + Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike; + It set me closer unto them. 30 + + I climbed at Bruges all the flight + The Belfry has of ancient stone. + For leagues I saw the east wind blown: + The earth was grey, the sky was white. + I stood so near upon the height 35 + That my flesh left the Carillon. + + D. G. ROSSETTI. + + +HOLLAND + + Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, + As but the off-scouring of the British sand; + And so much earth as was contributed + By English pilots when they heaved the lead; + Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, 5 + Of shipwrecked cockle and the mussel-shell; + This indigested vomit of the sea + Fell to the Dutch by just propriety. + Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, + They, with mad labour, fished the land to shore: + And dived as desperately for each piece 11 + Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergris; + Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, + Less than what building swallows bear away; + Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll 15 + Transfusing into them their dunghill soul! + How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, + Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; + And to the stake a struggling country bound, + Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; + Building their watery Babel far more high 21 + To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky. + Yet still his claim the injured ocean laid, + And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; + As if on purpose it on land had come 25 + To shew them what's their _mare liberum_, + A daily deluge over them does boil; + The earth and water play at level-coil. + The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, + And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; 30 + And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw + Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; + Or, as they over the new level ranged, + For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed. + + ANDREW MARVELL. + + +THE HAGUE + + While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, + And in one day atone for the business of six, + In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night, + On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right; + No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move, + That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. 6 + For her neither visits nor parties at tea, + Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee. + This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, + To good or ill fortune the third we resign. 10 + Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, + I drive in my car in professional state. + So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode; + Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god. + But why should I stories of Athens rehearse 15 + Where people knew love, and were partial to verse, + Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose + In Holland half-drowned in interest and prose? + By Greece and past ages what need I be tried + When The Hague and the present are both on my side; 20 + And is it enough for the joys of the day + To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? + When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow, + As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow, + That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 25 + So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is. + + M. PRIOR. + _The Hague, 1696._ + + +ROTTERDAM + + I gaze upon a city, + A city new and strange; + Down many a watery vista + My fancy takes a range; + From side to side I saunter, 5 + And wonder where I am;-- + And can _you_ be in England, + And I at Rotterdam! + + Before me lie dark waters, + In broad canals and deep, 10 + Whereon the silver moonbeams + Sleep, restless in their sleep; + A sort of vulgar Venice + Reminds me where I am,-- + Yes, yes, you are in England, 15 + And I'm at Rotterdam. + + Tall houses with quaint gables, + Where frequent windows shine, + And quays that lead to bridges, + And trees in formal line, 20 + And masts of spicy vessels, + From distant Surinam, + All tell me you're in England, + And I'm in Rotterdam. + + Those sailors,--how outlandish 25 + The face and garb of each! + They deal in foreign gestures, + And use a foreign speech; + A tongue not learned near Isis, + Or studied by the Cam, 30 + Declares that you're in England, + But I'm at Rotterdam. + + And now across a market + My doubtful way I trace, + Where stands a solemn statue, 35 + The Genius of the place; + And to the great Erasmus + I offer my salaam,-- + Who tells me you're in England, + And I'm at Rotterdam. 40 + + The coffee-room is open, + I mingle in its crowd; + The dominoes are rattling, + The hookahs raise a cloud; + A flavour, none of Fearon's, 45 + That mingles with my dram, + Reminds me you're in England, + But I'm in Rotterdam, + + Then here it goes, a bumper,-- + The toast it shall be mine. 50 + In Schiedam, or in Sherry, + Tokay, or Hock of Rhine,-- + It well deserves the brightest + Where sunbeam ever swam,-- + 'The girl I love in England,' 55 + I drink at Rotterdam! + + T. HOOD. + + +THE PROGRESS OF ERROR + + No plainer truth appears, + Our most important are our earliest years; + The mind, impressible and soft, with ease + Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees, + And through life's labyrinth holds fast the clue 5 + That education gives her, false or true. + Plants raised with tenderness are seldom strong; + Man's coltish disposition asks the thong; + And, without discipline, the favourite child, + Like a neglected forester, runs wild. 10 + But we, as if good qualities would grow + Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow; + We give some Latin, and a smatch of Greek; + Teach him to fence and figure twice a week; + And, having done, we think, the best we can, 15 + Praise his proficiency, and dub him man. + From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; + And thence, with all convenient speed, to Rome, + With reverend tutor, clad in habit lay, + To tease for cash, and quarrel with, all day; 20 + With memorandum-book for every town, + And every post, and where the chaise broke down; + His stock, a few French phrases got by heart; + With much to learn, but nothing to impart, + The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, 25 + Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. + Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair, + With awkward gait, stretched neck, and silly stare, + Discover huge cathedrals, built with stone, + And steeples towering high, much like our own; 30 + But show peculiar light by many a grin + At popish practices observed within. + Ere long, some bowing, smirking, smart abbe, + Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way; + And, being always primed with _politesse_ 35 + For men of their appearance and address, + With much compassion undertakes the task + To tell them--more than they have wit to ask: + Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread, + Such as, when legible, were never read, 40 + But, being cankered now, and half worn out, + Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt; + Some headless hero, or some Caesar shows-- + Defective only in his Roman nose; + Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 45 + Models of Herculanean pots and pans; + And sells them medals, which, if neither rare + Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care. + Strange the recital! from whatever cause + His great improvement and new lights he draws, 50 + The squire, once bashful, is shame-faced no more, + But teems with powers he never felt before; + Whether increased momentum, and the force + With which from clime to clime he sped his course, + (As axles sometimes kindle as they go) 55 + Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow; + Or whether clearer skies and softer air, + That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, + Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran, + Unfolded genially, and spread the man; 60 + Returning, he proclaims, by many a grace, + By shrugs, and strange contortions of his face, + How much a dunce that has been sent to roam + Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. + + W. COWPER. + + +ADVICE AGAINST TRAVEL + + Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest + But the surest teacher is the heart; + Studying that and that alone, thou learnest + Best and soonest whence and what thou _art_. + + _Time_, not travel, 'tis which gives us ready 5 + Speech, experience, prudence, tact, and wit. + Far more light the lamp that bideth steady + Than the wandering lantern doth _emit_. + + _Moor_, Chinese, Egyptian, Russian, Roman, + Tread one common down-hill path of doom; 10 + Everywhere the names are Man and Woman, + Everywhere the old sad sins find _room_. + + _Evil_ angels tempt us in all places. + What but sands or snows hath earth to give? + Dream not, friend, of deserts and oases, 15 + But look inwards, and begin to _live_! + + J. C. MANGAN. + + +HAD CAIN BEEN SCOT + + Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom,-- + Not forced him wander, but confined him home. + + J. CLEVELAND. + + +A SONG OF THE ROAD + + The gauger walked with willing foot, + And aye the gauger played the flute; + And what should Master Gauger play + But _Over the hills and far away_? + + Whene'er I buckle on my pack 5 + And foot it gaily in the track, + O pleasant gauger, long since dead, + I hear you fluting on ahead. + + You go with me the self-same way-- + The self-same air for me you play; 10 + For I do think and so do you, + It is the tune to travel to. + + For who would gravely set his face + To go to this or t'other place? + There's nothing under Heav'n so blue 15 + That's fairly worth the travelling to. + + On every hand the roads begin, + And people walk with zeal therein; + But whereso'er the highways tend, + Be sure there's nothing at the end. 20 + + Then follow you, wherever hie + The travelling mountains of the sky. + Or let the streams in civil mode + Direct your choice upon a road; + + For one and all, or high or low, 25 + Will lead you where you wish to go; + And one and all go night and day + _Over the hills and far away_! + + R. L. STEVENSON. + + + + +NOTES + + +The difficulty has been to select from a wealth of poems with which +volumes could have been filled. Indeed three collections dealing +exclusively with Greece, with Italy, and with Switzerland have already +been published by the Oxford University Press. In this volume the +traveller is not confined to one country, and he is not asked to drag +a lengthening chain beyond the limits of Europe. Here are some poems +about travel generally, and then country by country a grand tour is +traced. My obligation to the authors or owners of copyright poems is +duly acknowledged with grateful thanks. + + P. 7. _Clough._--The opening lines of _Amours de Voyage_. + + P. 7. _Tennyson._--A few lines only from _Ulysses_. + + P. 8. _Goldsmith._--From _The Traveller_. + + P. 11. _Bridges._--By kind permission of the Poet Laureate and + Messrs. Smith, Elder. + + Pp. 12 and 13. _Arnold._--From _Stanzas composed at Carnac_ and + _Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse_. + + Pp. 20 and 21. _Tennyson._--The passage from _Oenone_ and the idyll + from _The Princess_ are given here because their imagery was + inspired by the Pyrenees, which the poet repeatedly visited, first + of all in 1830 with Hallam, intending to aid in the Spanish revolt + against Ferdinand VII. Tennyson also spent some time in the Pyrenees + with Clough in 1861. It is Hallam who is referred to in _In the + Valley of Cauteretz_, a poem which Tennyson selected to write in + Queen Victoria's album. Swinburne has praised 'the solemn sweetness' + of these 'majestic verses'. + + P. 25. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto i, 18 and + 19. + + P. 26. _Godley._--By permission of the author and Messrs. Methuen. + + P. 29. _Butler._--By permission of Mrs. A. G. Butler. The poem + originally appeared in _The Times_ shortly after the Matterhorn + accident in 1865. + + P. 31. _Hardy._--By permission of the author and Messrs. Macmillan. + + Pp. 32 and 33. _Watts-Dunton._--By kind permission of the author, + given shortly before his death. + + P. 35. _Arnold._--The first portion is from _Stanzas in Memory of + the Author of 'Obermann'_ (Etienne Pivert de Senancour); the second + from _Obermann once More_, composed many years afterwards. + + P. 38. _Symonds._--By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder. + + P. 47. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, 73, + 74, and 75. + + P. 48. _Clough._--The concluding lines of the introduction to canto + iii of _Amours de Voyage_. + + P. 51. _Rogers._--From _Italy_. + + P. 52._ Shelley._--From _Lines written among the Euganean Hills_. + + P. 53. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, 1, 2, + 3, 4, 11, and 13. + + P. 56. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iv, + stanzas 48, 49. + + P. 60. _Byron._--From _Manfred_, act III, sc. iv. + + P. 62. _Hardy._--From _Wessex Poems, etc._ By permission of the + author and Messrs. Macmillan. + + P. 64. _Clough._--From _Amours de Voyage_, canto iii. There is a + note to line 8: + + ... domus Albuneae resonantis, + Et praeceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda + Mobilibus pomaria rivis. + + P. 65. _Wordsworth._--The first two stanzas 'Composed in the Simplon + Pass', 1820. The concluding eight lines are from _At Vallombrosa_, + written when the poet's 'fond wish' to visit this spot had been + realized in 1837. Wordsworth is at pains to defend Milton from the + charge of having blundered in _Paradise Lost_, by suggesting that + the trees are 'deciduous whereas they are, in fact, pines'. 'The + fault-finders', Wordsworth says, 'are themselves mistaken; the + _natural_ woods of the region of Vallombrosa _are_ deciduous.' + + P. 66. _Rogers._--From _Italy_. + + P. 73. _Phillimore._--By permission of the author. + + P. 78. _Blunt._--By permission of the author. + + P. 81. _Tennyson._--Lear was not only the inventor or popularizer of + 'Limericks', but also a highly-esteemed artist. + + Pp. 83 and 85. _Rodd._--By permission of the author, who wrote the + introduction to the Oxford anthology, _The Englishman in Greece_. + + P. 86. _Shelley._--Stanzas 4 and 5 of the _Ode to Liberty_. + + P. 87. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto i, 60 and + 61. + + P. 91. _Browning._--This poem is not complete. + + P. 96. _Byron._--From _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_, canto iii, 55. + + P. 99. _Calverley._--This is a portion only of the poem. + + P. 118. _Cowper._--An extract from the long poem of the same title. + + P. 121. _Stevenson._--By permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus (and + Messrs. Scribner's Sons in regard to the American rights). + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES + + Page + A wreath of light blue vapour, pure and rare, 68 + Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!, 80 + All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 22 + Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 56 + At Antwerp, there is a low wall, 112 + + Brook and road, 34 + + Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 21 + + England, we love thee better than we know, 77 + + Far on its rocky knoll descried, 12 + Farewell, farewell! Before our prow, 99 + + Glion?---- Ah, twenty years, it cuts, 36 + + Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom, 121 + Happy is England! I could be content, 39 + Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star, 14 + Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, 113 + + I cannot rest from travel: I will drink, 7 + I do remember me, that in my youth, 60 + I gaze upon a city, 116 + I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine, 107 + I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more, 74 + I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, 53 + I travelled among unknown men, 9 + Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls, 81 + In front the awful Alpine track, 35 + In Koehln, a town of monks and bones, 98 + In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown, 108 + In the steamy, stuffy Midlands, 'neath an English summer sky, 26 + In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands, 103 + Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?, 62 + It is not only that the sun, 83 + Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes, 25 + + Many a vanished year and age, 88 + + Never, oh never more shall I behold, 38 + No plainer truth appears, 118 + No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks, 44 + Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away, 77 + Nowhere I sojourn but I thence depart, 73 + + O beautiful beneath the magic moon, 55 + O love, what hours were thine and mine, 40 + Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place, 56 + Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, 87 + On her still lake the city sits, 55 + Once more upon the woody Apennine, 47 + Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, 7 + + Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize, 23 + + Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 8 + + Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, 76 + Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm, 78 + Sweet the memory is to me, 69 + + Tanagra! think not I forget, 89 + Ten years!--and to my waking eye, 38 + The castled crag of Drachenfels, 96 + The ceaseless rain is falling fast, 5 + The gauger walked with willing foot, 121 + The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute, 99 + The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold, 32 + The nodding promontories and blue isles, 86 + The skies have sunk, and hid the upper snow, 18 + The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined, 108 + Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!, 79 + There is a glorious City in the sea, 51 + There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier, 20 + They stand between the mountains and the sea, 66 + They warred with Nature, as of old with gods, 29 + Thirty-two years since, up against the sun, 31 + Through Alpine meadows, soft-suffused, 13 + Tibur is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio, 64 + Traverse not the globe for lore! The sternest, 120 + + Underneath Day's azure eyes, 52 + + Vain is the effort to forget, 95 + Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood, 65 + Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page, 65 + Verona! thy tall gardens stand erect, 46 + + What power is this? what witchery wins my feet, 33 + What's become of Waring, 91 + Where lies the land to which yon ship must go?, 10 + Where, upon Apennine slope, with the chestnut the + oak-trees immingle, 48 + 'Wherefore the "city of the violet crown"?', 85 + While with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix, 114 + Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 11 + Who, then, was Cestius, 62 + Why, Tourist, why, 97 + Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart, 75 + + Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 49 + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems on Travel, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON TRAVEL *** + +***** This file should be named 39496.txt or 39496.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/4/9/39496/ + +Produced by Delphine Lettau, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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