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(From Italy)
’T IS morning. Let us wander through the fields, | |
| Where Cimabuè found a shepherd-boy | |
| Tracing his idle fancies on the ground; | |
| And let us from the top of Fiesole, | |
| Whence Galileo’s glass by night observed | 5 |
| The phases of the moon, look round below | |
| On Arno’s vale, where the dove-colored steer | |
| Is ploughing up and down among the vines, | |
| While many a careless note is sung aloud, | |
| Filling the air with sweetness,—and on thee, | 10 |
| Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls, | |
| Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers, | |
Drawn to our feet.
From that small spire, just caught | |
| By the bright ray, that church among the rest | |
| By one of old distinguished us The Bride, | 15 |
| Let us in thought pursue (what can we better?) | |
| Those who assembled there at matin-time; | |
| Who, when vice revelled and along the street | |
| Tables were set, what time the bearer’s bell | |
| Rang to demand the dead at every door, | 20 |
| Came out into the meadows; and, awhile | |
| Wandering in idleness, but not in folly, | |
| Sate down in the high grass and in the shade | |
| Of many a tree sun-proof, day after day, | |
| When all was still and nothing to be heard | 25 |
| But the cicala’s voice among the olives, | |
| Relating in a ring, to banish care, | |
Their hundred tales.
Round the green hill they went, | |
| Round underneath,—first to a splendid house, | |
| Gherardi, as an old tradition runs, | 30 |
| That on the left, just rising from the vale; | |
| A place for luxury,—the painted rooms, | |
| The open galleries and middle court | |
| Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. | |
| Then westward to another, nobler yet; | 35 |
| That on the right, now known as the Palmieri, | |
| Where art with nature vied,—a paradise | |
| With verdurous walls, and many a trellised walk | |
| All rose and jasmine, many a twilight-glade | |
| Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies’ Vale; | 40 |
| And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed | |
| To lift up to the surface every stone | |
| Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish | |
| Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold, | |
| Now motionless, now glancing to the sun. | 45 |
| Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day? | |
| The morning-banquet by the fountain-side, | |
| While the small birds rejoiced on every bough; | |
| The dance that followed, and the noontide slumber; | |
| Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay | 50 |
| On carpets, the fresh water, murmuring | |
| And the short interval of pleasant talk | |
| Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice | |
| Sung down the stars; and, as they left the sky, | |
| The torches, planted in the sparkling grass, | 55 |
| And everywhere among the glowing flowers, | |
| Burnt bright and brighter. He, whose dream it was, | |
| (It was no more,) sleeps in a neighboring vale; | |
| Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween, | |
| The friar poured out his wondrous catalogue; | 60 |
| A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone | |
| To the wise men; a vialful of sounds, | |
| The musical chimes of the great bells that hung | |
| In Solomon’s Temple; and, though last not least, | |
| A feather from the angel Gabriel’s wing, | 65 |
| Dropt in the Virgin’s chamber. That dark ridge, | |
| Stretching southeast, conceals it from our sight; | |
| Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm, | |
| His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, | |
| Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long | 70 |
| Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach, | |
| With calm, unclouded mind. The glimmering tower | |
| On the gray rock beneath, his landmark once, | |
| Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate | |
| His bread with cheerfulness. Who sees him not | 75 |
| (’T is his own sketch—he drew it from himself) | |
| Laden with cages from his shoulder slung, | |
| And sallying forth, while yet the morn is gray, | |
| To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there; | |
| Or in the wood among his wood-cutters; | 80 |
| Or in the tavern by the highway-side | |
| At tric-trac with the miller; or at night, | |
| Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad, | |
| Entering his closet, and among his books, | |
| Among the great of every age and clime, | 85 |
| A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, | |
| Questioning each why he did this or that, | |
| And learning how to overcome the fear | |
Of poverty and death?
Nearer we hail | |
| Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old | 90 |
| For its green wine; dearer to me, to most, | |
| As dwelt on by that great astronomer, | |
| Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate, | |
| Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be | |
| His villa, (justly was it called The Gem!) | 95 |
| Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw | |
| Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars! | |
| Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight | |
| Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines, | |
| Chanting aloud in gayety of heart | 100 |
| Some verse of Ariosto! There, unseen, | |
| In manly beauty Milton stood before him, | |
| Gazing with reverent awe,—Milton, his guest, | |
| Just then come forth, all life and enterprise; | |
| He in his old age and extremity, | 105 |
| Blind, at noonday exploring with his staff; | |
| His eyes upturned as to the golden sun, | |
| His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then | |
| Did Galileo think whom he received; | |
| That in his hand he held the hand of one | 110 |
| Who could requite him,—who would spread his name | |
| O’er lands and seas,—great as himself, nay, greater. | |
| Milton as little that in him he saw, | |
| As in a glass, what he himself should be, | |
| Destined so soon to fall on evil days | 115 |
| And evil tongues,—so soon, alas, to live | |
| In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, | |
| And solitude. | |
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