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(From Italy)
THREE leagues from Padua stands and long has stood | |
| (The Paduan student knows it, honors it) | |
| A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church; | |
| And I arrived there as the sun declined | |
| Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe | 5 |
| Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds | |
| Singing their farewell song,—the very song | |
| They sung the night that tomb received a tenant; | |
| When, as alive, clothed in his canon’s stole, | |
| And slowly winding down the narrow path, | 10 |
| He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, | |
| Princes and prelates mingled in his train, | |
| Anxious by any act, while yet they could, | |
| To catch a ray of glory by reflection; | |
| And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked | 15 |
| From distant countries, from the north, the south, | |
To see where he is laid.
Twelve years ago, | |
| When I descended the impetuous Rhone, | |
| Its vineyards of such great and old renown, | |
| Its castles, each with some romantic tale, | 20 |
| Vanishing fast,—the pilot at the stern, | |
| He who had steered so long, standing aloft, | |
| His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands | |
| On what was now his rudder, now his oar, | |
| A huge misshapen plank,—the bark itself | 25 |
| Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, | |
| Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, | |
| Urged by the love of home. Twelve years ago, | |
| When like an arrow from the cord we flew, | |
| Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board, | 30 |
| It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse, | |
| Entering the arched cave, to wander where | |
| Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit | |
| Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit, | |
| Musing, reciting,—on some rock moss-grown, | 35 |
| Or the fantastic root of some old beech, | |
| That drinks the living waters as they stream | |
| Over their emerald-bed; and could I now | |
| Neglect the place where, in a graver mood, | |
| When he had done and settled with the world, | 40 |
| When all the illusions of his youth were fled, | |
| Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long, | |
| He came for the conclusion? Half-way up | |
| He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught, | |
| Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life | 45 |
| That soothed, not stirred. But knock, and enter in. | |
| This was his chamber. ’T is as when he went; | |
| As if he now were in his orchard-grove. | |
| And this his closet. Here he sat and read. | |
| This was his chair; and in it, unobserved, | 50 |
| Reading, or thinking of his absent friends, | |
| He passed away as in a quiet slumber. | |
| Peace to this region! Peace to each, to all! | |
| They know his value,—every coming step, | |
| That draws the gazing children from their play, | 55 |
| Would tell them if they knew not. But could aught | |
| Ungentle or ungenerous spring up | |
| Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age | |
| Of savage warfare and blind bigotry, | |
| He cultured all that could refine, exalt; | 60 |
| Leading to better things? | |
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