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(From Italy)
I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake | |
| Under the shore, though not, where’er he dwelt, | |
| To visit Pliny; not, in loose attire, | |
| When from the bath or from the tennis-court, | |
| To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, | 5 |
| Or angling from his window: and, in truth, | |
| Could I recall the ages past and play | |
| The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve | |
| My leisure for Catullus on his lake, | |
| Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm | 10 |
| A little further on the way to Mantua. | |
| But such things cannot be. So I sit still, | |
| And let the boatman shift his little sail, | |
| His sail so forked and so swallow-like, | |
| Well pleased with all that comes. The morning air | 15 |
| Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round | |
| A silvery gleam: and now the purple mists | |
| Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out, | |
| Filling, o’erflowing with his glorious light | |
| This noble amphitheatre of hills; | 20 |
| And now appear as on a phosphor sea | |
| Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavìa; | |
| Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest, | |
| Lading, unlading at that small port-town | |
| Under the promontory,—its tall tower | 25 |
| And long flat roofs, just such as Gaspar drew, | |
| Caught by a sunbeam slanting through a cloud; | |
| A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life, | |
And doubled by reflection.
What delight, | |
| After so long a sojourn in the wild, | 30 |
| To hear once more the peasant at his work! | |
| But in a clime like this where is he not? | |
| Along the shores, among the hills ’t is now | |
| The heyday of the vintage; all abroad, | |
| But most the young and of the gentler sex, | 35 |
| Busy in gathering; all among the vines, | |
| Some on the ladder and some underneath, | |
| Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, | |
| While many a canzonet and frolic laugh | |
| Come through the leaves; the vines in light festoons | 40 |
| From tree to tree, the trees in avenues, | |
| And every avenue a covered walk | |
| Hung with black clusters. ’T is enough to make | |
| The sad man merry, the benevolent one | |
| Melt into tears,—so general is the joy! | 45 |
| While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, | |
| Wains oxen-drawn and panniered mules are seen, | |
| Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine. | |
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