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From “Italy”
THIS region, surely, is not of the earth. | |
| Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove, | |
| Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot | |
| Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, | |
| But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings | 5 |
| On the clear wave some image of delight, | |
| Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, | |
| Some ruined temple or fallen monument, | |
| To muse on as the bark is gliding by, | |
| And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, | 10 |
| From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire | |
| Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, | |
| Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, | |
| Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, | |
| When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, | 15 |
| Was with his household sacrificing there,— | |
| From daybreak to that hour, the last and best, | |
| When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, | |
| Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow, | |
| And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn | 20 |
Steals o’er the trembling waters.
Everywhere | |
| Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry, | |
| Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, | |
| And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers, | |
| Like a young child her grandam. Fable came; | 25 |
| Earth, sea, and sky reflecting, as she flew, | |
| A thousand, thousand colors not their own: | |
| And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent | |
| To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields, | |
| Those fields with ether pure and purple light | 30 |
| Ever invested, scenes by him described | |
| Who here was wont to wander and record | |
| What they revealed, and on the western shore | |
| Sleeps in a silent grove, o’erlooking thee, | |
Beloved Parthenope.
Yet here, methinks, | 35 |
| Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape | |
| Filling the mind by turns with awe and love, | |
| By turns inclining to wild ecstasy | |
| And soberest meditation. | |
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