 | London lyrics |  |
61
AN INVITATION TO ROME, AND THE REPLY
THE INVITATION
Oh, come to Rome, it is a pleasant place,
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy-going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.
Your London sun is here, and smiling brightly;
The Briton, too, puts on his cheery face,
And Mrs. Bull acquits herself politely.
The Romans are an easy-going race,
With simple wives, more dignified than sprightly;
I see them at their doors, as day is closing,
Prouder than duchesses, and more imposing.
A sweet far niente life promotes the graces;
They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,
And in their bearing and their speech, one traces
A breadth, a depth—a grace of courtesy
Not found in busy or inclement places;
Their clime and tongue are much in harmony:
The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,
Is often cold, and always in a hurry.
They pass from dreamy bliss to wakeful glee,
And in their bearing and their speech, one traces
A breadth, a depth—a grace of courtesy
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Their clime and tongue are much in harmony:
The Cockney met in Middlesex, or Surrey,
Is often cold, and always in a hurry.
Oh, come to Rome, nor be content to read
Of famous palace and of stately street
Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here we greet
Memnon's vast monolith; or, gay with weed,
Rich capitals, as corner stone or seat,
The site of vanish'd temples, where now moulder
Old ruins, masking ruin even older.
Of famous palace and of stately street
Whose fountains ever run with joyful speed,
And never-ceasing murmur. Here we greet
Memnon's vast monolith; or, gay with weed,
Rich capitals, as corner stone or seat,
The site of vanish'd temples, where now moulder
Old ruins, masking ruin even older.
Ay, come, and see the statues, pictures, churches,
Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—
Who say 'tis here that superstition perches?
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.
The sombre streets are worthy your researches
Tho' ways are foul, and lava pavement's horrid.
The pleasant sights, that squeamishness disparages,
Are miss'd by all who roll along in carriages.
Although the last are commonplace, or florid.—
Who say 'tis here that superstition perches?
Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried.
The sombre streets are worthy your researches
Tho' ways are foul, and lava pavement's horrid.
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Are miss'd by all who roll along in carriages.
I dare not speak of Michael Angelo,
Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio
(The first of painters and of gentlemen),
Is it 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.
Such theme were all too splendid for my pen:
And if I breathe the name of Sanzio
(The first of painters and of gentlemen),
Is it 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.
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
(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!
'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
(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!
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Come! We will charter such a pair of nags!
The country's better seen when one is riding:
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,
That melt in light beneath the evening star.
The country's better seen when one is riding:
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,
That melt in light beneath the evening star.
A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant;
The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood;
There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,
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 saltarello.
The wild fig grows where erst her rampart stood;
There oft, in goat-skin clad, a sunburnt peasant
Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood,
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 saltarello.
Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath
Of life to unsophisticated man,
Here Mirth may pipe, Love here may weave his wreath,
“Per dar' al mio bene.” When you can,
Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death
And time are grudging of our little span:
Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn,
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.
Of life to unsophisticated man,
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“Per dar' al mio bene.” When you can,
Come share their leafy solitudes. Pale Death
And time are grudging of our little span:
Wan Time speeds lightly o'er the changing corn,
Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.
Oh, come! I send a leaf of April fern,
It grew where beauty lingers round decay:
Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn
Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!
That better time, for which the patriots yearn,
Delights the gaze, again to fade away.
They wait, they pine for what is long denied,
And thus wait I till thou art by my side.
It grew where beauty lingers round decay:
Ashes long buried in a sculptured urn
Are not more dead than Rome—so dead to-day!
That better time, for which the patriots yearn,
Delights the gaze, again to fade away.
They wait, they pine for what is long denied,
And thus wait I till thou art by my side.
Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still
Seem gently, Sweet, to clasp thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,
The Sabine peaks are flush'd with light divine,
I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;
Oh, come to Rome. Oh come,—oh come to me!
Seem gently, Sweet, to clasp thy hand in mine;
I cannot bring myself to drop the quill,
I cannot yet thy little hand resign!
The plain is fading into darkness chill,
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I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee;
Oh, come to Rome. Oh come,—oh come to me!
1863.
THE REPLY
Dear Exile, I was proud to get
Your rhyme, I've “laid it up in cotton”;
You know that you are all to “Pet,”—
I fear'd that I was quite forgotten!
Mamma, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists, and she is wise as gentle,
That I am still in love! I hope
That you feel rather sentimental!
Your rhyme, I've “laid it up in cotton”;
You know that you are all to “Pet,”—
I fear'd that I was quite forgotten!
Mamma, who scolds me when I mope,
Insists, and she is wise as gentle,
That I am still in love! I hope
That you feel rather sentimental!
Perhaps you think your Love forlore
Should pine unless her slave be with her;
Of course you're fond of Rome, and more—
Of course you'd like to coax me thither!
Che! quit this dear delightful maze
Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence, immensely!
Should pine unless her slave be with her;
Of course you're fond of Rome, and more—
Of course you'd like to coax me thither!
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Of calls and balls, to be intensely
Discomfited in fifty ways—
I like your confidence, immensely!
Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing, like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place—
In spite of all the stupid ruins!
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those reeds of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing, of which
Dear Hawthorne's “quite” the best describer.
And live for dancing, like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place—
In spite of all the stupid ruins!
I think it might be sweet to pitch
One's tent beside those reeds of Tiber,
And all that sort of thing, of which
Dear Hawthorne's “quite” the best describer.
To see stone pines and marble gods
In garden alleys red with roses;
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate (where they're easy!)
And play croquet; the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi!
In garden alleys red with roses;
The Perch where Pio Nono nods;
The Church where Raphael reposes.
Make pleasant giros—when we may;
Jump stagionate (where they're easy!)
And play croquet; the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi!
I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my Golden Treasury,
Manzoni, and, of course a “Murray”!
Your verses (if you so advise!)
A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto;
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the Muro Torto.
Says packing books is such a worry;
I'll bring my Golden Treasury,
Manzoni, and, of course a “Murray”!
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A Dante—Auntie owns a quarto;
I'll try and buy a smaller size,
And read him on the Muro Torto.
But can I go? La Madre thinks
It would be such an undertaking!
(I wish we could consult a sphinx!)
The very thought has left her quaking!
Papa (we do not mind papa)
Has got some “notice” of some “motion,”
And could not stay; but, why not,—ah,
I've not the very slightest notion!
It would be such an undertaking!
(I wish we could consult a sphinx!)
The very thought has left her quaking!
Papa (we do not mind papa)
Has got some “notice” of some “motion,”
And could not stay; but, why not,—ah,
I've not the very slightest notion!
The Browns have come to stay a week,
They've brought the boys—I haven't thank'd 'em;
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum!
Your Rover, too, affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . .
It makes me think of You, and then . . .
And then I cry—I cannot help it.
They've brought the boys—I haven't thank'd 'em;
For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,
Are playing cricket in my sanctum!
Your Rover, too, affects my den,
And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . . .
It makes me think of You, and then . . .
And then I cry—I cannot help it.
Ah yes, before you left me, ere
The cloud that cleft us was impending,
These eyes had seldom shed a tear,
I thought my joy could have no ending!
But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this—
This was the first that rose to grieve me;—
To know that I possess'd the bliss,—
For then I knew such bliss might leave me!
The cloud that cleft us was impending,
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I thought my joy could have no ending!
But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this—
This was the first that rose to grieve me;—
To know that I possess'd the bliss,—
For then I knew such bliss might leave me!
My strain is sad, yet, oh, believe
Your words have made my spirit better;
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve,
I'd meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull; Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
Your words have made my spirit better;
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve,
I'd meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull; Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.
The sun now glances o'er the park,
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark,
My bulley gives a saucy twitter!
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing;
And hark! The Minster bells ring out—
She ought to go. Of course she's going!
If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;
I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark,
My bulley gives a saucy twitter!
Your blessed words extinguish doubt,
A sudden breeze is gaily blowing;
And hark! The Minster bells ring out—
She ought to go. Of course she's going!
1863.
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