University of Virginia Library

There's our good curate coming down the lane,
Taking his evening walk as he is wont:
'Neath the dark ilexes he pauses now
And looks across the fields; then turning round,
As Spitz salutes me with a sharp high bark,
Advising him a stranger's near, he stops,
Nods, makes a friendly gesture, and then waits—
His head a little bent aside, one hand
Firm on his cane, the other on his hip—
And ere I speak he greets me cheerily.

“A lovely evening, and the well-reaped fields
Have given abundant harvest. All around
They tell me that the grain is large and full;
Peasant and landlord both of them content;
And with God's blessing we shall have, they say,
An ample vintage; scarcely anywhere
Are traces of disease among the grapes;
The olives promise well, too, as it seems.
Good grain, good wine, good oil—thanks be to God
And the Madonna, who give all things good,
And only ask from us a thankful heart!
“Yes, I have been to take my evening walk
Down to the Borgo; for, thank Heaven, I still
Am stout and strong and hearty, as you see.
I still can walk my three good miles as well
As when I was but sixty, though, perhaps,
A little slower than I used; but then
I 've turned my eightieth year—I have indeed!
Though you would scarce believe it. More than that,
I 've never lost a tooth—all good and sound—
Look! not a single one decayed or loose—
As good to crack a nut as e'er they were.
They 're the great secret of my health, I think;
Like a good mill they grind the food up well,
And keep the stomach and digestion good.

“Yes, sir! I 've passed the allotted term of man,
Threescore-and-ten. I'm fourscore years, all told;
But, the Lord help us, how we old men boast!
What are our fourscore years or fivescore years
(If I should ever reach as far as that)
Compared with the eternity beyond?
Yet let us praise God for the good he gives;
All are not well and strong at fourscore years;
There 's farmer Lanti with but threescore years,
See how he 's racked with his rheumatic pains;
He scarce can crawl along.
Do you take snuff?
“Yes, sir! 't is fifty years since first I came
As curate to this village—fifty years!
When I look back it scarce seems possible,
And yet 't is fifty years last May since first
I came to live in yonder little house.
You see its red-tiled roof and loggia there
Close-barnacled upon the church, that shows
Its belfry-tower above the olive-trees.
The place is rude and rough, but there I 've lived
So long, I would not change it if I could.
Old things grow dear to us by constant use;
Habit is half our nature; and this house
Fits all my uses, answers all my needs,
Just as an old shoe fits one's foot; and there
I sleep as sound with its bare floor and walls
As if its bricks were spread with carpets soft,
And all the ceilings were with frescoes gay.

“But what need I of pictures on my walls?
Out of my window every day I see
Pictures that God hath painted, better far
Than Raffaelle or Razzi—these great slopes
Covered with golden grain and waving vines
And rows of olives; and then far away
Dim purple mountains where cloud-shadows drift
Darkening across them; and beyond, the sky,
Where morning dawns and twilight lingering dies.
And then, again, above my humble roof
The vast night is as deep with all its stars
As o'er the proudest palace of the king.
“So, sir, my house is good enough for me.
I have been happy there for many years,
And there 's no better riches than content;
There I 've my little plot of flowers—for flowers
Are God's smile on the earth,—I could not do
Without my flowers, and there I train my vines,
Just for amusement; for the people here,
Good, honest creatures, do not let me want
For grapes and wine, howe'er the season be;
Then I 've two trees of apricots, and one
Great fig-tree, that beneath my window struck
Its roots into a rock-cleft years ago,
And of itself, without my care, has grown
And thriven, till now it thrusts its leaves and figs
Into my very room. Sometimes I think
This was a gift of God to me to say,
‘Behold! how out of poverty's scant soil
A life may bravely grow and bear good fruit,
And be a blessing and a help.’ May I
Be like this fig-tree, by the grace of God!
I have one peach-tree, but the fruit this year
Is bitter, tasting somewhat of the stone.
Our farmers tell me theirs are all the same;
I think they may have suffered from the drought,
Or from that hail-storm in the early spring.

“Yes, sir! 't is fifty years in this old house
I 've lived; and all these years, day after day,
Have run as even as a ticking clock,
One like another, summer, winter, spring;
And ne'er a day I 've failed to have my walk
Down to the Borgo, spite of wind and rain.
While in the valley low the white mist crawls,
I'm up to greet the morning's earliest gleam
Above the hill-tops. After noon I take
An hour's siesta when the birds are still,
And the cicale stop, and, as it were,
All nature falls asleep. As twilight comes,
I take my walk, and, ere the clock strikes ten,
Lie snugly in my bed, and sleep as sound
And dreamless sleep as when I was a boy.
Why should I not? God has been very good,
And given me strength and health! Praise be to Him!

“My life is regular and temperate!
Good wine, sir, never hurts a man; it keeps
The heart and stomach warm—that is, of course,
Unless 't is taken in excess; but then,
All things are bad, if taken in excess.
I drink, perhaps, more wine now than I did;
For as old age comes on I need it more—
But in all things my life is temperate.
I take my cup of coffee when I rise;
I dine at mid-day, and I sup at seven;
I sit upon my loggia, where the vines
Spread their green shadow to keep off the sun,
And there I say my offices and prayers,
And in my well-thumbed breviary read,—
Now listening to the birds that chirp and sing;
Now reading of the martyrdom of saints;
Now looking at the peasant in the fields;
Now pondering on the patriarchs of old.
Then there are daily masses—sometimes come
Baptisms, burials, marriages—and so
Life slips along its peaceable routine.

“My people here are generous and kind;
Of all good things they own I have my share,
And I, in turn, do what I can to help,
And smooth away their cares, compose their strifes,
Assuage their sorrows. By kind words alone
One may do much, with the Madonna's aid.
And then, in my small way, I am of use
To cure their ailments: scarce a day goes by
But I must, like a doctor, make my calls,
And see my patients. After fifty years
One must be a physician or a fool.
There 's a poor creature now in yonder house
I 've spent an hour beside this afternoon,
Holding her hands and whispering words of faith,
And saying what I could to ease her soul.
I know not if she heard me—haply not,
For she is gone almost beyond the reach
Of human language—far, far out alone
On the dim road we all must tread at last.

“Antonio Bucci keeps his lands here well!
An honest, frugal, and industrious man;
And his four daughters,—healthy, handsome girls:
Vittoria is a little spoiled, perhaps,
By the Count's admiration—and, in truth,
She is a striking creature; but all that,
You know, is nonsense, and I told her so.
Rosa is married, as you know, and makes
A sturdy wife. She has one little child,
With cheeks like apples. And Regina, too,
And Fanny—both are good and honest girls.
Per Bacco! take them all in all, I think
They're better for Antonio than four boys.
I see them in the early mists of morn
Going a-field; and listen! there they are,
Down in the vineyard, singing, as they tend
Those great white oxen at their evening feed.

“Well, Spitz, we must be going now, or else
Old Nanna'll scold us both for being late.
Stop barking! Better manners, sir, I say!
He 's young, you see; the old one died last spring,
And this one 's over frisky for my age
(You are—you are! you know you are, you scamp!)
But with his foolishness he makes me smile.
As he grows older he'll grow more discreet.
('T is time to have your supper? So it is!)
And for mine, too, I think—and so, goodnight!”
So the old curate lifts his hat and smiles,
And shakes his cane at Spitz, and walks away,
A little stiff with age, but strong and hale,
While Spitz whirls round and round before his path,
With volleys of sharp barks, as on they go.
And so good-night! you good old man,—good-night!
With your child's heart, despite your eighty years.
I do not ask or care what is your creed—
Your heart is simple, honest, without guile,
Large in its open charity, and prompt
To help your fellow-men,—on such as you,
Whatever be your creed, God's blessing lies.