The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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| THE
LETTER OF BOCCACCIO. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
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THE LETTER OF BOCCACCIO.
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[_]
As the following ‘Letter’ involves a few particulars of the early life of the famous Italian novelist, it may be as well to state briefly what are and what are not facts.
Of Giovanni Boccaccio, the great author of the ‘Decameron,’ little seems to be known. He was born at Certaldo, (or Florence) about the year 1313, and when he arrived at manhood, was, according to some accounts, placed under the law professor Cino de Pistoia. His father dying soon after, Boccaccio gave himself up to poetry, and studied also the classics and the sciences with great effect. He himself says, in one of his letters, (to Petrarch I believe) that he was the means of introducing the Greek language into Etruria.
The circumstance of Boccaccio having led a dissolute life at Florence, and having been reproved by a Carthusian friar, are stated as facts, if I recollect rightly, in Mrs. Dobson's Life of Petrarch; and that he was intimate with the famous lover of Laura is known to all. The story which I have admitted, of his having been in
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[I.]
O thou, before whose beauty my young spirit
Hath bowed,—so long oppressed by amorous pain;
If I have sold the thoughts which I inherit
From my free nature, do not thou arraign
That now, poor slave, I bear Love's glittering chain!
It wears me,—it consumes me; yet I love,
And that is my reward.—Shall I return
Into the past, and quench the fires that burn
Within and hallow me, (as some dark grove
By ever-living lamps is made most pure)?—
Can I return,—I who have dwelt with Love,
And fed on passionate dreams? Can I endure
That tyranny of thought which strips the heart
Bare of its hope, and gives it—barren truth?—
Hath bowed,—so long oppressed by amorous pain;
If I have sold the thoughts which I inherit
From my free nature, do not thou arraign
That now, poor slave, I bear Love's glittering chain!
It wears me,—it consumes me; yet I love,
And that is my reward.—Shall I return
Into the past, and quench the fires that burn
Within and hallow me, (as some dark grove
By ever-living lamps is made most pure)?—
Can I return,—I who have dwelt with Love,
And fed on passionate dreams? Can I endure
That tyranny of thought which strips the heart
Bare of its hope, and gives it—barren truth?—
Thou wast the virgin idol of my youth:—
Thou wast?—thou art; and shall a weak dismay
Of possible ill lure my weak heart to stray?
Shall I be told that woman is not true?—
That Love hath died who was a god of yore?—
That Fortune is a sea without a shore,
Where they who venture not have nought to rue?—
Shall I believe all this and look on thee?—
It cannot be,—it may not, if I array
My mind with faith, as in my better day:—
So with a bright belief I look on thee,
Thou beauty of the South, as on the Sun,
Who deigns to gild the slave he looks upon.
—Shall nothing but thy shadow fall on me?
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Of possible ill lure my weak heart to stray?
Shall I be told that woman is not true?—
That Love hath died who was a god of yore?—
That Fortune is a sea without a shore,
Where they who venture not have nought to rue?—
Shall I believe all this and look on thee?—
It cannot be,—it may not, if I array
My mind with faith, as in my better day:—
So with a bright belief I look on thee,
Thou beauty of the South, as on the Sun,
Who deigns to gild the slave he looks upon.
—Shall nothing but thy shadow fall on me?
'Tis true I have not much that can adorn
Thy conquest,—not in fortune,—not in name;
But I may prostrate still the little fame
I have, and even this thou wilt not scorn;
Thou wilt not, for thine eye is like a morn
Whereby men augur of the day to come,
And in thy silence thou wast never dumb;
So, spirit sweet, will I of thee foretell.
Thy young voice is a truer oracle
Than that which in the old Saturnian days
Sounded at Delos in Apollo's praise,
And did the tasks of Pagan prophets well;
And thy white beauty is (for never yet
Could Nature mould such creature and forget
The perfect soul) assurance unto me
Of thy unuttered fidelity:—
Therefore, by yellow Hymen, do I swear
To make thee my reliance, my sweet care,
My all of memory, my extremest hope:—
Thy conquest,—not in fortune,—not in name;
But I may prostrate still the little fame
I have, and even this thou wilt not scorn;
Thou wilt not, for thine eye is like a morn
Whereby men augur of the day to come,
And in thy silence thou wast never dumb;
So, spirit sweet, will I of thee foretell.
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Than that which in the old Saturnian days
Sounded at Delos in Apollo's praise,
And did the tasks of Pagan prophets well;
And thy white beauty is (for never yet
Could Nature mould such creature and forget
The perfect soul) assurance unto me
Of thy unuttered fidelity:—
Therefore, by yellow Hymen, do I swear
To make thee my reliance, my sweet care,
My all of memory, my extremest hope:—
Fool that I am, methinks I cannot cope
With my antagonist ills: the idle shade
Of joy stalks forth and straight I am betrayed.
Hope has fled far: the future, which was late
Dream-bright, is now a calm unaltering fate;
And Friendship has usurped the name of Love;
And passion, bright as the fire the Titan stole,
Has burned to its decline. Do not reprove;
For still, at times, it flames beyond control,
And is again the madness of my soul.
With my antagonist ills: the idle shade
Of joy stalks forth and straight I am betrayed.
Hope has fled far: the future, which was late
Dream-bright, is now a calm unaltering fate;
And Friendship has usurped the name of Love;
And passion, bright as the fire the Titan stole,
Has burned to its decline. Do not reprove;
For still, at times, it flames beyond control,
And is again the madness of my soul.
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I will not change: or if I wander, soon
Shall I return, and be as is the moon
Who, tho' she change, returneth, nothing loth,
And faithful to the beauty of her youth?
Like her my peerless love shall shine,—yet not
On altars or in sepulchres, but where
My faith to thee shall never be forgot:—
It shall be holy as the autumnal air,
And fashioned into music, and along
The tides of time be borne, with things as fair,
In all the immortality of song.
Shall I return, and be as is the moon
Who, tho' she change, returneth, nothing loth,
And faithful to the beauty of her youth?
Like her my peerless love shall shine,—yet not
On altars or in sepulchres, but where
My faith to thee shall never be forgot:—
It shall be holy as the autumnal air,
And fashioned into music, and along
The tides of time be borne, with things as fair,
In all the immortality of song.
It shall live unalarm'd by hint or jest,
The one great virtue of Boccaccio's breast:—
For 'tis not erring wishes, nor the shock
Of doubts which force the changing man to mock
Love in his temple,—'till he dies of shame,
But 'tis the laughing lie—the petty blame
That frets and turns the human milk to gall,
And, tho' it scarce seem bitter, poisoneth all.—
The one great virtue of Boccaccio's breast:—
For 'tis not erring wishes, nor the shock
Of doubts which force the changing man to mock
Love in his temple,—'till he dies of shame,
But 'tis the laughing lie—the petty blame
That frets and turns the human milk to gall,
And, tho' it scarce seem bitter, poisoneth all.—
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II.
When last I saw thee—(following in thy train
Was I)—O would those times might be again!
They were too happy, sweet! and therefore brief,
And withered, like an early budding leaf,
Which, while its cold associates still are seen
Flourishing, having lived its age, (in hours!)
And wasted on the wanton Spring its powers,
Doth die upon its stem of summer green:
Therefore it may not be.—O princely maid!
When last I saw thee, was not promise made
That I should tell my story (all) to thee?
Yes,—we were sitting underneath a tree
Which shook its odours on the Baian waves.
Thou must remember it:—We gazed together
Enchanted by the glassy sea that laves
The Cape and islands, in that sunny weather
Seen plainly from the Pausillippo hill.
Hast thou forgotten how we talked of him
Whose ashes slumber there, holy and still?
From which his name, that never shall grow dim,
Sprang like a lunar glory, gently driven
Across the many-coloured plains of Heaven,
Until, as stars whose glittering toils are o'er,
It sank into its place, and moved no more.
Was I)—O would those times might be again!
They were too happy, sweet! and therefore brief,
And withered, like an early budding leaf,
Which, while its cold associates still are seen
Flourishing, having lived its age, (in hours!)
And wasted on the wanton Spring its powers,
Doth die upon its stem of summer green:
Therefore it may not be.—O princely maid!
When last I saw thee, was not promise made
That I should tell my story (all) to thee?
Yes,—we were sitting underneath a tree
Which shook its odours on the Baian waves.
Thou must remember it:—We gazed together
Enchanted by the glassy sea that laves
The Cape and islands, in that sunny weather
Seen plainly from the Pausillippo hill.
Hast thou forgotten how we talked of him
Whose ashes slumber there, holy and still?
From which his name, that never shall grow dim,
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Across the many-coloured plains of Heaven,
Until, as stars whose glittering toils are o'er,
It sank into its place, and moved no more.
Now, hearken to my story!—When I came
First to this world, and saw the morning flame
From the grey East, streaking the sky with bars
Of light—(this while the shepherd of the stars,
Great Lucifer, was busied in the West)—
Imaginations strange perplexed my breast,
Like ghosts some ancient house untenanted:
And, after this, pale Learning sowed her seed
Within my memory, and I became
Such as I am. This, and no more, I claim
From the remembrance of my childish time:
Yet 'twas so like the period of my prime
(The interval was nothing,—buried years
Of boyhood,—idle, full of pains, and fears)
That the first germ of what may never bloom
Was born, it seems, in me,—a sweet perfume
Clinging about my birth, and making still
Those years seem sage,—not comprehensible
To me or others; but 'tis often so;
In budding, happiness is likest woe:
Great thought is pain until the strengthen'd mind
Can lift it into light: the soul is blind
Until the suns of years have cleared away
The film that hangeth round its wedded clay.
First to this world, and saw the morning flame
From the grey East, streaking the sky with bars
Of light—(this while the shepherd of the stars,
Great Lucifer, was busied in the West)—
Imaginations strange perplexed my breast,
Like ghosts some ancient house untenanted:
And, after this, pale Learning sowed her seed
Within my memory, and I became
Such as I am. This, and no more, I claim
From the remembrance of my childish time:
Yet 'twas so like the period of my prime
(The interval was nothing,—buried years
Of boyhood,—idle, full of pains, and fears)
That the first germ of what may never bloom
Was born, it seems, in me,—a sweet perfume
Clinging about my birth, and making still
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To me or others; but 'tis often so;
In budding, happiness is likest woe:
Great thought is pain until the strengthen'd mind
Can lift it into light: the soul is blind
Until the suns of years have cleared away
The film that hangeth round its wedded clay.
Then Love came—Love!—How like a star it streamed
In infancy upon me,—till I dreamed,
And 'twas as pure and almost cold a light,
And led me to the sense of such delight
As children know not; so, at last I grew
Enamoured of beauty and soft pain,
And felt mysterious pleasure wander through
My heart, and animate my childish brain;
And thus I rose (for patient still was I
And a true worshipper)—to poetry.
In infancy upon me,—till I dreamed,
And 'twas as pure and almost cold a light,
And led me to the sense of such delight
As children know not; so, at last I grew
Enamoured of beauty and soft pain,
And felt mysterious pleasure wander through
My heart, and animate my childish brain;
And thus I rose (for patient still was I
And a true worshipper)—to poetry.
Thou radiant spirit of the Muses! never
Will I profane thee with adulterate rhyme:
Love is thy theme, or Glory. Never, never
Will I mix up the cavils of my time
(Things of an instant, which a day disarms
Of worth) or this my petty state's alarms,
Or jealousies, or vulgar tricks of need,
With ‘peerless Poesy,’—a poor base breed
Are they, not children whom the stream of song
Should clasp in its bright arms, as slow along
It winds into Eternity. The theme
Whereon my charmed spirit loves to dream
Is thou,—Queen!—princess of that sunny throne
Seated upon the waters, where alone
The glory of the world is not a name:
Even in Florence it is not the same;
Yet here are woods and rivers, and the swell
Of hills,—the pastoral mead, and lawny dell:
But here lives not the Sea:—The ocean waters
Wander not here, nor lash our sylvan ground,
Making immortal noise, nor sound for sound
Send back to our mountain echoes when the daughters
Of the pine-forests shout in storm and gloom:
And we have not thy skies, nor thy perfume
Winging the azure air,—yet through green vales
Our Arno runs, and where the slope prevails
Clings with bright kisses, till the yielding earth
Gives forth its coloured sweets, a cloudy birth!
Will I profane thee with adulterate rhyme:
Love is thy theme, or Glory. Never, never
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(Things of an instant, which a day disarms
Of worth) or this my petty state's alarms,
Or jealousies, or vulgar tricks of need,
With ‘peerless Poesy,’—a poor base breed
Are they, not children whom the stream of song
Should clasp in its bright arms, as slow along
It winds into Eternity. The theme
Whereon my charmed spirit loves to dream
Is thou,—Queen!—princess of that sunny throne
Seated upon the waters, where alone
The glory of the world is not a name:
Even in Florence it is not the same;
Yet here are woods and rivers, and the swell
Of hills,—the pastoral mead, and lawny dell:
But here lives not the Sea:—The ocean waters
Wander not here, nor lash our sylvan ground,
Making immortal noise, nor sound for sound
Send back to our mountain echoes when the daughters
Of the pine-forests shout in storm and gloom:
And we have not thy skies, nor thy perfume
Winging the azure air,—yet through green vales
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Clings with bright kisses, till the yielding earth
Gives forth its coloured sweets, a cloudy birth!
III.
Now shall I pass unto my boyhood?—no:
It is enough, perhaps, that thou shouldst know
That time was mournful to me:—It is gone;
And manhood like a radiant morning shone,
And Beauty lit her lamps that I might see
Intenser day: Then life was Heaven to me:
My soul was perfected by passion,—pure
As marble ere the Parian pierced the mine
Wherein the carv'd Diana lay secure,
Yet lovely as that shape which is divine
Tho' mortal, being born and warmed to life
By light as is the rainbow, (when the roar
Of rain hath passed) which was but cloud before.
It is enough, perhaps, that thou shouldst know
That time was mournful to me:—It is gone;
And manhood like a radiant morning shone,
And Beauty lit her lamps that I might see
Intenser day: Then life was Heaven to me:
My soul was perfected by passion,—pure
As marble ere the Parian pierced the mine
Wherein the carv'd Diana lay secure,
Yet lovely as that shape which is divine
Tho' mortal, being born and warmed to life
By light as is the rainbow, (when the roar
Of rain hath passed) which was but cloud before.
I loved:—I tell thee thou art not the first
(Tho' fairest) of the creatures of my love:
For early did the floods of passion burst
My veins and overwhelm me,—yet I strove
Never to tamper with my nature then,
Nor call back my desire into the den
Wherein it had reposed for twenty years;
For I had hope ('twas mixed I own with fears)
That the strong lustre of my love would lead
My thoughts unto their fountain springs, and feed
My soul with light:—'Twas then I penned some tales
Where Beauty is the bride and her son ever
The God and master of my poor endeavour.
O mistress! thou shalt read the tales I have writ,
For love is there, and reason, and a wit
Which though it be abandoned at its birth,
And vanish for a time, shall rise again,
And in remoter places of this earth
Shall be a treasure to great men, whose fame
Shall be commingled with my lasting name,
Co-heritors of bright futurity.
O light of my Renown, I see thee on high!
(Tho' fairest) of the creatures of my love:
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My veins and overwhelm me,—yet I strove
Never to tamper with my nature then,
Nor call back my desire into the den
Wherein it had reposed for twenty years;
For I had hope ('twas mixed I own with fears)
That the strong lustre of my love would lead
My thoughts unto their fountain springs, and feed
My soul with light:—'Twas then I penned some tales
Where Beauty is the bride and her son ever
The God and master of my poor endeavour.
O mistress! thou shalt read the tales I have writ,
For love is there, and reason, and a wit
Which though it be abandoned at its birth,
And vanish for a time, shall rise again,
And in remoter places of this earth
Shall be a treasure to great men, whose fame
Shall be commingled with my lasting name,
Co-heritors of bright futurity.
O light of my Renown, I see thee on high!
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This is not vanity: it hath (bright faith!)
Its birth in darkness as the Lightning hath,
And yet it shall be seen from shore to shore,
And heralded by spirits who shall soar
On their own wings and mine unto the sky,
Supremest poets, who can never die;
For Genius, which looketh like the light
Is as the earth eternal, and for aye
Is busy with the brain, and still at night
Breathes beauty on the poet as he lies
In thought, and doth submit to be compressed,
And languisheth or brighteneth as is best;—
And so is verse conceived which never dies.
Its birth in darkness as the Lightning hath,
And yet it shall be seen from shore to shore,
And heralded by spirits who shall soar
On their own wings and mine unto the sky,
Supremest poets, who can never die;
For Genius, which looketh like the light
Is as the earth eternal, and for aye
Is busy with the brain, and still at night
Breathes beauty on the poet as he lies
In thought, and doth submit to be compressed,
And languisheth or brighteneth as is best;—
And so is verse conceived which never dies.
IV.
In youth, I read (with Cino) serious law,And should have read till now, but that I saw
How dull and selfish the civilian's toil,
Ne'er ranging from his desk unless to spoil;
And then they placed a cowl upon my head;
Ill change, and vain! for I was forest-bred,
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And made a young acquaintance with the sky,
With rocks and streams, rich fruits and blushing flowers,
And fed upon the looks of Morning, when
She parteth with the beauty of the Hours;
And so I quitted the most holy men
With whom I herded, and (thus willed my sire)
I sought fair Florence:—Here I did aspire
Unto a base renown, and gave my all
Of passion to a faithless woman's thrall.
I revelled; and (with riot and bright wine
Mad) did assert that span of life divine,
And shouted in the stern Carthusian's ear,
(Who having learned his lesson taught me mine)
“Love is but slavery and Faith a fear.”
O shame! for then I knew not Love nor Faith:
No knowledge of them had I more than hath
He who is mute, or deaf, or blind from birth,
Of speech or graceful motion. On the earth
I lived as doth the hermit, who hath given
His wisdom here away for hope of Heaven,
And shut the fountains of his thought with prayer:
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I travelled on in intellectual gloom,
Forgetting the dull poison in perfume;
But I awoke:—I saw a face as fair
As Dian's,—or thine own; yet touched with care
And pale, my princess,—tho' thy cheek is pale;
And with eyes downcast,—thus do thine prevail;
Her voice was silvered,—like my Naples' queen,
And her hair braided as thine own hath been,
When on some lamped feast, solely arrayed
In thy own costly beauty, thou hast strayed
(Like some white creature of the upper air)
Amongst us, marvelling at sight so fair.
This girl of whom I tell thee (—she is dead,
And thou wilt anger not at what is said)
I loved as I love thee. Less calm, perhaps,
Was that regard than the one now which wraps
My senses in its clear unchanging light;
And yet it yielded me most great delight:
But I was very young, and scarcely knew
Love's quick gradations, tho' it fann'd and flew
Round and around me, and my heart was fire,
Until borne onwards by my wing'd desire
I traversed an Elysium.—
And thou wilt anger not at what is said)
I loved as I love thee. Less calm, perhaps,
Was that regard than the one now which wraps
My senses in its clear unchanging light;
And yet it yielded me most great delight:
But I was very young, and scarcely knew
Love's quick gradations, tho' it fann'd and flew
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Until borne onwards by my wing'd desire
I traversed an Elysium.—
There may be
Passion like mine,—as true, certain more free,
But never was delight so large as mine
When I lay panting at Olympia's feet,
And she—she smiled! It was a smile heav'n-sweet,—
Like Juno's when by Jove she did recline
Clasped in the Cytherean zone. I sprung
Into her arms and there bewildered hung
On her red lip and gazed within her eye,
Which turned and misted when my own was nigh:
—Why do I tell thee this?—why, but because
I love thee, and submit to all the laws
Which the sweet tyranny of Love has sealed,
And Truth is one,—and lo! I have revealed.
Passion like mine,—as true, certain more free,
But never was delight so large as mine
When I lay panting at Olympia's feet,
And she—she smiled! It was a smile heav'n-sweet,—
Like Juno's when by Jove she did recline
Clasped in the Cytherean zone. I sprung
Into her arms and there bewildered hung
On her red lip and gazed within her eye,
Which turned and misted when my own was nigh:
—Why do I tell thee this?—why, but because
I love thee, and submit to all the laws
Which the sweet tyranny of Love has sealed,
And Truth is one,—and lo! I have revealed.
V.
When first I saw her—(young Olympia!)
She lived not far from Florence. One may stray
Unto the valley where her cottage stood
On a bright morning, be the season good,
Summer or latest spring: Her dwelling was
Fenced round by trees which shatter'd the fierce air
To fragments, pine and oak; and ash was there
Which leaves its offspring berries to the grass,
And citron woods that shook out vast perfume,
And myrtles dowried with their richest bloom.
There dwelt she, sylvan goddess!—there she first
Swam on my sight: I thought my heart would burst
With transport as I saw her float along
Tow'rds me, and slowly read the carved song
Which on the oaken rind my knife had writ:
There was some idle praise, but more of wit
Had grown and mingled with that forest verse,
And I would often with a laugh rehearse
The song, thinking at times that some weak maid
Might love such incense if she thither strayed:
But I was to be victim: I had gone
Like an erratic fire upon my course,
Over the Heaven of beauty, all alone,
And now I felt Love's chaste and supreme force
Press on my very heart, until in pain
I utter'd consecrated vows,—in vain.
—She perished in her youth; nor should I now
Have told thus much, but that upon thy brow
I saw forgiveness—('twas in fancy this)
And smiles that recognized my vanished bliss
As a thing risen from the grave, and bright
As ever in the summer of thy sight.
She lived not far from Florence. One may stray
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On a bright morning, be the season good,
Summer or latest spring: Her dwelling was
Fenced round by trees which shatter'd the fierce air
To fragments, pine and oak; and ash was there
Which leaves its offspring berries to the grass,
And citron woods that shook out vast perfume,
And myrtles dowried with their richest bloom.
There dwelt she, sylvan goddess!—there she first
Swam on my sight: I thought my heart would burst
With transport as I saw her float along
Tow'rds me, and slowly read the carved song
Which on the oaken rind my knife had writ:
There was some idle praise, but more of wit
Had grown and mingled with that forest verse,
And I would often with a laugh rehearse
The song, thinking at times that some weak maid
Might love such incense if she thither strayed:
But I was to be victim: I had gone
Like an erratic fire upon my course,
Over the Heaven of beauty, all alone,
And now I felt Love's chaste and supreme force
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I utter'd consecrated vows,—in vain.
—She perished in her youth; nor should I now
Have told thus much, but that upon thy brow
I saw forgiveness—('twas in fancy this)
And smiles that recognized my vanished bliss
As a thing risen from the grave, and bright
As ever in the summer of thy sight.
When pale Olympia died my heavy mind
Grief-smitten languished to a deep eclipse;
Yet brief, for I arose, half sorrow-blind,
And on her marble-pale (but lovely) lips
Laid the last benediction of true faith,
And grew an alter'd man. Great misery hath
A lustre in it, like the clouded moon,
When, of her darkness unattired soon,
She streams illuminating land and sea:
So grief soon cast undazzling light on me;
I saw the many faults, the many ills,
The purer pleasures too that haunt sweet life,
And I determined me to quit the strife
And fever of rebellious joy, which fills
The mind with dull oblivion and sad care,
And scorn of all things here, gracious or fair.
Grief-smitten languished to a deep eclipse;
Yet brief, for I arose, half sorrow-blind,
And on her marble-pale (but lovely) lips
Laid the last benediction of true faith,
And grew an alter'd man. Great misery hath
A lustre in it, like the clouded moon,
When, of her darkness unattired soon,
She streams illuminating land and sea:
So grief soon cast undazzling light on me;
I saw the many faults, the many ills,
The purer pleasures too that haunt sweet life,
And I determined me to quit the strife
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The mind with dull oblivion and sad care,
And scorn of all things here, gracious or fair.
VI.
Now will I tell thee how I kissed the air
Of Naples, and first faced its visions fair,—
Its blue skies and Palladian palaces,
(Like Eastern dreams,)—statues and terraces,
And columns lustrous with poetic thought;
All filled with groups arrayed in antique dress,
(Nymphs and Arcadian shapes, gods, goddesses)
From base to palmy capital marble-wrought,
And colonnades of marble, fountain-cool,
Amongst whose labyrinthine aisles the breeze
Roamed at its will, and gardens green, and trees
Fruited with gold, and walks of cypresses,
Where Revel held her reign (a gay misrule)
Nightly beneath the stars. And there the seas
Which wander in and out thy sunny bay,
Soothe Ischia and the crowned Procida,
Bright islands, with a thousand harmonies,
Or answer with rich cries, from shore to shore,
The anguish of the great Vesuvian roar,
When that earth-tempest, scattering dust and fire
From its red heart in torment, doth aspire
To Heaven, as did an angel.—Many sights
I saw, beneath the softest sun that lights
The Italian world to morning, tho' thine earth
Was then not teeming with its fiery birth,
But lay in huge repose, outstretched far,
Like a giant slain, or sad, or worn with war.—
Of Naples, and first faced its visions fair,—
Its blue skies and Palladian palaces,
(Like Eastern dreams,)—statues and terraces,
And columns lustrous with poetic thought;
All filled with groups arrayed in antique dress,
(Nymphs and Arcadian shapes, gods, goddesses)
From base to palmy capital marble-wrought,
And colonnades of marble, fountain-cool,
Amongst whose labyrinthine aisles the breeze
Roamed at its will, and gardens green, and trees
Fruited with gold, and walks of cypresses,
Where Revel held her reign (a gay misrule)
Nightly beneath the stars. And there the seas
Which wander in and out thy sunny bay,
Soothe Ischia and the crowned Procida,
Bright islands, with a thousand harmonies,
142
The anguish of the great Vesuvian roar,
When that earth-tempest, scattering dust and fire
From its red heart in torment, doth aspire
To Heaven, as did an angel.—Many sights
I saw, beneath the softest sun that lights
The Italian world to morning, tho' thine earth
Was then not teeming with its fiery birth,
But lay in huge repose, outstretched far,
Like a giant slain, or sad, or worn with war.—
But wherefore do I lend to thoughts like these
My perplex'd soul?—Thy calm-enchained seas
Are nothing now: thy purple Appenines
(Hither they stretch, clothed all with gloomy pines
From head to foot) are nothing: Summer now
Is nought; and Spring is gone; and Winter rears
His head and shakes the frost-locks on his brow,
And laughs at by-gone days and perish'd years:
O days!—yet one is my perpetual care,
Even now: I cannot lose that day so fair
(It shineth as a precious diamond set
In my poor round of thought) when first I met
In the Cordélier church, thee,—like a dream—
A fascination, into light or air
Dissolving,—chaunting thy melodious theme.
Ah, peerless princess! do not thou forget!—
My perplex'd soul?—Thy calm-enchained seas
Are nothing now: thy purple Appenines
(Hither they stretch, clothed all with gloomy pines
From head to foot) are nothing: Summer now
Is nought; and Spring is gone; and Winter rears
His head and shakes the frost-locks on his brow,
And laughs at by-gone days and perish'd years:
O days!—yet one is my perpetual care,
Even now: I cannot lose that day so fair
(It shineth as a precious diamond set
143
In the Cordélier church, thee,—like a dream—
A fascination, into light or air
Dissolving,—chaunting thy melodious theme.
Ah, peerless princess! do not thou forget!—
Oh! with what weary steps my feet had trod
Street, square, and murmuring beech, and garden sod,
Till harassed by the languor of the hour,
I stole for refuge to thy church:—The power
Of music was awake, and to the wind
Just stirring, the most solemn organ pined,
And spoke, and seemed in sorrow to complain,
While, mingling with its mystic tones, a strain
Of song fell dying from a priestess' lips,—
Such song it was (so sweet) as must eclipse
All sounds for ever. My dull spirit grew
Brigh ter—more tranquil; and I paced through
The stone-cold aisles and touched the altar steps:
There saw I—what?—a vision! in the depths
Of holy aspiration lost: Her eye—
Thine eye—(oh! thine it was) journeyed on high
Amongst the wondrous Heavens, with such a glance
As might allure a seraph from his trance
Of adoration, when the rebel king
Passes the constellations, and dares fling
Delusion in the eyes of angels bright.
I saw thy soft eye wander, like a light
Starry,—meteorous; at last it wept
Rich, happy tears, and midst its lashes slept.—
I stood—(how often have I told thee this!)
Enchanted to a vague oblivious bliss,
Like one who in a heedless hour hath drank
Odours Circean, and brain-charmed sank
Into some sweet futurity of joy:—
He, waking from his dream, with sore annoy
Feeleth that still he stands a thing world born,
Heart-smitten, self-despised, alone, forlorn.
Street, square, and murmuring beech, and garden sod,
Till harassed by the languor of the hour,
I stole for refuge to thy church:—The power
Of music was awake, and to the wind
Just stirring, the most solemn organ pined,
And spoke, and seemed in sorrow to complain,
While, mingling with its mystic tones, a strain
Of song fell dying from a priestess' lips,—
Such song it was (so sweet) as must eclipse
All sounds for ever. My dull spirit grew
Brigh ter—more tranquil; and I paced through
The stone-cold aisles and touched the altar steps:
There saw I—what?—a vision! in the depths
Of holy aspiration lost: Her eye—
Thine eye—(oh! thine it was) journeyed on high
144
As might allure a seraph from his trance
Of adoration, when the rebel king
Passes the constellations, and dares fling
Delusion in the eyes of angels bright.
I saw thy soft eye wander, like a light
Starry,—meteorous; at last it wept
Rich, happy tears, and midst its lashes slept.—
I stood—(how often have I told thee this!)
Enchanted to a vague oblivious bliss,
Like one who in a heedless hour hath drank
Odours Circean, and brain-charmed sank
Into some sweet futurity of joy:—
He, waking from his dream, with sore annoy
Feeleth that still he stands a thing world born,
Heart-smitten, self-despised, alone, forlorn.
Yet not thus I:—for, when my alarmed heart
Turned, like a bird to some magician's spell,
Tow'rd thee,—I saw thee still in beauty dwell
Before me, with rais'd eyes,—silent,—apart,
As though the sense of song would not depart.
—At last, a fine and undulating motion,
Like that of some sea-bloom which with the ocean
Moveth, surprized thee in thy holy lair,
And stole thee out of silence, lady fair!
I saw thee go,—scarce touching the cold earth,
As beautiful as Beauty at her birth,
Sea-goddess, when from out the foam she sprung
Full deity, and all the wide world hung
Mute and in marvel at perfection born.
I languish while I think of thee: The morn
Was not more bright, nor balmy eve as soft,
Nor music heard in dreams wandering aloft:
Thy cheek outblushed the sunset, and thy hand—
O white enchantment! I have read and scanned
Its page, and tasted (once) its perfect bliss:—
Turned, like a bird to some magician's spell,
Tow'rd thee,—I saw thee still in beauty dwell
Before me, with rais'd eyes,—silent,—apart,
As though the sense of song would not depart.
145
Like that of some sea-bloom which with the ocean
Moveth, surprized thee in thy holy lair,
And stole thee out of silence, lady fair!
I saw thee go,—scarce touching the cold earth,
As beautiful as Beauty at her birth,
Sea-goddess, when from out the foam she sprung
Full deity, and all the wide world hung
Mute and in marvel at perfection born.
I languish while I think of thee: The morn
Was not more bright, nor balmy eve as soft,
Nor music heard in dreams wandering aloft:
Thy cheek outblushed the sunset, and thy hand—
O white enchantment! I have read and scanned
Its page, and tasted (once) its perfect bliss:—
VII.
Fair creature pardon! Those were happy days
(Were not they, princess?) when within thy gaze
I basked as doth a snake beneath the sun:
—Yet, wherefore, after all that I have done
Of folly, call me like the serpent grey,
Which hath been wise esteemed from earliest day!
I only on the flowers of thought have hung
As yet, and I have not the adder's tongue,
Nor am I wary as that creature is:
Yet have I stolen from thee the poor bliss
Of ignorance, and wedded thy fine mind
To intellectual shapes and fancies bright,
And taught thee to look at the dazzling light
Of Truth, which striketh the dull sinner blind.
We two have read together glorious rhyme
Which Homer old and his great brothers writ,
In Attica and Greece, and the world lit
With Fame through everlasting thought and time.—
And we have read my master Petrarch's lays,
And fed his learned lamp with words of praise
Whereat he kindly smiled. Gracious is he:
(Like a good spirit hath he been to me,
A light in the perilous dark;) his soul is full
Of all that is wise and great and beautiful,
And wheresoever, princess, thou shalt go,
Wear thou his well-lamented songs of woe
Close to thy soul:—to mine they are a calm;
A shadow to my passion,—(like the palm
Which hangeth cool above the Indian's brow:)
A fountain where my brain may bathe its fever:
A refuge which is sure and tireth never;
And to my wounded thought sweet and perpetual balm.
(Were not they, princess?) when within thy gaze
I basked as doth a snake beneath the sun:
—Yet, wherefore, after all that I have done
146
Which hath been wise esteemed from earliest day!
I only on the flowers of thought have hung
As yet, and I have not the adder's tongue,
Nor am I wary as that creature is:
Yet have I stolen from thee the poor bliss
Of ignorance, and wedded thy fine mind
To intellectual shapes and fancies bright,
And taught thee to look at the dazzling light
Of Truth, which striketh the dull sinner blind.
We two have read together glorious rhyme
Which Homer old and his great brothers writ,
In Attica and Greece, and the world lit
With Fame through everlasting thought and time.—
And we have read my master Petrarch's lays,
And fed his learned lamp with words of praise
Whereat he kindly smiled. Gracious is he:
(Like a good spirit hath he been to me,
A light in the perilous dark;) his soul is full
Of all that is wise and great and beautiful,
And wheresoever, princess, thou shalt go,
Wear thou his well-lamented songs of woe
147
A shadow to my passion,—(like the palm
Which hangeth cool above the Indian's brow:)
A fountain where my brain may bathe its fever:
A refuge which is sure and tireth never;
And to my wounded thought sweet and perpetual balm.
Would I might call unto thy heart the hours,
Those pleasant hours, when we roamed so free,
Listening and talking by the Naples' sea!
Or gathering from thy father's gardens flowers
To braid thy hair on some feast-coming night:—
Oh! still most dear are those gone hours to me;
Yet dearer those when at the young eve-light,
Seated familiar near thy cedar tree,
We watched the coming moon, and saw how she
Journeyed above us on her sightless track,
And chased with serene looks the fleecy rack,
Or smiled as might the huntress-queen of Heaven
Floating, attended by her starry court,
O'er plain and mountain where their shadowy sport
Is again revealed,—or when all passion-driven,
Leaving the azure moors she seeks her way
Through cloud and tempest and the peal'd alarms
Of thunder, and the lightning's quivering wrath,
Guided by Love unto the Latmian's arms.—
Oh! so wast thou by love and duty guided,
And we were ruled by thee; for each one prided
Himself upon obedience,—not in vain,
For thou wast as a virtue without stain,
A visible perfection shining clear,
A creature fairer than man worships here.
Those pleasant hours, when we roamed so free,
Listening and talking by the Naples' sea!
Or gathering from thy father's gardens flowers
To braid thy hair on some feast-coming night:—
Oh! still most dear are those gone hours to me;
Yet dearer those when at the young eve-light,
Seated familiar near thy cedar tree,
We watched the coming moon, and saw how she
Journeyed above us on her sightless track,
And chased with serene looks the fleecy rack,
Or smiled as might the huntress-queen of Heaven
Floating, attended by her starry court,
O'er plain and mountain where their shadowy sport
Is again revealed,—or when all passion-driven,
148
Through cloud and tempest and the peal'd alarms
Of thunder, and the lightning's quivering wrath,
Guided by Love unto the Latmian's arms.—
Oh! so wast thou by love and duty guided,
And we were ruled by thee; for each one prided
Himself upon obedience,—not in vain,
For thou wast as a virtue without stain,
A visible perfection shining clear,
A creature fairer than man worships here.
—Mammon is worshipped here, an idol base;
And Belial, cozener, (varnished round with grace
And smiling sin)—and the blood-hungry God
Black Moloch, whose large stained feet have trod
Temples down to the dust and holy towers,
And ravaged the green fields and peasants' homes,
And filled the river wheresoe'er it roams
And the great Sea with gore: The forests deep
He hath cursed, and startled from their innocent sleep
And cast upon their tops his red rain showers;
And he hath killed the oak that stood for ages
To bear his slaughters on the ocean wide,
And he hath torn the books of saints and sages,
And struck the house of Science in his pride,
And drained the widow of her refuge tear,
(The last) and bade the young bride live alone,
And mocked the sire's grey hairs, the orphan's moan:—
Fierce war, in whatsoever shape he comes
A curse—Bellona-like, or fiery-red,
Or like a comet staring kingdoms dead,—
Or heralded by steeds and stormy drums,
Blood and the fear of death and pennons flying,
And close behind the murdered dead, and dying,
Insolent ever,—hateful in all hues
Figures and mocks and signs wherewith the Muse
Hath hid him from the execrating world;
Whether with flashing arms and flags unfurl'd
He stands outnumbering the thick leaves at noon,
Or sends his trumpets braying at the moon,
Or runs from rank to rank, like courage caught
From victors grey by those who never fought:—
[OMITTED]
But thou—O princess! thou wast born to save
The frail world from oblivion. Thou didst give
A light more lovely than did ever live
On earth or the wide waters, or in air,
Or such as are upon the blue sky lying,
To lift low passion from its brute despair,
And save the poetry of love from dying.
And Belial, cozener, (varnished round with grace
And smiling sin)—and the blood-hungry God
Black Moloch, whose large stained feet have trod
Temples down to the dust and holy towers,
And ravaged the green fields and peasants' homes,
And filled the river wheresoe'er it roams
And the great Sea with gore: The forests deep
He hath cursed, and startled from their innocent sleep
And cast upon their tops his red rain showers;
And he hath killed the oak that stood for ages
149
And he hath torn the books of saints and sages,
And struck the house of Science in his pride,
And drained the widow of her refuge tear,
(The last) and bade the young bride live alone,
And mocked the sire's grey hairs, the orphan's moan:—
Fierce war, in whatsoever shape he comes
A curse—Bellona-like, or fiery-red,
Or like a comet staring kingdoms dead,—
Or heralded by steeds and stormy drums,
Blood and the fear of death and pennons flying,
And close behind the murdered dead, and dying,
Insolent ever,—hateful in all hues
Figures and mocks and signs wherewith the Muse
Hath hid him from the execrating world;
Whether with flashing arms and flags unfurl'd
He stands outnumbering the thick leaves at noon,
Or sends his trumpets braying at the moon,
Or runs from rank to rank, like courage caught
From victors grey by those who never fought:—
[OMITTED]
But thou—O princess! thou wast born to save
150
A light more lovely than did ever live
On earth or the wide waters, or in air,
Or such as are upon the blue sky lying,
To lift low passion from its brute despair,
And save the poetry of love from dying.
I thought that beauty was a fable, framed
To enchant the soul of boyhood into day,
Lest it should lie in slumbers dark alway;
I thought that life would such chained dreams dissever;
But thou didst shine upon me:—I was shamed
And struck to adoration dumb, for ever.
Thou wonder of the earth! fable or dream
Never entranced like thee: no thought, nor theme,
Vision however wild nor loneliest mood,
Imagination, with her airy brood
Of spirits that go mad beyond the stars
(But here are chained and fettered by the bars
Of earthly things too palpable)—ev'n She
Cannot from out her empire wide and free
Call up a beauty beautiful like mine:—
I kiss thee from the distance, Queen divine!
To enchant the soul of boyhood into day,
Lest it should lie in slumbers dark alway;
I thought that life would such chained dreams dissever;
But thou didst shine upon me:—I was shamed
And struck to adoration dumb, for ever.
Thou wonder of the earth! fable or dream
Never entranced like thee: no thought, nor theme,
Vision however wild nor loneliest mood,
Imagination, with her airy brood
Of spirits that go mad beyond the stars
(But here are chained and fettered by the bars
Of earthly things too palpable)—ev'n She
Cannot from out her empire wide and free
151
I kiss thee from the distance, Queen divine!
VIII.
Why did I lose thee?—Wherefore was I sent
(Gently, 'tis true) away to banishment,
With such a passion clinging to my soul?—
I cannot tell thee half its huge controul,
Its fiery folly,—its so proud despair,
Its scorn,—aye of itself; nay, scorn of thee!
Dost thou not marvel how such things should be?
They were; but I am well;—and yet not thine!
(Gently, 'tis true) away to banishment,
With such a passion clinging to my soul?—
I cannot tell thee half its huge controul,
Its fiery folly,—its so proud despair,
Its scorn,—aye of itself; nay, scorn of thee!
Dost thou not marvel how such things should be?
They were; but I am well;—and yet not thine!
. . . And thou hast passed from me!—Do I repine?—
I ask my heart in vain;—it answereth not.
My soul hath but one sight:—It looks alone
Into the future, and the past which shone
So bright is now (save some few dreams) forgot.
—A change now as I write is happening.
My mind doth re-assume its strength, and fling
Away Hate, Envy, Melancholy,—blind
Errors which hung like clouds upon my mind,
And now I stand strong and with new born power
Arrayed, fit champion for a darker hour;
My sight is piercing bright: my reason free,
Unfettered, even by love for thee:—
I ask my heart in vain;—it answereth not.
My soul hath but one sight:—It looks alone
Into the future, and the past which shone
So bright is now (save some few dreams) forgot.
—A change now as I write is happening.
My mind doth re-assume its strength, and fling
Away Hate, Envy, Melancholy,—blind
152
And now I stand strong and with new born power
Arrayed, fit champion for a darker hour;
My sight is piercing bright: my reason free,
Unfettered, even by love for thee:—
Yet often, methinks, as I lie pondering
Under the evening boughs at sunset pale,
I hear thee,—like that strange voice wandering
Amongst the vernal thickets, ere winds bring
Perfume from roses or across the vale
Enchantments come from the lost nightingale,
Before the morn-fed lark her matin weaves,
Or the thrush whistles, or the stock-dove grieves,
I hear thee,—sweeter than all sounds that be;
I see thee, too, waving along:—I see
Thy black Italian glances, and they flash
Amorous delight upon me, till I dash
My burning forehead in the fringed stream,
And then I find thee (what thou art)—a dream!
This frets me, shakes me; but at last I rise
Emboldened by the pain, and through the skies
All starry tracking my sublunar way,
Utter,—as poets used when Pindus lay
Open to Heavenly ears, and verse was strong
With fate and peril,—some prophetic song.—
Under the evening boughs at sunset pale,
I hear thee,—like that strange voice wandering
Amongst the vernal thickets, ere winds bring
Perfume from roses or across the vale
Enchantments come from the lost nightingale,
Before the morn-fed lark her matin weaves,
Or the thrush whistles, or the stock-dove grieves,
I hear thee,—sweeter than all sounds that be;
I see thee, too, waving along:—I see
Thy black Italian glances, and they flash
Amorous delight upon me, till I dash
My burning forehead in the fringed stream,
And then I find thee (what thou art)—a dream!
This frets me, shakes me; but at last I rise
Emboldened by the pain, and through the skies
153
Utter,—as poets used when Pindus lay
Open to Heavenly ears, and verse was strong
With fate and peril,—some prophetic song.—
CONCLUSION.
Farewell!—The bars which hang around our prison
Are nigh dissolved: The sun hath set and risen
Again, and flung new morning on my world.
The aspect of the future is all wonder:
Innocuous lightnings, unallied to thunder,
Are every where in sport lustrously hurled.
Are nigh dissolved: The sun hath set and risen
Again, and flung new morning on my world.
The aspect of the future is all wonder:
Innocuous lightnings, unallied to thunder,
Are every where in sport lustrously hurled.
A Vision of the Deep, of Earth and Heaven,
Is opened on me,—and my sight is driven
Amongst the tombs and towers of men to be:
Eternity flows back with all her fountains,
And scythed Time lays bare the horizon mountains,
That hide the world to come even from thee.
Is opened on me,—and my sight is driven
Amongst the tombs and towers of men to be:
Eternity flows back with all her fountains,
And scythed Time lays bare the horizon mountains,
That hide the world to come even from thee.
154
I see a Paradise where peerless flowers
Laugh in perpetual light, and crystal bowers
Fashioned for lovers whispers always sweet;
And rich pavilions by the green woods shaded,
And airy shapes whose bows are violet-braided,
And forest walks trodden by delicate feet.
Laugh in perpetual light, and crystal bowers
Fashioned for lovers whispers always sweet;
And rich pavilions by the green woods shaded,
And airy shapes whose bows are violet-braided,
And forest walks trodden by delicate feet.
I see the lion and the lamb together,
The white dove hiding by the falcon's feather,
And the fierce vulture near his victim lie:
I see the peasant and the prince adorning
Equality and peace: I hear the warning
Of Earth, loud-telling her futurity.
The white dove hiding by the falcon's feather,
And the fierce vulture near his victim lie:
I see the peasant and the prince adorning
Equality and peace: I hear the warning
Of Earth, loud-telling her futurity.
I see the Deep, and midst its caverns hoary,
Gold, helmets, statues, famous once in story,
And jewels brighter than in Ormus' mine:
I see the shadows of the Deep (its daughters)
Floating afar amongst the azure waters,
Or streaming by my eyes in dance divine.
Gold, helmets, statues, famous once in story,
And jewels brighter than in Ormus' mine:
I see the shadows of the Deep (its daughters)
Floating afar amongst the azure waters,
Or streaming by my eyes in dance divine.
155
And in the air I see illustrious treasures
(On summits higher than the eagle measures)
Of amethystine light, and rainbow shapes;
And voices touch my ear, like running rivers
When first the Spirit of the Spring delivers
The world, and Winter like a dream escapes.
(On summits higher than the eagle measures)
Of amethystine light, and rainbow shapes;
And voices touch my ear, like running rivers
When first the Spirit of the Spring delivers
The world, and Winter like a dream escapes.
And now, a cloud, so vast no thought may span it,
Comes travelling on, and—as when some huge planet
Doth deluge the next orb with black eclipse,
It overshadoweth the world: Its hour
Is come—is gone, like the wild Bacchant's power,
Who dies with the bright frenzy on her lips.—
Comes travelling on, and—as when some huge planet
Doth deluge the next orb with black eclipse,
It overshadoweth the world: Its hour
Is come—is gone, like the wild Bacchant's power,
Who dies with the bright frenzy on her lips.—
—'Tis past:—and the wide scenes are gone for ever:
The past like some slow-fading lamp doth quiver:
And in the present only doth my soul
Live, like a spirit,—by the tempest shaken,
Yet full of that bright strength that shall awaken
The world from error, and its blind controul.—
The past like some slow-fading lamp doth quiver:
And in the present only doth my soul
Live, like a spirit,—by the tempest shaken,
Yet full of that bright strength that shall awaken
The world from error, and its blind controul.—
156
Farewell!—Ever the same, thy friend, thy lover,
Boccaccio liveth. Though the wide world over
Fate shall exile him, yet no change shall bend
His courage, or resolving firmly taken:
But, though by every friend and hope forsaken,
Still shall Boccaccio be thy hope, thy friend.
Boccaccio liveth. Though the wide world over
Fate shall exile him, yet no change shall bend
His courage, or resolving firmly taken:
But, though by every friend and hope forsaken,
Still shall Boccaccio be thy hope, thy friend.
Thy home lies far away: but every feature
Of thy soft beauty, thou imperial creature,
Within my heart of hearts will I retain:
Thy fortunes and mine own are far divided;
Thine to a throned chair, by duty guided,
Shines fair—Away, unto the sunny Spain!
Of thy soft beauty, thou imperial creature,
Within my heart of hearts will I retain:
Thy fortunes and mine own are far divided;
Thine to a throned chair, by duty guided,
Shines fair—Away, unto the sunny Spain!
Perhaps, with somewhat of my old emotion,
My eye may glance at times across the ocean,
And through the cloud-fed billows when they flee
To Heav'n, and through the phantom-peopled ether,
I may behold thee still,—wandering hither
An exile from thy olive shores,—to me.
My eye may glance at times across the ocean,
And through the cloud-fed billows when they flee
To Heav'n, and through the phantom-peopled ether,
I may behold thee still,—wandering hither
An exile from thy olive shores,—to me.
157
And should I see thee on the amorous waters
Treading with white feet bare, as once the daughters
Of wing'd magicians could by some fine spell,
I'll clasp thee, beauty of the world!—though madness
Rain down, or dazzling death, or endless sadness
Cling like remorse to me.—Farewell, farewell!—
Treading with white feet bare, as once the daughters
Of wing'd magicians could by some fine spell,
I'll clasp thee, beauty of the world!—though madness
Rain down, or dazzling death, or endless sadness
Cling like remorse to me.—Farewell, farewell!—
| The Flood of Thessaly | |