 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
145
AT THE VILLA CONTI.
What peace and quiet in this villa sleep!
Here let us pause, nor chase for pleasure on,
Nothing can be more exquisite than this—
Work, for the nonce farewell—this day we'll give
To fallow joys of perfect idleness.
Here let us pause, nor chase for pleasure on,
Nothing can be more exquisite than this—
Work, for the nonce farewell—this day we'll give
To fallow joys of perfect idleness.
See how the old house lifts its face of light
Against the pallid olives that behind
Throng up the hill.—Look down this vista's shade
Of dark square shaven ilexes, where spirts
The fountain's thin white thread, and blows away.
And mark! along the terraced balustrade
Two contadine stopping in the shade,
With copper vases poised upon their heads,
How their red jackets tell against the green!
Against the pallid olives that behind
Throng up the hill.—Look down this vista's shade
Of dark square shaven ilexes, where spirts
The fountain's thin white thread, and blows away.
And mark! along the terraced balustrade
Two contadine stopping in the shade,
With copper vases poised upon their heads,
How their red jackets tell against the green!
Old, all is old—what charm there is in age!
Do you believe this villa when 't was new
Was half so beautiful as now it seems?
Look at these balustrades of travertine,
Had they the charm when fresh and sharply carved
As now that they are stained and grayed with time
And mossed with lichens, every grim old mask
That grins upon their pillars bearded o'er
With waving sprays of slender maiden-hair?
Ah no! I cannot think it.—Things of art
Snatch nature's graces from the hand of Time.
Do you believe this villa when 't was new
Was half so beautiful as now it seems?
Look at these balustrades of travertine,
Had they the charm when fresh and sharply carved
146
And mossed with lichens, every grim old mask
That grins upon their pillars bearded o'er
With waving sprays of slender maiden-hair?
Ah no! I cannot think it.—Things of art
Snatch nature's graces from the hand of Time.
Here will we sit and let the sleeping noon
Doze on and dream into the afternoon,
While all the mountains shake in opal light,
Forever shifting, till the sun's last glance
Transfigures with its splendor all our world.
Doze on and dream into the afternoon,
While all the mountains shake in opal light,
Forever shifting, till the sun's last glance
Transfigures with its splendor all our world.
Hark! the cicala crackles mid the trees,
How shrilly! and the toppling fountain spills
The music of its silvery rain, how soft!
Into the broad clear basin—zigzag darts
The sudden dragon-fly across, or hangs
Poised in the sun with shimmer of glazed wings.
How shrilly! and the toppling fountain spills
The music of its silvery rain, how soft!
Into the broad clear basin—zigzag darts
The sudden dragon-fly across, or hangs
Poised in the sun with shimmer of glazed wings.
And there the exquisite campagna lies
Dreaming what dreams of olden pomp and war,
Of Love, and Pain, and Joy that it has known!
Sadder, perhaps, but dearer than of yore,
With wild-flowers overstrewn, like some loved grave;
Its silent stretches haunted by vast trains
Of ghostly shapes, where stalks majestical,
Mid visionary pomp of vanished days,
The buried grandeur of imperial Rome;
Moaned over by great winds that from the sea
Sweep inland, and by wandering clouds of tears;
How it lies throbbing there beneath the sun,
So silent with its ruins on its breast!
There, far Soracte on the horizon piles
Its lonely peak—and gazes on the sea;
There Leonessa couches in repose,
And stern Gennaro rears its purple ridge,
And wears its ermine late into the spring.
When all beneath is one vast lush of flowers,
And poppies paint whole acres with one sweep
Of their rich scarlet, and entangling vines
Shroud the low walls, and drop from arch to arch
Of the far-running lessening aqueducts,
On his broad shoulders still the imperial robe
Of winter hangs—and leashed within his caves
The violent Tramontana lies in wait.
Dreaming what dreams of olden pomp and war,
Of Love, and Pain, and Joy that it has known!
Sadder, perhaps, but dearer than of yore,
With wild-flowers overstrewn, like some loved grave;
Its silent stretches haunted by vast trains
Of ghostly shapes, where stalks majestical,
Mid visionary pomp of vanished days,
The buried grandeur of imperial Rome;
147
Sweep inland, and by wandering clouds of tears;
How it lies throbbing there beneath the sun,
So silent with its ruins on its breast!
There, far Soracte on the horizon piles
Its lonely peak—and gazes on the sea;
There Leonessa couches in repose,
And stern Gennaro rears its purple ridge,
And wears its ermine late into the spring.
When all beneath is one vast lush of flowers,
And poppies paint whole acres with one sweep
Of their rich scarlet, and entangling vines
Shroud the low walls, and drop from arch to arch
Of the far-running lessening aqueducts,
On his broad shoulders still the imperial robe
Of winter hangs—and leashed within his caves
The violent Tramontana lies in wait.
Dear, dear old Rome—well! nothing is like Rome;
Others may please me, her alone I love.
She is no place as other cities are—
But like a mother and a mistress too,
The soul of places, unto whom I give
How gladly all my heart, and wish it more,
That I might give more. After life with her,
With her sweet counsel, tender grace, large thought,
And great calm beauty, all seems trivial.
Ask me not why I love, nor count her faults;
Who ever gave a reason for his love?
Others may please me, her alone I love.
She is no place as other cities are—
But like a mother and a mistress too,
The soul of places, unto whom I give
How gladly all my heart, and wish it more,
That I might give more. After life with her,
With her sweet counsel, tender grace, large thought,
And great calm beauty, all seems trivial.
Ask me not why I love, nor count her faults;
Who ever gave a reason for his love?
148
Let not this day go by unconsciously;
No! let us taste it—taste it as it goes,
Not gulp it at one draught like common wine,
But taste each drop, and say, “how exquisite!”
Stay, stay with us, oh! dear and lovely day,
Would we could hold you back forever here.
No! let us taste it—taste it as it goes,
Not gulp it at one draught like common wine,
But taste each drop, and say, “how exquisite!”
Stay, stay with us, oh! dear and lovely day,
Would we could hold you back forever here.
What long sweet respiration of delight
In these old places, and in this old world;
How dear this villa, with its crumbling pride,
Its time-wryed balustrades, its shadowy walks
Through the thick ilexes—its fountain stairs
Down which the sheeted water leaps alive
To heap the basin where the gold-fish hang.
Not half so dear to generations gone,
To those who planned the gardens and enslaved
The free stream of the mountain here to pour
When loosened from its prison into light,
Its mounting splendor and its cool sweet song
As unto us, who after Time hath laid
Its hand on all and given it a grace
No newness ever owned—here lie and muse.
In these old places, and in this old world;
How dear this villa, with its crumbling pride,
Its time-wryed balustrades, its shadowy walks
Through the thick ilexes—its fountain stairs
Down which the sheeted water leaps alive
To heap the basin where the gold-fish hang.
Not half so dear to generations gone,
To those who planned the gardens and enslaved
The free stream of the mountain here to pour
When loosened from its prison into light,
Its mounting splendor and its cool sweet song
As unto us, who after Time hath laid
Its hand on all and given it a grace
No newness ever owned—here lie and muse.
Here walked the Falconieri in their pride
Centuries ago—here the Colonna came,
Vittoria with them—Angelo himself,
Gazing upon her as she gravely moved
And sighing for her, while Fabrizio's sword
Clanged on the gravel—here the D'Este came,
From Tivoli where o'er dark cypresses
Their villa looks above the billowy land
Of the Campagna;—ah! how sweet their names
Sound, rousing pensive echoes in the heart.
Here woman in her first young budding grace
To manhood's earliest prime of passion pledged
The faith of innocent love, the while their hearts
Ran over into sweet Italian words—
Soft dropping vowels. They are now but dust;
But yet their imaged life re-lives in us
A charmed existence. Down such paths as these
Stole Romeo to his Juliet, when the moon
Looked at her quivering image in the cup
Of such broad fountain;—by such balustrade
Fair Beatrice, her wit scarce sheathed in Love,
Ran like a lapwing close unto the ground;—
Under the shadow of such deep green woods
Francesca read upon the fated day
That lives in Dante's rhyme;—Petrarca walked
Alone and thoughtful through such silent paths
Embalming Laura in his amber song—
Here Tasso roamed, and o'er such terraces
That happy group of dark-eyed women sat,
For whom Boccaccio told his charming tales.
Centuries ago—here the Colonna came,
Vittoria with them—Angelo himself,
Gazing upon her as she gravely moved
And sighing for her, while Fabrizio's sword
Clanged on the gravel—here the D'Este came,
From Tivoli where o'er dark cypresses
149
Of the Campagna;—ah! how sweet their names
Sound, rousing pensive echoes in the heart.
Here woman in her first young budding grace
To manhood's earliest prime of passion pledged
The faith of innocent love, the while their hearts
Ran over into sweet Italian words—
Soft dropping vowels. They are now but dust;
But yet their imaged life re-lives in us
A charmed existence. Down such paths as these
Stole Romeo to his Juliet, when the moon
Looked at her quivering image in the cup
Of such broad fountain;—by such balustrade
Fair Beatrice, her wit scarce sheathed in Love,
Ran like a lapwing close unto the ground;—
Under the shadow of such deep green woods
Francesca read upon the fated day
That lives in Dante's rhyme;—Petrarca walked
Alone and thoughtful through such silent paths
Embalming Laura in his amber song—
Here Tasso roamed, and o'er such terraces
That happy group of dark-eyed women sat,
For whom Boccaccio told his charming tales.
Oh! sweet romantic memories, ye exhale
Your odorous breath amid these sylvan shades
To intoxicate the senses. Gentle forms
Ye rise like visions here among the trees,
In fair procession. In the fountain's dim
And whispering murmur are your voices hid.
Ye speak of Love—ye summon up again
Blind, sweet sensations, feelings dreamy, faint
As the prophetic light round the young moon;
Wild hopes that overflow Life's parapets
Rise at your voice, tempered and sobered down,
And with a haze of sadness—sadness full
Of tenderest joy and not to be exchanged
For all those wilder raptures—rise again
With trains of memories, forms that are no more,
And smiles of light that pierce Thought's shadowy wood.
Your odorous breath amid these sylvan shades
To intoxicate the senses. Gentle forms
Ye rise like visions here among the trees,
In fair procession. In the fountain's dim
And whispering murmur are your voices hid.
150
Blind, sweet sensations, feelings dreamy, faint
As the prophetic light round the young moon;
Wild hopes that overflow Life's parapets
Rise at your voice, tempered and sobered down,
And with a haze of sadness—sadness full
Of tenderest joy and not to be exchanged
For all those wilder raptures—rise again
With trains of memories, forms that are no more,
And smiles of light that pierce Thought's shadowy wood.
Ah! were ye here with whom in Childhood's days,
Or in the season of expanding thought
I roamed and dreamed and shaped a thousand vague
Delicious fancies—were ye at my side!
Yet no! in vision only could we touch
That Future which is Present now to me—
Present in Time, but ah! how sadly changed
From what we painted. Not the ocean drear,
With its blind waste of washing, weltering waves
Yawns now between us,—finer line than thought
Can ever trace, yet not to be o'er-reached,
And vaster than the widest stretch of sea,
Is drawn between your life beyond and ours.
Or in the season of expanding thought
I roamed and dreamed and shaped a thousand vague
Delicious fancies—were ye at my side!
Yet no! in vision only could we touch
That Future which is Present now to me—
Present in Time, but ah! how sadly changed
From what we painted. Not the ocean drear,
With its blind waste of washing, weltering waves
Yawns now between us,—finer line than thought
Can ever trace, yet not to be o'er-reached,
And vaster than the widest stretch of sea,
Is drawn between your life beyond and ours.
Are these dreams nothing? are these idle hours
Loss to the soul? Believe it not, dear friend!
These fallow times enrich our choicest powers
And sweeten strength which else would grow too hard.
We will not take the joy we do not earn,
So vain are we—and yet these idle joys
That Nature offers we can never win—
Out of her grace she gives, but not for pay.
The charm of Beauty slips away from Work.
So let us live to-day, not as the bee
Bustling and busy at our nervous toil—
(Of all God's creatures most I hate the bee,
Heartless and selfish, and intent on gain,
Armed with a sting and banging rudely round
With irritated noise among the flowers,)
But float as lazy as the butterfly
Whose idle wings beauty is glad to paint,
The brother of the rose on which he lights.
To-morrow for the pictures we shall paint—
To-morrow for the statue we shall carve—
To-day we'll dream beneath the open sky
And take our color, as the flowers take theirs.
Loss to the soul? Believe it not, dear friend!
151
And sweeten strength which else would grow too hard.
We will not take the joy we do not earn,
So vain are we—and yet these idle joys
That Nature offers we can never win—
Out of her grace she gives, but not for pay.
The charm of Beauty slips away from Work.
So let us live to-day, not as the bee
Bustling and busy at our nervous toil—
(Of all God's creatures most I hate the bee,
Heartless and selfish, and intent on gain,
Armed with a sting and banging rudely round
With irritated noise among the flowers,)
But float as lazy as the butterfly
Whose idle wings beauty is glad to paint,
The brother of the rose on which he lights.
To-morrow for the pictures we shall paint—
To-morrow for the statue we shall carve—
To-day we'll dream beneath the open sky
And take our color, as the flowers take theirs.
Hark! from the ilexes the nightingale
Begins its beating prelude, like the throbs
Of some quick heart, then pauses, then again
Bursts into fitful jets of gurgling song,
Then beats again; and listen! rising now
To its full rapture thrills the shadowy wood
With the delirious passion of its voice;
With dizzy trills, and low, deep, tearful notes,
And hurried heaping of voluptuous tones
That blent together in one intricate maze
Of sweet inextricable melodies,
Whirl on and up, and circling lift and lift,
And burst at last in scattered showers of notes,
And leave us the sweet, silent afternoon.
Begins its beating prelude, like the throbs
Of some quick heart, then pauses, then again
Bursts into fitful jets of gurgling song,
Then beats again; and listen! rising now
To its full rapture thrills the shadowy wood
With the delirious passion of its voice;
With dizzy trills, and low, deep, tearful notes,
152
That blent together in one intricate maze
Of sweet inextricable melodies,
Whirl on and up, and circling lift and lift,
And burst at last in scattered showers of notes,
And leave us the sweet, silent afternoon.
Rome, July 5, 1852.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |