University of Virginia Library

Fresh blow the breezes from the blue Tyrol,
Down many a grassy slope and flowery knoll,
And bright green vineyards, which the fisher sees
In Guarda's mirror twined with mulberry-trees,
When down from Riva's mountain-shadowed shore,
Or Scarca's streams he plies with sail or oar.
Fresh blow the breezes, with untiring wing,
From Alp to plain, and all their voices bring,
From the drear regions of storm-drifted snow,
And gloomy forests, murmuring far below,
From the deep valley, which the sturdy steer
Ploughs with slow step, or where the muleteer
By craggy paths descending, hails the vine
Promise of rest, and cheers his patient line,
The cloud born torrent's wild and ceaseless swell,
The wood's long whisper, and the tinkling bell
Far up among those solitudes, the note
Of roaming heifer, or of browsing goat,
The hunter's challenge, or the herdsman's horn
From crag to crag by bounding echo borne,
Or sullen accents of some castle clock
That warns the warder on embattled rock;
With mingling sounds float far the heavens through,
Where faint the old, the wild wind gathers new,
And now it eddies round a little town
Girt with green hills, and streamlets gushing down
From cleft and gully in the mountains high,
In rock strewn channels swiftly racing by,
And in the midst there stands a market-place,
No pompous building, yet Italian grace
Can simple forms for use alone refine,
And please each peasant with its pure design.
'Twas this that reared for shelter and for shade
The lengthening vista of that cool arcade,
And carved above the windows fair to see
With scroll-wreathed arch, and crowning Fleur-de-lis;
'Twas this that fount its classic air that gave
And scooped the marble for the sparkling wave,
And where the ample vase its jet receives
The margin twined with lotus-imaged leaves;
No sculptured figures deck yon modest gate,
Nor laureate lines imperial guests relate,
Nor yet that word by faction still profaned
In cities proud, though better there maintained;
Gigantic blocks its rough hewn front compose,
With quiet grandeur meeting friends or foes,
Open without a sentinel it stands
And a long line of level road commands.

And now along that poplar shaded way
Come young and old, and rich and poor to-day,
For this the morrow of St. Julian's fair
When hither make the neighbourhood repair;
Glad time by wandering minstrel gaily sought,
For present joy, and food for future thought;
By many a maid anticipated long,
Then shall she join the revel and the song;
By thrifty burghers reckoned oft and well,
Then pence may turn, and crowns to ducats swell.
Together mixed they throng from every side,
Pour through the streets, and fill the market wide,
There gathering groups contentious struggles wage
To hear the Merry-Andrew on his stage,
There lowing cattle their green pastures mourn,
Unconscious victims, never to return;
And by that pillar stands a crop-eared ass,
And with sonorous jaws salutes the crowd who pass.
The silk-worm spinning on his mulberry tree,
Feasts on the leaves, in roses hums the bee;
The bright bird flutters in the summer fruit,
And trills glad carols, till the winds are mute,
As if they listed to a spirit nigh
Of sunshine born, some Ariel of the sky;
But the plain peasant who his profit sees
In silken produce from his wasted trees,
And reared those flowers to tempt the honey bees;
Who rests attentive in the evening air,
Nor stirs one step the wild bird's song to scare,
Well with that minstrel pleased his grapes to share
Sometimes but scantly gives, and grudges sore
The daily drone, still begging at his door,
And lest through this dissent and heresy
Should come to pass, as wont too oft to be,
And one bad sheep should poison all the plains,
Strict is the law St. Francis' rule ordains.
And fair without the convent needs must show,
And in poor guise its humble brethren go,
For men might think their tale a lazy farce
Who begging went with panniers, and an ass.
Thus Sancho came rejected to the fair,
Long his old master stood, and eyed him there,
And listened to his voice, and scanned him o'er,
And wondered, doubted, little, less, no more,
Then in a sudden passion thus he stormed,
“Oh, sordid wretch, a second time transformed,
Whom saints nor angels have from sin released,
Nor thy dark foretaste with thy fellow beasts,
Nor fasts nor vigils in yon holy fane,
Nor vows nor warning ever made in vain;
Who in thy cell so well hast used the time,
As now to bear a second load of crime,
From that vile purgatory scarcely free,
Sure 'tis thy fate that sends thee here to me,
And this same stick that served thee well of old,
Again must bring thee back to speech and human mould.
Nay, never shake thy head, nor yet deny,
The devil fails thee in so foul a lie,
Nor look with sidelong eyes, and backward ears,
For every kick thou shalt repay with tears.”
By this, around them grew the jeering crowd,
For strange their gestures, and their converse loud;
The affrighted ass, who all this lecture heard,
Still shook his head, nor understood a word;
The woodman stamped, and Sancho 'gan to bray,
He clutched his staff, but first was forced to pay;
Then having bought his own, he led him home,
And gave him earnest of the time to come;
And oft, and sore the shrinking beast must feel
How sharply fall thy blows, oh, soul-compelling zeal.