University of Virginia Library


52

VIA FELICE.

'T was in the Via Felice
My friend his dwelling made,
The Roman Via Felice.
Half sunshine, half in shade.
A marble God stands near it
That once deserved a shrine,
And, veteran of the old world,
The Barberini pine.
A very Roman is he
Whom Age makes not so wise
But that each coming winter
Is still a new surprise.
But I lodged near the Convent
Whose bells did hallow noon,
And all the lesser hours
With sweet recurrent tune.

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They lent their solemn cadence
To all the thoughtless day;
The heart, so oft it heard them,
Was lifted up to pray.
And where the lamp was lighted
At twilight, on the wall,
Serenely sat Madonna,
And smiled to bless us all.
Those voices, illustrating
Their bargains, from the street,
Shaming Thought's narrow meanness
With music infinite.
Those men of stately stature,
Those women, fair of shape,
That watched the chestnuts roasting,
The fig, and clustered grape;
All this, my daily pleasure
That made none poor to give,
Was near the Via Felice
Where Horace loved to live.

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I see him from the window
That ne'er my heart forgets,
He buys from yonder maiden
My morning violets.
Not ill he chose those flowers
With mild, reproving eyes,
Emblems of tender chiding,
And love divinely wise.
For his were generous learning,
And reconciling Art;
Oh! not with fleeting presence
My friend and I could part.
His work of consolation
Abode when he was gone,
A tower of Beauty lifted
From ruins widely strewn.
Our own inconstant heavens
Were o'er us, when we met
Before a longer parting,
Not seen, nor dreamed of, yet.

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'T was when the Spring's soft breathing
Restores the frozen sense,
And Patience, dull with Winter,
Is glad in recompense.
There, in our pleasant converse,
As by one thought, we said:
This is the Via Felice,
Where friends together tread.
Again, my friend turned seaward,
Again, athwart the wave
He flung the wayward fortune
His fiery planet gave.
And, in that heart of Paris
That hides distress and wrong
So cold, with show and splendor,
So dumb, with dance and song;
Drawn, by some hidden current
Of unknown agony,
To seek a throb responsive,
Our Horace sank to die.

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Oh! not where he is lying
With dear ancestral dust,
Not where his household traces
Grow sad and dim with rust;
But in the Ancient City
And from the quaint old door,
I'm watching, at my window
His coming, evermore.
For Death's Eternal city
Has yet some happy street,
'T is in the Via Felice
My friend and I shall meet.