 | Under the dawn |  |
194
SONNETS.
ENGLAND TO ITALY.
[_]
[England's Charge to Italy on sending Keats, her well-loved son, thither for the restoration of his health, and Italy's answer. Written after reading Wordsworth's sonnet on the departure of Sir Walter Scott for Naples.]
Italia! Sister! to thy tender charge
With confidence I give my poet child;
Our winds and strenuous waves were all too wild
For him—his spirit lingers on the marge
Of icy death—approach, swift-footed barge,
And bear him o'er the waters undefiled,
To regions where perpetual Sol has smiled;
Let peace be his, and restoration large.
With confidence I give my poet child;
Our winds and strenuous waves were all too wild
For him—his spirit lingers on the marge
Of icy death—approach, swift-footed barge,
And bear him o'er the waters undefiled,
To regions where perpetual Sol has smiled;
Let peace be his, and restoration large.
Then let him with a vigorous step re-seek
The barrier of my iron-girdled shore,
Sweet-voiced as ever, but no longer weak,—
Singing from lustier throat than heretofore,—
With soft Italia's bloom upon his cheek;
Be speedy, sail, and smite the furrows, oar!
The barrier of my iron-girdled shore,
Sweet-voiced as ever, but no longer weak,—
Singing from lustier throat than heretofore,—
With soft Italia's bloom upon his cheek;
Be speedy, sail, and smite the furrows, oar!
195
ITALY TO ENGLAND.
He was too fair! I loved him overmuch.
Sweet sister, is it altogether ill
That he no more can feel the wintry chill,
No more be pierced by sorrow's icy touch?
That he has, once for all, escaped the clutch
Of poverty and loneliness and scorn,
And that another poet has been born
Into Elysian fields, made fair with such?
Sweet sister, is it altogether ill
That he no more can feel the wintry chill,
No more be pierced by sorrow's icy touch?
That he has, once for all, escaped the clutch
Of poverty and loneliness and scorn,
And that another poet has been born
Into Elysian fields, made fair with such?
I laid a tender hand upon his head—
Alas! the love and passion in it slew;
Now is he numbered with the gifted dead,
Whose wings divide the unfathomable blue
Of my bright heaven;—and their fame is shed
Upon me in remembrance ever new.
Alas! the love and passion in it slew;
Now is he numbered with the gifted dead,
Whose wings divide the unfathomable blue
Of my bright heaven;—and their fame is shed
Upon me in remembrance ever new.
| Under the dawn | |