Feda with Other Poems Chiefly Lyrical. By Rennell Rodd ... With an Etching by Harper Pennington |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
|
|
| I. | I.—PADUA. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | Feda with Other Poems |  |
201
I.—PADUA.
Nay, friend Boccaccio, you do reason well,
The past were all forgotten,—let us leave
All rancorous harbourings to meaner men!
I said the change was sudden, for last year
I made long stay in Florence, in my land,
If lands of sires exiled be fatherland,
Yet found but frosty greeting though I came
With Padua's crown still green upon my brow,—
Disherited and orphaned of my own.
The past were all forgotten,—let us leave
All rancorous harbourings to meaner men!
I said the change was sudden, for last year
I made long stay in Florence, in my land,
If lands of sires exiled be fatherland,
Yet found but frosty greeting though I came
With Padua's crown still green upon my brow,—
Disherited and orphaned of my own.
And now, you bring me greeting in the name
Of Florence, with such honeyed words as these,
With “Master, teacher, glory of our land!”
Such generous liberties, freewill to choose
My chair in your new made Academy,
Such terms of courtesy as never yet
So proud a township humbled to convey:
And I, how shall I answer? Had it been
Mine from the first so, in my father's land,
To wear this robe of honour, mine to watch
The Tuscan students gather to my chair,
To teach communion with the mighty dead,
The hero voices of the hero-time,
In the great Arno city, I had found
The end of all ambitions,—and you come
To bring me this from Florence;—well, well, well.—
The change is somewhat sudden, I have said,
Yet am I not less grateful, who but we
Should be exempt from memories of wrong,
And gladly greet the late return of light
That lifts the shadows of things past and dead.
Of Florence, with such honeyed words as these,
With “Master, teacher, glory of our land!”
Such generous liberties, freewill to choose
My chair in your new made Academy,
Such terms of courtesy as never yet
So proud a township humbled to convey:
And I, how shall I answer? Had it been
202
To wear this robe of honour, mine to watch
The Tuscan students gather to my chair,
To teach communion with the mighty dead,
The hero voices of the hero-time,
In the great Arno city, I had found
The end of all ambitions,—and you come
To bring me this from Florence;—well, well, well.—
The change is somewhat sudden, I have said,
Yet am I not less grateful, who but we
Should be exempt from memories of wrong,
And gladly greet the late return of light
That lifts the shadows of things past and dead.
Yet, friend Boccaccio, I would say, my years
Are measured, and by now the tide of days
Is set to its appointed ebb and flow:
My life has found new havens, and secure
From envious winds and storms that pass the bar.
And most of all my heart's desire is set
Toward my throne of exile, and a grave
Among the low French cypresses; the years
Grow more and many since I sojourned there,
Where all my days of youth were glorified,
Where most of all my name is linked with earth.
Are measured, and by now the tide of days
Is set to its appointed ebb and flow:
My life has found new havens, and secure
From envious winds and storms that pass the bar.
And most of all my heart's desire is set
Toward my throne of exile, and a grave
Among the low French cypresses; the years
Grow more and many since I sojourned there,
203
Where most of all my name is linked with earth.
Friend, say in Florence that I thank them well,
And take their late repentance to my heart,
As pledge of labours that were not in vain,
And crown of all my honours, but my years
Are many, and now I go a pilgrimage
To rest awhile by a belovéd grave,
And commune with a presence I shall find
About the the haunted meadows of Vaucluse.
And take their late repentance to my heart,
As pledge of labours that were not in vain,
And crown of all my honours, but my years
Are many, and now I go a pilgrimage
To rest awhile by a belovéd grave,
And commune with a presence I shall find
About the the haunted meadows of Vaucluse.
| Feda with Other Poems | |