The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Still rise around that lake well sung
New growths as boon and good
As when, by sunshine saddened, long
Beside its margin stood
That northern youth, and o'er it breathed a lay
Which praised things beauteous, mourning their decay.

As then, great Nature, ‘kind to sloth,’
Lets drop o'er all the land
Her gifts, the fair and fruitful both,
Into the sleeper's hand:

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On golden ground once more she paints as then
Starred cistus bower, and convent-brightened glen.

Still o'er the flashing waters lean
The mulberry and the maize,
And roof of vines whose purple screen
Tempers those piercing rays,
Which here forego their fiercer shafts, and sleep,
Subdued, in crimson cells, and verdurous chambers deep.

And still in many a sandy creek
Light waves run on and up,
While the foam-bubbles winking break
Around the channelled cup:
Against the rock they toss the bleeding gourd,
Or fret on marble stair and skiff unmoored.

Fulfilled thus far the Poet's words:
And yet a truth, that hour
By him unsung, upon his chords
Descends, their ampler dower.
He sang of Nature's cyclic life, nor knew
That frailer shape he mourned should bloom perpetual too.

There still—not skilful to retract
A glance as kind as keen—
By the same southern sunset backed
There still that Maid is seen:
Through song's high grace there stands she! from her eyes
Still beam the cordial mirth, the unshamed surprise!

Not yet those parted lips remit
A smile that grows and grows:

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The Titianic morning yet
Breaks from that cheek of rose:
Still from her locks the breeze its sweetness takes:
Around her white feet still the ripple fawns and rakes.

And, bright'ning in the radiance cast
By her on all around,
That shore lives on, while song may last,
Love-consecrated ground;
Lives like that isthmus, headland half, half isle,
Which smiled to meet Catullus' homeward smile.

O Sirmio! thou that shedd'st thy fame
O'er old Verona's lake,
Henceforth Varese without blame
Thine honours shall partake:
A Muse hath sung her, on whose front with awe
Thy nymphs had gazed as though great Virtue's self they saw!

What Shape is that, though fair severe,
Which fleets triumphant by
Imaged in yonder mirror clear,
And seeks a hardier sky,
With locks succinct beneath a threat'ning crest—
Like Juno in the brow, like Pallas in the breast?

A Muse that flatters nothing base
In man, nor aught infirm,
‘Sows the slow olive for a race
Unborn.’ The destined germ,
The germ alone of Fame she plants, nor cares
What time that secular tree its deathless fruitage bears;

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Pleased rather with her function sage—
To interpret Nature's heart;
The words on Wisdom's sacred page
To wing through metric art
With life; and in a chariot of sweet sound
Down-trodden Truth to lift, and waft, the world around.

Hail, Muse, whose crown, soon won or late,
Is Virtue's, not thine own!
Hail, Verse, that tak'st thy strength and state
From Thought's auguster throne!
Varese too would hail thee! Hark that song—
Her almond bowers it thrills and rings her groves along!

October 4, 1856.

University of Virginia Library

ODE, WRITTEN BESIDE THE LAGO VARESE.