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17
Rêveries de Voyage
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III. ROME.
To the Statue of Love called ‘The Genius of the Vatican.’
Fair Love, by spoiling strangers torn
From thine Hellenic home,
For ever wingless left to mourn
In this high place of Rome;
From thine Hellenic home,
For ever wingless left to mourn
In this high place of Rome;
O Love, to me who love thee well,
Who fain would hear and mark,
The secret of thy sorrow tell,
And why thy brows are dark.
Who fain would hear and mark,
The secret of thy sorrow tell,
And why thy brows are dark.
It is not for thy vanished wings,
Thou madest no more mirth
Amid thine Hellas' lovely things,
In the sweet spring of earth.
Thou madest no more mirth
Amid thine Hellas' lovely things,
In the sweet spring of earth.
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And still sweet airs of Athens flow
From marble tresses shed;
The old Ionian glories glow,
O Love, around thy head.
From marble tresses shed;
The old Ionian glories glow,
O Love, around thy head.
The little Love who smiles below,
Thy loveliest brother boy,
Knows no such spell to loose his bow,
No care to cloud his joy.
Thy loveliest brother boy,
Knows no such spell to loose his bow,
No care to cloud his joy.
He bends to string his bending bow
In playful haste to harm;
Two thousand years that come and go
Have spared his childish charm.
In playful haste to harm;
Two thousand years that come and go
Have spared his childish charm.
But thou hast caught a deeper care;
His smile is not for thee;
Thou canst not all so lightly wear
Thine immortality.
His smile is not for thee;
Thou canst not all so lightly wear
Thine immortality.
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O is it that thy spirit knew
Its solitary fate,
That, whatsoe'er of beauty grew,
Thou might'st not find thy mate?
Its solitary fate,
That, whatsoe'er of beauty grew,
Thou might'st not find thy mate?
Or is it that thy thoughts had range
O'er the sad years to come,
Of beauty suffering envious change,
Of music marred and dumb,
O'er the sad years to come,
Of beauty suffering envious change,
Of music marred and dumb,
Of other gods and other lords
Than thine and thee aware,
Of struggling shapes and fiery swords
Vexing thy quiet air?
Than thine and thee aware,
Of struggling shapes and fiery swords
Vexing thy quiet air?
Ah, not to men who round thee rove
Thy secret wilt thou tell:
Thus then, O fairest, noblest Love,
O saddest Love, farewell.
Thy secret wilt thou tell:
Thus then, O fairest, noblest Love,
O saddest Love, farewell.
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Yet if some pang of stifled pain
Move thee from mystery,
In a dim dream returned again
Murmur a word to me.
Move thee from mystery,
In a dim dream returned again
Murmur a word to me.
So I might rise and speak it then
In understanding ears,
That word might stir in hearts of men
The inmost springs of tears.
In understanding ears,
That word might stir in hearts of men
The inmost springs of tears.
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IV. ROME.
Guido's ‘Aurora.’
We too see the clouds that surround her,
We too see the track of the car;
But none sees her herself, none hath found her,
There is none she hath honoured so far.
We too see the track of the car;
But none sees her herself, none hath found her,
There is none she hath honoured so far.
But this painter, scarce meriting, knew her
When he painted that picture of light;
O fortunate Reni! you drew her,
For she made herself plain to your sight,
When he painted that picture of light;
O fortunate Reni! you drew her,
For she made herself plain to your sight,
As she comes, the bright goddess of morning,
With the dawn in her eyes and her hair,
Making glad with a jubilant warning
The depths of the amorous air;
With the dawn in her eyes and her hair,
Making glad with a jubilant warning
The depths of the amorous air;
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And the car of the god follows after,
Led forth by the Hours on his way;
Led forth to the sound of their laughter,
And leading the light of the day.
Led forth by the Hours on his way;
Led forth to the sound of their laughter,
And leading the light of the day.
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VIII. LEAVING ATHENS.
ΟΛΙΓΟΝ ΤΕ ΦΙΛΟΝ ΤΕ.
No relic rare, O Attic soil, from thy fair shores returning,
No clay or marble disinterred I bear beyond the sea;
Too many such lament their home in stranger halls sojourning—
The remnants of thine ancient art, let these abide with thee.
No clay or marble disinterred I bear beyond the sea;
Too many such lament their home in stranger halls sojourning—
The remnants of thine ancient art, let these abide with thee.
One simple spoil thou wilt not grudge of all thy treasure-troven,
One gracious gift, beloved land, I take with conscience clear—
A handful of thy wild-flowers, by fairest fingers woven,
And a wreath of Attic olive-leaves, “a little thing but dear.”
One gracious gift, beloved land, I take with conscience clear—
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And a wreath of Attic olive-leaves, “a little thing but dear.”
Hymettus' golden honey-bees that haunt his thymy covers
Of all their joyous pasturage have no such joy as mine,
For o'er these petals dried and dead a subtler fragrance hovers,
And Memory can mix from these a honey more divine.
Of all their joyous pasturage have no such joy as mine,
For o'er these petals dried and dead a subtler fragrance hovers,
And Memory can mix from these a honey more divine.
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