 | Poems and Transcripts |  |
83
THE DESERTED VILLA.
Well does the dying old place fit in with a framework of Autumn;When the wild vine on the wall turneth from green into red;
When the far hills of Æmilia have turned to a shadowy russet;
When, in the plain that surrounds, sober and sad are the tints;
When, in the fields that are bare, the smoke of the weeds that are burning
Bluish and curling ascends, filling the air with a haze;
When the tough leaves of the poplar lie flat on the path that they cover,
Yellow and brilliant and smooth, glued to each other by dew;
When the heat that is banished, but lingering still in the noontide,
Draws from all Nature around odours autumnal and sweet;
When every flower still left emits a faint perfume of sadness;
When on the world that she leaves, Beauty expiring smiles.
Beautiful villa deserted! The hollyhocks tall and ungainly
Lord it unchecked o'er the place; marigolds cover the beds.
Where, in the days that are gone, the choicest flowers abounded,
These are all that remain, these are the things that adorn.
Hens from a neighbouring farm are pecking about in the gravel
Where, in his plumage superb, ventured the peacock alone.
Shedding its pointed leaves, an old knotted willow is weeping
Over the wrought-iron gate, seldom or never unlocked.
84
Life-size, stands in the dress worn by Great Frederick's troops.
Poor useless old sentinel! While thou art guarding the entrance,
Dost thou not know that the foe taketh the house in the rear?
Cruel Neglect is the enemy; stealthily creeping in silence,
Sapping and mining he comes; soon will he reach even thee.
Mark how the wily besieger approaches the house through the garden,
Raising weedy stockades, parallels forming of moss.
Now he reaches the walls, removing the plaster by patches,
Leaving a stain on the stone where he but places his hand.
Deep on the light iron balconies, see how the rust he is spreading,
Leaving no trace of the gold decking the gateway of yore;
E'en on the realm of Time the treacherous foe is encroaching.
Look at the sun-dial there, traced on the wall of the house:
Almost effaced are its numerals; while, with a truth that is mournful,
Stands written o'er it this verse, faint, but legible still:
Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis;
All on the dial is pale, all save the time-marking shade.
Year after year passes by, the willow renewing its pale-green
Pointed leaves in the spring, near to the wrought-iron gate;
Shedding them yellow in autumn, near to the earthenware sentry,
Filling the brim of his hat, lying in heaps at his feet.
Nobody cares for the beautiful place; but the stranger who passes
Looks through the railings awhile, turning in sadness away.
| Poems and Transcripts | |