University of Virginia Library

THE CAMPO SANTO, AT NAPLES.

Still here, where lovely Nature spreads abroad
Her fairest charms, all tread the self-same road—
The road to darkness, dust, chill funeral gloom;—
All, all still turn their faint steps to the tomb.
Strange are the attractions that thus evermore
Invest Death's frowning field.—From the bright shore,
The purple vineyards, and the flowery plain,
The harvest-lands, enriched with golden grain—
From the proud warrior's camp—the palace-hall,
The cabin-bower, they troop forth, one and all,
To take up their abode 'midst those dim shades,—
Grey-beards and striplings, matrons, babes, and maids.
One from the altar comes, the blush scarce past,
From her sweet cheek—one from the heat and haste
Of business or contention—some from meed
Of merit but fresh won, and some just freed
From prison dark, (they seek one darker still,
More narrow, and more loathsome, and more chill;)
And some from Hope's glad regions, full of light,
Ere yet her flowers have bowed beneath the blight,
Or her reed-wand is broken!—how can they
Forget their homage at her shrine to pay,
And go where none in her rich smile rejoice—
There, where is no more hope! Ah! strange, dark choice!
Some hurry from the revel and the feast,
Ere wreaths have died, or melodies have ceased;
Some from Affection's happy hearth and home;
Some from Earth's solitudes, where free steps roam
Unchecked, and Nature's mighty charms expand
For the eager wanderers over sea and land:—
They asked more space of hill—plain—rolling wave—
How can they now find room in thee, thou grave?
Some speed, as though with dark, capricious will,
From their half-finished works of laboured skill;
Some from the toils of student and of sage,
The passion-breathing lyre—the pictured page,
All from the golden light—the sky—the air,
The aspects of their kind—the Earth's face so fair—
The glorious world of nature, wide and free,
All, all Creation's glorious majesty.
What are the fascinations that remain
About this spot, which thus attract—enchain—
Hundreds of thousands to forsake their all,
And lay them down where the earth-worms creep and crawl?
What are the charms mysterious that invest
This mournful haunt, so dreary and unblest?
What the strange, hidden graces that hang round
This gloomy piece of flowerless, wormy ground?
Answer, ye countless hosts, that hither throng;
Ye young, ye old, ye proud, meek, frail, and strong;
Wherefore? oh!—wherefore?—but no answer comes
From the dark stillness of those sunless homes.
A voice in mine own deepest soul replies,
“Ask not of Earth the secrets of the Skies.”
Worse than all ills that wait on mortal birth,
It were to dwell for ever on the earth.
But who would,—if 'twere only left indeed
To their own choice,—who would from clay be freed?
'Tis well that none may have the fatal choice:
They see a shadow, and they hear a voice
None other sees or hears, and they depart,
Loosening the thousand tendrils of the heart
From the heart's precious things, which close around
Liannes of Life!—they had fast-wreathing wound!
They quit all scenes familiar, fair and dear,
And in the solemn haunts of silence drear,
They come in cold contentedness to dwell,
Exchanging all creation for a cell!