The Venetian bracelet :: :: University of Virginia Library

Another tale of thine! fair Italie—
What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee?
I do not know thy language,—that is still
Like the mysterious music of the rill;—
And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky,
Where the sun hath his immortality;
Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls;
Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where dwell
The rose and orange, summer's citadel;

Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air,
Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh there;
Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines,
Lovely though fallen,—for the ivy twines
Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane,
As still in some shape beauty would remain.
I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art
The promised land that haunts my dreaming heart.
Perchance it is as well thou art unknown:
I could not bear to lose what I have thrown
Of magic round thee,—but to find in thee

What hitherto I still have found in all—
Thou art not stamp'd with that reality

Which makes our being's sadness, and its thrall!
But now, whenever I am mix'd too much
With worldly natures till I feel as such;—

(For these are as the waves that turn to stone,
Till feelings keep their outward show alone)—
When wearied by the vain, chill'd by the cold,
Impatient of society's set mould—
The many meannesses, the petty cares,
The long avoidance of a thousand snares,
The lip that must be chain'd, the eye so taught
To image all but its own actual thought;—
(Deceit is this world's passport: who would dare,
However pure the breast, to lay it bare?)—
When worn, my nature struggling with my fate,
Checking my love, but, oh, still more my hate;—
(Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem
To those who scorn, at least care not for them:
Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt,
I have no power to make my hatred felt;

Or, I should say, my sorrow:—I have borne
So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn,
I could but weep, and tears may not redress,
They only fill the cup of bitterness)—
Wearied of this, upon what eager wings
My spirit turns to thee, and bird-like flings
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee,
My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie.
To me thou art a vision half divine,
Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine:
The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye,
The wild bee loves them not more tenderly;
Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem set hall,
Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall;
Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil
Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,

But e'en amid its darkness and its crime,
Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime,
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear:—
And hath the serpent brought its curse even here?

Such is the tale that haunts me: I would fain
Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain;
And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye
Answer the notes that wander sadly by.
And say not this is vain, in our cold world,
Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves upfurl'd:
'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain,
Calling their earlier freshness back again.
The heart of vanity, the head of pride,
Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified;
And we rise up less selfish, having known
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.