Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820/Stanzas, Composed in the Semplon Pass
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STANZAS,
COMPOSED IN THE SEMPLON PASS.
Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,
To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,
When the stillness of evening hath softened its roar;
To range thro' the Temples of Pæstum, to muse
In Pompeii, preserved by her burial in earth;
On pictures to gaze, where they drank in their hues;
And murmur sweet Songs on the ground of their birth!
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,
To listen to Anio's precipitous flood,
When the stillness of evening hath softened its roar;
To range thro' the Temples of Pæstum, to muse
In Pompeii, preserved by her burial in earth;
On pictures to gaze, where they drank in their hues;
And murmur sweet Songs on the ground of their birth!
The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,
Could I leave them unseen and not yield to regret?
With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?
Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned,
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;
Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned
From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.
Could I leave them unseen and not yield to regret?
With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,
Which ne'er may discharge the magnificent debt?
Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned,
Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;
Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned
From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.
Now, risen ere the light-footed Chamois retires
From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow,
Tow'rd the mists that hang over the land of my Sires,
From the climate of myrtles contented I go.
My thoughts become bright, like yon edging of Pine,
Black fringe to a precipice lofty and bare,
Which, as from behind the Sun strikes it, doth shine
With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.
From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow,
Tow'rd the mists that hang over the land of my Sires,
From the climate of myrtles contented I go.
My thoughts become bright, like yon edging of Pine,
Black fringe to a precipice lofty and bare,
Which, as from behind the Sun strikes it, doth shine
With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.
Tho' the burthen of toil with dear friends we divide,
Tho' by the same zephyr our temples are fann'd,
As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side,
A yearning survives which few hearts shall withstand:
Each step hath its value while homeward we move;—
O joy when the girdle of England appears!
What moment in life is so conscious of love,
So rich in the tenderest sweetness of tears?
Tho' by the same zephyr our temples are fann'd,
As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side,
A yearning survives which few hearts shall withstand:
Each step hath its value while homeward we move;—
O joy when the girdle of England appears!
What moment in life is so conscious of love,
So rich in the tenderest sweetness of tears?