Its foam is scatter'd on the margent bound, Skirting the darksome grove. But list! the hum Of industry, the rattling hammer's sound, Files whizzing, creaking sluices, echoed come On the fast-travelling breeze! Oh no-no voice Is heard around but thy majestic noise.
When the mad storm-wind tears the oak asunder, In thee its shiver'd fragments find their tomb; When rocks are riven by the bolt of thunder, As sands they sink into thy mighty womb: The ice that would imprison thy proud tide, Like bits of broken glass is scatter'd wide.
The fierce wolf prowls around thee-there he stands Listening-not fearful, for he nothing fears: His red eyes burn like fury-kindled brands; Like bristles o'er him his coarse fur he rears; Howling, thy dreadful roar he oft repeats, And, more ferocious, hastes to bloodier feats.
The wild stag hears thy falling waters' sound, And tremblingly flies forward-o'er her back She bends her stately horns-the noiseless ground Her hurried feet impress not—and her track Is lost amidst the tumult of the breeze, And the leaves falling from the rustling trees.
The wild horse thee approaches in his turn; He changes not his proudly rapid stride; His mane stands up erect-his nostrils burn— He snorts-he pricks his ears-and starts aside; Then rushing madly forward to thy steep, He dashes down into thy torrents deep.
Stanzas to an Old Friend.
'OME, here's a health to thee and thine!
Trust me whate'er we may be told, Few things are better than old wine, When tasted with a friend that's old. We're happy yet; and, in our track
New pleasures if we may not find, There is a charm in looking back On sunny prospects left behind.
Like that famed hill in western clime, Through gaudy noontide dark and bare, That tinges still, at vesper time,
With purple gleam the evening air;
So there's a joy in former days,
In times, and scenes, and thoughts gone by, As beautiful their heads they raise,
Bright in Imagination's sky.
Time's glass is fill'd with varied sand,
With fleeting joy and transient grief; We'll turn, and with no sparing hand, O'er many a strange fantastic leaf; And fear not-but, 'mid many a blot,
There are some pages written fair, And flowers that time can wither not, Preserved, still faintly fragrant there.
As the hush'd night glides gentlier on, Our music shall break forth its strain, And tell of pleasures that are gone,
And heighten those that yet remain ;
Stanzas to an Old Friend.
And that creative breath divine
Shall waken many a slumbering thrill, And call forth many a mystic line Of faded joys remembered still.
Again, the moments shall she bring, When Youth was in his freshest prime; We'll pluck the roses that shall spring Upon the grave of buried Time. There's magic in the olden song ;- Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears Which steal adown, our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years.
And, as the mariner can find
Wild pleasure in the voiced roar Even of the often dreaded wind,
That wreck'd his every hope before; If there's a pang that lurks beneath- For youth had pangs-oh, let it rise! 'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe The spirit of our former sighs.
We'll hear the strains we heard so oft, In life's first, warm, impassion'd hours, That fell on our young hearts as soft
As summer dews on summer flowers! And as the stream, where'er it hies,
Steals something in its purest flow, Those strains shall taste of ecstasies
O'er which they floated long ago.
Even in our morn, when fancy's eye
Glanced, sparkling o'er a world of bliss, When joy was young, and hope was high,
We could not feel much more than this:
Howe'er, then, time our day devours, Why should our smiles be overcast ? Why should we grieve for fleeting hours? We find a future in the past.
F ever you should come to Modena,
(Where, among other relics, you may see Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one) Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you— And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family, Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not. He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,.
The overflowings of an innocent heart--
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent, With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ- A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old ancestor. That by the way-it may be true or false- But don't forget the picture; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child—her name Ginevra―
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
« AnteriorContinuar » |