THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep; The bats are flitting fast in the gray air; The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep ;
And evening's breath, wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.
There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town
Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wrinkled image of the city lay,
Immovably unquiet, and for ever
It trembles, but it never fades away;
You, being changed, will find it then as now.
The chasm in which the sun has sunk, is shut By darkest barriers of enormous cloud, Like mountain over mountain huddled-but
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd And over it a space of watery blue,
Which the keen evening star is shining through.
OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm sways idly, hither and thither; Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, And the oars, and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the thin white moon lay withering there; To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods
And the rocks above and the stream below, And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, And clothed with light of airy gold The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.
Day had awakened all things that be,- The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,
And the milkmaid's song and mower's scythe, And the matin-bell and the mountain bee. Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn; Glow-worms went out on the river's brim, Like lamps which a student forgets to trim; The beetle forgot to wind his horn;
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill; Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, Night's dreams and terrors, every one, Fled from the brains which are their prey From the lamp's death to the morning ray.
All rose to do the task He set to each, Who shaped us to his ends and not our own; The million rose to learn, and one to teach What none yet ever knew or can be known.
Whose woe was such that fear became desire ;- Melchior and Lionel were not among those; They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hill-side. It was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, Like a wide lake of green fertility,
With streams and fields and marshes bare Divides from the far Apennines--which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air.
"What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?
If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way
We should have led her by this time of day."
"Never mind," said Lionel,
"Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see!
The white clouds are driving merrily,
And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair! Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions.”
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, The living breath is fresh behind, As, with dews and sunrise fed, Comes the laughing morning wind.
The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Serchio's torrent fierce, Then flags with intermitting course, And hangs upon the wave,
Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come; Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea;
In morning's smile its eddies coil, Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil, Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright.
The Serchio, twisting forth
Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering,* Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine; Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean.
SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone.
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