ROBERT ERNEST COWAN SONGS OF ITALY. SONGS OF ITALY. BY JOAQUIN MILLER, AUTHOR OF "SONGS OF THE SIERRAS," ETC. BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1878. Copyright, BY C. H. MILLER, 1878. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. CONTENTS. ROME 11 A DOVE OF ST. MARK 13 SUNRISE IN VENICE 29 PALATINE HILL 32 IN A GONDOLA 34 COMO .36 A GARIBALDIAN'S STORY 42 THE IDEAL AND THE REAL 50 THE IDEAL AND THE REAL, PART II. .... 68 IL CAPUCIN 75 FAITH 79 To FLORENCE 81 FOR PAULINE 83 To CARRIE A. S 85 THE UNKNOWN TONGUE 87 UNICA-^ETERNA 89 8 CONTENTS. SIROCCO 92 PACE IMPLORA 94 ALONE 97 IMPLORA ' 99 THE QUEST OF LOVE 100 O LOVE 102 AFTER THE BOAR-HUNT 104 DOLCE FAR NIENTE 107 To THE LION OF ST. MARK 109 To THE LION OF ST. MARK AGAIN Ill UNDER THE LION OF ST. MARK AT NIGHT . . 113 To SANTA BARBARA OF VENICE 115 A STORM IN VENICE 117 A HAIL-STORM IN VENICE 119 FAREWELL TO THE LION OF ST. MARK .... 121 AFTER ALL 124 MAIME MIA 127 THE WINGED LION ONCE MORE 128 CAVALIER vs. CAVALIER 131 A PRINCE OF ROME 133 GAMBLER OR PRINCE 138 A PEASANT'S PLEA 140 A DREAM OF VENICE 142 FOR THE NILE 144 VESPERS IN SAN MARCO 146 RECOLLECTION 147 CONTENTS. 9 TORCELLO 150 ATTILA'S THRONE : TORCELLO 151 SANTA MARIA : TORCELLO 158 LILIAN 162 LIFE 164 IN PERE LA CHAISE 165 LONGING FOR HOME 168 PESTAM 170 TITIAN'S LAND 171 IN INNSBRUCK . 173 FOR PRINCESS MAUD 174 I SHALL REMEMBER 176 VALE . 178 SONGS OF ITALY. ROME. i. OME levelled hills, a wall, a dome That lords its gilded arch and lies, While at its base a beggar cries For bread, and dies, and that is Rome. n. Yet Rome is Rome ; and Rome she must And shall remain beside her gates, And tribute take of kings and States, Until the stars have fallen to dust. 12 SONGS Of ITALY. m. Yea, Time on yon campagnian plain Has pitched in siege his battle tents ; And round about her battlements Has marched and trumpeted in vain. IV. These skies are Rome ! The very loam Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride ; And Time, outfaced and still defied, Sits by and wags his beard at Rome, ROME, 1873. A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 13 A DOVE OF SAINT MARK. r I "'HE high-born beautiful snow came down, Silent and soft as the terrible feet Of Time on the mosses of ruins. Sweet Was the Christinas time in the watery town. 'Twas a kind of carnival swelled the sea Of Venice that night, and canal and quay Were alive with humanity. Man and maid, Glad in their revel and masquerade, Moved through the feathery snow in the night, And shook black locks as they laughed out right. 14 SONGS OF ITALY. II. From Santa Maggiore, and to and fro, And ugly and black as if devils cast out, Black streaks through the night in the soft, white snow, The steel-prowed gondolas paddled about : There was only the sound of the long oars' dip, As the low inoon sailed up the sea like a ship In a misty morn. Then the low moon rose, Veiled and vast, through the feathery snows And a poet sat pensive and still in his boa.t, His mantle held tight in his hand to his throat. m. The dreamer arose as he drew to the land, Threw back his cloak, stood tall and grand, Then snapped his fingers right sharp as he leapt To the shore and turned from the quay, and kept His white brow wrinkled. He talked aloud To himself as he melted away with the crowd, And the feathery snows blew out of the town. Like a signal light through the night let down A far star fell through the dim profound, As a jewel that slipped God's hand to the ground. A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 15 IV. " On the gray, smooth base of your columned stone, Grim old lion of grand St. Mark, I shall sit me down in your salt-flood town, While you sit lorded on your granite throne : Down under your wings on the edge of the sea In the dim of the lamps, on the rim of the dark, Alone and in crowds I shall sit me down. O King 'on your column, so sullenly, Wrinkle your brows and tumble your mane ! But the bride comes not to her spouse again. v. " Heavens ! how beautiful ! Up and down, Alone and in couples, they glide and they pass, Silent and dreamy, as if seen in a glass, And masked to the eyes, in their Adrian town. Such women ! It breaks one's heart to think. Water ! and never a drop to drink ! What types of Titian ! What glory of hair ! How tall as the sisters of Saul ! How" fair ! Sweet flowers of flesh all blossoming, As if 'twere Eden and Eden's spring. 16 SONGS OF ITALY. VI. " They are talking aloud with all their eyes, Yet passing me by with never one word. O pouting sweet lips, do you know there are lies That are told with the eyes, and never once heard Above a heart's beat when the soul is stirred ? It is time to fly home, O doves of St. Mark ! Take boughs of the olive ; bear these to your ark, And rest and be glad, for the seas and the skies Of Venice are fair. . . . What I never a home ? What! stained and despised as the soiled sea- foam? vn. " And who then are you ? You look so fair I Your sweet child-face, as a rose half-blown, From under your black and abundant hair?'. . . A child of the street, and unloved and alone ! Unloved and alone ? . . . There is something then Between us two that is not unlike ! . . . The strength and the purposes of men Fall broken idols. We aim and strike With high-born zeal and with proud intent, Yet all things turn on an accident. A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 17 vin. " Nay, I'll not preach. Time's lessons pass Like twilight's swallows. They chirp in their night, And who takes heed of the wasting glass ? Night follows day, and day follows night, And no thing rises on earth but to fall Like leaves, with their lessons most sad and fit. They are spread like a volume each year to all : Yet men nor women learn aught of it, Or after it all, but a weariness Of soul and body, and untold distress. IX. " Yea, sit, sweet child, by my side, and we We will talk of the world. Nay, let my hand Run round your waist, and, so, let your face Fall down on my shoulder, and you shall be My dream of sweet Italy. Here in this place, i Alone in the crowds of this old careless land, I will mantle your form till the morn, and then Why, I shall return to the world and to men, And no whit stained for the one kind word Which only you and the night may have heard. 2 18 SONGS OF ITALY. X. " Fear nothing for me, for I shall not fear. The day, my darling, comes after the night. The nights they were made to show the light Of the stars in heaven, tho' storms are near Do you see that figure of Fortune up there, That tops the Dogana with toe a-tip Of the great gold ball ? Her scroll is a-trip To the turning winds. She is light as the air. Well, trust to Fortune. Bread on the wave Turns ever ashore to the hand that gave. XI. " What am I ? who am I ? and what would I choose? Why, I am a poet a lover of all That is lovely to see. . . . Nay, naught shall befall, For I would not choose what you should refuse. Yes, I am a failure. I plot and plan, Give splendid advice to my fellow-man, Yet ever fall short of achievement. . . . Ah me ! In my life's early, sad afternoon, Say, what have I left but a love, or a rune, A hand reached out to a soul at sea, Or fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to choose, That 'twere sin *to touch, and sin to refuse ? A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 19 xn. " What ! I to go home with you, girl, to-night? To nestle you down and to call you love ? Well, that were a fancy ! To feed a dove, A poor, soiled dove of this dear Saint Mark, Too frightened for rest and too weary for flight. Nay, nay, my sister ; in spite of you, Sister and tempter, I will be true. Lo ! here by the lion, alone in the dark, Side by side we two will sit here, Breathing the beauty as an atmosphere. yrrr. " We will talk of your poets, of their tales of love. What ! cannot read ? Why you never heard then Of your Desdemona, nor the daring men Who died for passion ? My poor white dove ! There's a story of Shylock that would drive you wild. > You never have heard of your poets, my child ? Of Tasso, of Petrarch ? Not the Bridge of Sighs ? Nor the tale of Ferrara ? Nor the thousand whys That your Venice was ever adored above All other fair lands for her songs of love ? 20 SOJVGS OF ITALY. XIV. "What then about Shylock? 'Twas gold yes dead. The lady? 'Twas love. Why, yes; she too Is dead. And Byron ? 'Twas fame ah, true. Tasso and Petrarch ? They perished the same. Yes, so endeth all, as you well have said. And you, poor child, are too wise, and you, Too sudden, sad child, in your hard ugly" youth, Have stumbled face fronting an obstinate truth. For whether for love, for gold, or for fame, They but lived their day, and they died the same. xv. " But talk not of death : of death, or the life That comes after death. 'Tis beyond your reach, And this too much thought has a sense of strife . . . Ay, true ; I promised you not to preach . . . My maid of Venice, or maid unmade, Lie still on my bosom. 'Be not afraid. What ! Say you are hungry ? Well, let us dine Till the near morn comes on the silver shine Of the lamp-lit sea. At dawn of day, Child of the street, you can go your way. A DOVE OF ST, MARK.. 21 XVI. Your mother's palace ? I know your town ; Know every nook of it, left and right. As well as yourself. For up and down Your salt-flood streets, for many a night, I have rowed and roved with a lady fair As the face of heaven. Nay, I know there Is no such a palace. What ! you dare To look in my face, to lie outright, To bend your brows, and to frown me down ? There is no such a place in that part of the town ! XVII. " What ! woo me away to your ricket} r boat, To pick my pockets, to cut my throat, With help of your pirates ? Then throw me out, Loaded with stones to sink me down, Down into the filth and dregs of the town ? Why, that is your damnable aim, no doubt ! And, beautiful child, you seem too fair, Too young, for even a thought like that ; Too young for even the soul to dare ' Ay, even the serpent to whisper at. 22 SONGS OF ITALY. XVIII. " Now, there is such a thing as being true Even in villany. Listen to me : Black-skinned women and low-browed men, And desperate robbers and thieves ; and then, Why, there are the pirates! Ay, pirates re formed, Pirates reformed and unreformed : Pirates for me, friends for you. And these are your neighbors. And so you see That I know your town, your neighbors : and I Well, pardon me, girl, but I know you lie. " Tut, tut, my beauty ! What trickery now ? Why, tears through your hair on my hand like rain ! Come ! look in my face : laugh, lie again With your wonderful eyes. Lift up your brow. Come ! shake your fist at the world, and defy The world. Now, this lying is no new thing The wearers of laces know well how to lie ; As well, ay, better, than you or I. ... They lie for fortune, for fame : instead, You, child of the street, only lie for your bread. A DOVE OF ST, MARK. 23 XX. " Some sounds blow in from the distant land ; The bells strike sharp, and as out of tune, Some sudden, short notes. To the east and afar, And up from the sea, is lifting a star As large, my beautiful child, and as white And as lovely to see as your little white hand. The people have melted away with the night, And not one gondola frets the lagoon. See ! Away to the east 'tis the face of morn. Hear ! Away to the west 'tis the fisherman's horn. XXI. " 'Tis morn in Venice ! My child, adieu ! Arise, poor beauty, and go your way ; And as for myself, why, much like you, I must sell this Sjtory to who may pay And dares to reckon it brave and meet. Yea, each of us traders, poor child of pain ; For each must barter for bread to eat In a world of trade and an age of gain ; With just this difference, child of the street : You sell your body, I sell my brain. 21 SONGS OF ITALY. xxn. " Why, child, what a wreck ! Lo, here you reel, Poor, wrecked little vessel, with never a keel ; With never a soul to advise or to care : You lie like a sea-weed, well astrand, Blown like the sea-foam hard on the sand, A poor, white body, with never a hand Reached out from the land, though you sink and die, All covered with sin to the brows and hair, Left all alone to starve or to lie, Or to sell your body to who may buy. XXIII. " Child of the street, I will kiss you ! Yea, I will fold you and hold you close to my breast. And as you lie resting in your first rest, And as night is pushed back from the face of day, I will push your tumbled and long, strong hair Well back from your face, and kiss you where Your ruffian, bearded, black men of crime Have stung you and stained you a thousand time ; And call you my sister, sweet child, as you s^eep, And waken you not, lest you wake but to weep. A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 25 XXIV. " Yea, tenderly kiss you. And I shall not be Ashamed, nor stained in the least, sweet dove, Tenderly kiss, with the kiss of Love, And of Faith and of Hope and of Charity. Nay, I shall be purer and better then ; For, child of the street, you, living or dead, Stained to the brows, are purer to me Ten thousand times than the world of men, Who but reach you a hand to lead you astray. But the dawn is upon us ! Rise, go your way. XXV. " Here ! take this money. Take it, and say, When you have awakened and I am away, Roving the world and forgetting of you ; When you have aroused from your brief little rest, T And find these francs nestled down in your breast, And rough men question you, why, then say That Madonna sent them. Then kneel and pray, And pray for me, the worst of the two : Then God will bless you, sweet child, and you Shall be mine angel my whole life through. 26 SONGS OF ITALY. XXVI. " Take this. money and buy you bread, And eat and rest while a year wears through. Then, rising refreshed, try virtue instead ; Be stronger and better, poor, pitiful dear, So prompt with a falsehood, prompt with a tear, For the hand grows stronger as the heart grows true. Take courage, my child, for I promise you We are judged by our chances of life and lot, And your poor little soul may yet pass through The eye of the needle, where laces shall not. xxvn. " Poor dove of the dust, with tear-wet wings, Homeless and lone as the dove from its ark, Do you reckon yon angel that tops St. Mark, That tops the tower, that tops the town, If he knew us two, if he knew all things, Would say, poor child, you are worse than I ? Do you reckon yon angel, looking down And down like a star, he hangs so high, Could tell which one were the worst of us two ? Child of the street it is not you ! A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 27 xxvm. " If we two were dead, and laid side by side Right here on the pavement, this very day, Here under the lion and over the sea, Where the morn flows in like a rosy tide, And the sweet Madonna that stands in the moon, With her crown of stars, just across the lagoon, Should come and should look upon you and me, Do you reckon, my child, that she would decide, As men do decide and as women do say, That you are so dreadful, and turn away ? XXIX. " If the angel were sent to choose to-day Between us two as we lay here, Dead and alone in this desolate place, You, white with a hunger and stained with a tear, Or I, the rover the whole world through, Restless and stormy as any sea, If the angel were sent to choose, I say, This very moment the best of the two, Looking us two right straight in the face, Child of the street, he would not choose me. 28 SONGS OF ITALY. XXX. " The fresh sun is falling on turret and tower, The far sun is flashing on spire and dome, The marbles of Venice are bursting to flower, The marbles of Venice are flower and foam : Child of the street, oh, waken you now ! There ! bear my kiss on your brave white brow, Through earth to heaven : and when we meet Beyond the waters, poor waif of the street, Why, then I shall know you, my sad, sweet dove, And claim you and kiss you with the kiss of love. VENICE, 1873. SUNRISE IN VENICE. 29 SUNRISE IN VENICE. i. "JVTIGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep ; Her brows are gathered in broken rest. A star in the east starts up from the deep ! Sullen old lion of loved Saint Mark, Lord of the deep, high-throned in the dark ! 'Tis morn, new-born, with a star on her breast, White as my lilies that grow in the West ! Hist ! men are passing me hurriedly. I see the yellow wide wings of a bark ! Sail silently oyer my morning-star, And on and in to an amber sea. I see men move in the moving dark, Tall and silent as columns are, Girded and patient as Destiny ; Great, sinewy men that are good to see, With hair pushed back, and with open breasts ; Barefooted fishermen, seeking their boats, Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats, Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests. 30 SONGS OF ITALY. n. Ships are moving I I hear a horn A silver trumpet it sounds to me, Deep-voiced and musical, far at sea . . . Answers back, and again it calls. 'Tis the sentinel boats that watch the town All night, as mounting her watery walls, And watching for pirate or smuggler. Down Over the sea, and reaching away, And against the east, a soft light falls Silvery soft as the mist of morn, And I catch a breath like the breath of day. m. The east is blossoming I Yea, a rose, Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss, Sweet as the presence of woman is, Rises and reaches, and widens and grows Large and luminous up from the sea, And out of the sea, as a blossoming tree. Richer and richer, so higher and higher, Deeper and deeper it takes its hue ; SUNRISE IN VENICE. 31 Brighter and brighter it reaches through The space of heaven and the place of stars, Till all is as rich as a rose can be, And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire. Then beams reach upward as arms from a sea ; Then lances and arrows are aimed at me. Then lances and spangles and spars and bars Are broken and shivered and strown on the sea ; And around and about me tower and spire Start from the billows like tongues of fire. VENICE, 1874. 32 SONGS OF ITALY. PALATINE HILL. i. A WOLF-LIKE stream without a sound Steals by and hides beneath the shore, Its awful secrets evermore Within its sullen bosom bound. n. And this was Rome, that shrieked for room To stretch her limbs ! A hill of caves For half- wild beasts and hairy slaves ; And gypsies tent within her tomb ! m. Two lone palms on the Palatine, Two rows of cypress black and tall, With white roots set in Csesar's Hall, A garden, convent, and sweet shrine. PALATINE HILL. 33 IV. Tall cedars on a broken wall, That look away toward Lebanon, And seem to mourn for grandeur gone : A wolf, an owl, and that is all. EOME, September, 1873. 34 SONGS OF ITALY. IN A GONDOLA. i. night in Venice. Then down to the tide, Where a tall and a shadowy gondolier Leaned on his oar, like a lifted spear : 'Twas night in Venice ; then side by side We sat in his boat. Then oar a-trip On the black boat's keel, then dip and dip ; These boatmen should build their boats more wide, For we were together, and side by side. H. The sea it was level as seas of light, As still as the light ere a hand was laid To the making of lands, or the seas were made. 'Twas fond as a bride on her bridal night When a great love swells in her soul like a sea, And makes her but less than divinity. 'Twas night, The soul of the day, I wis : A woman's face hiding from her first kiss. IN A GONDOLA. 35 m. 'Twas night in Venice. On o'er the tide These boats they are narrow as they can be, These crafts they are narrow enough, and we, To balance the boat, sat side by side Out under the arch of the Bridge of Sighs, On under the arch of the star-sown skies : We two were together on the Adrian Sea, The one fair woman of the world to me. IV. These narrow-built boats, they rock when at sea, And they make one afraid. So she leaned to me ; And that is the reason alone there fell Such golden folds pf abundant hair Down over my shoulder, as we sat there. .These boatmen should build their boats more wide, Wider for lovers ; as wide Ah, well ! But who is the rascal to kiss, and tell ? VENICE, 1874. 36 SONGS OF ITALY. COMO. *"THHE red-clad fishers row and creep Below the crags, as half asleep, Nor ever make a single sound. The walls are steep, The waves are deep ; And if a dead man should be found By these same fishers in their round, Why, who shall say but he was drowned ? i. The lakes lay bright as bits of broken moon Just newly set within the cloven earth ; The ripened fields drew round a golden girth Far up the steeps, and glittered in the noon ; And, when the sun fell down, from leafy shore Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar. The stars, as large as lilies, flecked the blue ; From out the Alps the moon came wheeling through The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew. COMO. 37 n. A gala night it was, the season's prime. We rode from castled lake to festal town, To fair Milan my friend and I ; rode down By night, where grasses waved in rippled rhyme : And so, what theme but love at such a time ? His proud lip curled the while with silent scorn At thought of love ; and then, as one forlorn, He sighed ; then bared his temples, dashed with gray ; Then mocked, as one outworn and well m. A gorgeous tiger lily, flaming red, So full of battle, of the trumpet's blare, Of old-time passion, upreared its head. I galloped past. I leaned, I clutched it there From out the long, strong grass. I held it high, And cried : " Lo ! this to-night shall deck her hair Through all the dance. And mark ! the man shall die Who dares assault, for good or ill design, The citadel where I shall set this sign." ^86014 38 SONGS OF ITALY. IT. He spake no spare word all the after while. That scornful, cold, contemptuous smile of his I And in the hall the same old, hateful smile ! Why, better men have died for less insult than this. Then marvel not that when she graced the floor, With all the beauties gathered from the four Far quarters of the world, and she, my fair, The fairest, wore within her midnight hair My tiger lily, marvel not, I say, That he glared like some wild beast well at bay. v. Oh, she shone fairer than the summer star, Or curled, sweet moon in middle destiny ; More fair than sunrise climbing up the sea, Where all the loves of Adriana are. Who loves, who truly loves, will stand aloof: The noisy tongue makes most unholy proof Of shallow passion. . . . All the while afar From out the dance I stood and watched my star, My tiger lily borne an oriflamme of war. COMO. 39 VI. Italia's beauties blushed at love's advance. Like bright white mice in moonlight at their play, Or sunfish shooting in some shining bay, The swift feet shot and glittered in the dance. Oh, have you loved and truly loved, and seen Aught else the while than your own stately queen ? Her presence it was majesty so tall ; Her proud development encompassed all. She filled all space. I sought, I saw but her : I followed as some fervid worshipper. VII. A down the dance she moved with matchless grace. The world my world moved with her. Suddenly I questioned whom her cavalier might be ? 'Twas he ! His face was leaning to her face ! I clutched my blade ; I sprang ; I caught my breath, And so, stood leaning cold and still as death. 40 SONGS OF ITALY. And they stood still. She blushed, then reached and tore The lily as she passed, and down the floor She strewed its heart like bits of gushing gore. . . . vm. 'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were made to break : He taught me this that night in splendid scorn. I learned too well. . . . The dance was done. Ere morn We mounted he and I but no more spake. . . . And this for woman's love! My lily worn In her dark hair in pride, to then be torn And trampled on, for this bold stranger's sake ! . . . Two men rode silent back toward the lake ; Two men rode silent down but only one Rode up at morn to meet the rising sun. The walls are steep ; The crags shall keep COMO. 41 Their everlasting watch profound. The walls are steep, The waves are deep ; And if a dead man should be found By red-clad fishers in their round, Why, who shall say but he was drowned ? LAKE COMO, 1874. 42 SONGS OF ITALY. A GARIBALDIAN'S STORY. i. , signer ! that's Nervi, just under the V 1,4. lights That look down from the forts on the Genoese heights ; And that stone set in stone in the rim of the sea, Like a tall figure rising and reaching a hand, Marks the spot where the chief and his red- shirted band Hoisted sail. . . . Have a light ? Ah, yes : as for me I have lights, and a leg short a leg, as you see ; And have three fingers hewn from this strong sabre-hand. n. " See that cursed cowled monk, black-mantled, and black In his heart as the plague, or the stole at his back, A GARIBALDIAN'S STORY. 43 Stealing by like a spy down that sweet wooded way? Well, these were the fellows we grappled. Why they They were thick in the land as the locusts. The land Was eaten alive by their indolence. Yea, They did toil not nor spin, and yet their array Was as purple and gold ; and they laid heavy hand On the first of the fruits, of the flocks ; and the gown Soiled the first fairest maidens of country and town. ill. " Look you there ! Do you see where the blue bended floors Of the heavens are frescoed with stars ? See the heights, Then the bent hills beneath, where the grape- growers' doors Open out and look down in a crescent of lights ? WellfHhere I was born ; grew tall. Then the call 44 SONGS OF ITALY. For bold men for Sicily. I rose from the vines, Shook back my long hair, looked forth, then let fall My dull pruning-hook, and stood full in the lines. Then my young promised bride held her head to her breast As a sword trailed the stones, and I strode with a zest. But a sable-cowled monk girt his gown, and looked down With a leer in her face, as I turned from the town. IV. " Then from yonder green hills bending down to the seas, Grouping here, grouping there, in the gray olive trees, We watched the slow sun ; slow saw him retire At last in the sea, like a vast isle of fire. Then the chief drew his sword : There was that in his air, As the care on his face came and went and still came, A GARIBALDIAWS STORY. 45 As lie gazed out at sea, and yet gazed anywhere, That meant more, signor, more than a peasant can say. Then at last, when the stars in the soft-tempered breeze Glowed red and grew large, as if fanned to a flame, Lo ! something shot up from a black-muffled ship Deep asleep in the bay, like a star gone astray : Then down, double quick, with the sword-hilt a-trip, Came the troop with a zest, and that stone tells the rest. V. " Hot times at Marsala ! and then under Rome It was hell sure enough, and a whole column fell Like new vines in a frost. Then year followed year, Until, stricken and sere, at last I came home As the strife lulled a spell, came limping back here Stealing back to my home, limping up out of hell. But we won, did we not ? Won, I scarcely know what 46 SONGS OF ITALY. Yet the whole land is free from the Alps to the sea. Ah! my young promised bride? Christ, that cuts ! Why, I thought That her face had gone by, like a dream that was not. Yl. " What a presence was hers ! What a throat, what a mouth ! Why, a mouth that Rossetti, the painter, had smiled But to see ; had caught it on canvas, had set his craft wild With talk of his picture from Northland to South! A mouth that half opened as hungered for love, That trusted all things ; a mouth that went out With daring and valor, that never knew doubt, Yet was proud and as pure as that bent moon above. . . . vn. ..." Yes, peaches must ripen and show the sun's red In their time, I suppose, like the full of a rose ; A GARIBALDIAWS STORY. 47 And some one must pluck them, 'tis -very well said, As they swell and grow rich and look luscious to touch : Yet I fancy some men, some fiends, must have much To repent of: This reaching up rudely of hand For the early sweet-fruits of a warm, careless land ; This plucking and biting of every sweet peach Ere yet it is ripe and come well to its worth, Then casting it down, and quite spoiled, to the reach Of the swine and the things that creep close to the earth. . . . vm. "But he died ! Look you here. Stand aside. Yes, he died Like a dog in a ditch. In that low battle-moat He was found on a morn. The red line on his throat They said was a rope. ' Bah ! the one-fingered man Might have done it,' said one. 48 SONGS OF ITALY. Then I laughed till I cried When the guard led me forth, and the judge sat to scan My hands and my strength, and to question me sore: 4 Why, what has the match-man to do with all this, The one-fingered man, with his life gone amiss ? ' I cried as I laughed, and they vexed me no more. Some men must fill trenches. Ten thousand go down As unnamed and unknown as the stones in a wall, For the few to pass over and on to renown : And I am of these. The old king has his crown, And my country is free ; and what more, after all, Did I ask from the first ? Don't you think that yon lights Through the black olive trees look divine on the seas? Then look you above, where the Apennines bend : Why, you scarcely can tell, as you peer through the trees, Where the great stars begin or the cottage-lights end ! A GARIBALDIAN'S STORY. 49 IX. " Yes, a little bit lonely, that can't be denied : But as good place to wait for a sign as may be. I shall watch on the shore, looking out as before ; And the chief on his isle in the calm middle sea, With his sword gathered up, stands waiting with me For the great silent ship. We shall cross to the shore Where a white city lies like yon Alps in the skies, And look down on this sea ; and right well satisfied. x. "Ay ! The whole country round vaunts our deed, and the town Raised that shaft on the spot, for the whole land is free ; And some won renown, and one won a crown, And one won a right to sell lights by the sea. Have a light, sir, to-night ? Ah, thanks, signer, ' thanks ! Bon voyage, bon voyage ! Bless you and your francs." * GENOA, October, 1873. 50 SONGS OF ITALY. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. PART I. " And full these truths eternal O'er the yearning spirit steal, That the real is the ideal, And the ideal is the real." I. OHE was damned with the dower of beauty. She Had gold in shower about her brow. Her feet ! why, her two blessed feet were so small They could nest in this hand. When she stood up so tall, So gracious, so grand, she was all to me, My present, my past, my eternity ! . . . She lives in my dreams. I behold her now On that shoreless white river that flowed like a sea At her feet where I sat. . . . How her lips pushed out In their brave, warm welcome of dimple and pout ! THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 51 n. 'Twas eons agone. By a river that ran Fathomless, echoless, limitless, on, And shoreless, and peopled with never a man, We met, soul to soul. . . . No land ; yet I think There were willows and lilies that leaned to drink. The stars were all sealed and the moons were gone. The wide shining circles that girdled that world, They were distant and dim. An incense curled In vapory folds from that river that ran All shoreless, with never the presence of man. m. How sensuous the night] how soft was the sound Of her voice on the night ! How warm was her breath In that world that had never yet tasted of death Or forbidden sweet fruit ! ... In that far pro found We were camped on the edges of god-land. We Were the people of Saturn. The watery fields, The wide-winged, dolorous birds of the sea, They acknowledged but us. Our battle-shields Were my naked white palms ; our food it was love. Our roof was the fresco of stars above. 52 SONGS OF ITALY. IV. How tender she was, and how timid she was ! How turned she to me where that wide river ran, With its lilies and willows and watery reeds, And heeded as only your true love heeds ! . . . But a black-hoofed beast, with the head of a man, Stole down where she sat at my side, and began To puff his cheeks, then to play, then to pause, With his double-reed pipe ; then to play and to play As never played man since the world began, And never shall play till the judgment day. V. How he puffed ! how he played ! Then adown the dim shore, This half-devil man, all hairy and black, Did dance with his hoofs in the sand, looking back As his song died away. . . . She turned never more Unto me after that. She arose, and she pass'd Right on from my sight. Then I followed as fast As a love could follow. But ever before Like a spirit she fled. How vain and how far Did I follow my beauty from star to white star ! From foamy white sea, and from stormy black shore. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 53 VI. But I here shall abide. I shall pipe on a reed. I shall sit by the waters my whole life through. I shall sing wild songs. I shall take no heed Of the tilings forbidden, or of bitter-sweet fruit. I shall feast with the gods. I shall sing for the few. I shall pipe not for love. I shall reach my hand, And pluck fair lilies from the bank by the root. I shall laugh like a satyr. I shall dance on the sand, I shall rove o'er the sea, I shall rest by the shore ; But never seek love upon earth any more. VII. Never more upon earth 1 Yet the heaven-bound span Of life upon earth, lo, it is but to-day ! Last night was the land that remembers no man, To-morrow the skies! . . . Then who shall gainsay The valor of patience ? Lo ! there I shall woo In the gardens of God, on the centremost star Of all whirling stars. Face front I shall view This one splendid face I have followed so far. There love shall heal love of her hard battle-scars, Begun on the outermost edge of the stars. 54 SONGS OF ITALY. vm. How long I had sought her ! My soul of fire It had fed on itself. I fasted, I cried ; Was tempted by many. Yet still I denied The touch of all things, and kept my desire. . . . I stood by the lion of St. Mark in that hour Of Venice, when gold of the sunset is rolled From cloud to cathedral, to turret and tower, In matchless, magnificent garment of gold. Then I knew she was near ; yet I had not known Her form or her face since the stars were sown. IX. We two had been parted God pity us ! when The stars were unnamed and all heaven was dim ; We two had been parted far back on the rim And the outermost border of heaven's red bars ; We two had been parted ere the meeting of men, Or God had set compass on spaces as yet ; We two had been parted ere God had set His finger to spinning the purple with stars, And now, at the last in the gold and set Of the sun of Venice, we two had met. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 55 X. Where the lion of Venice, with brows a-frown, With toss'd mane tumbled, and teeth in air, Looks out in his watch o'er the watery town, With a paw half lifted, with his claws half bare, By the blue Adriatic, in the edge of the sea, I saw her. I knew her, but she knew not me. I had found her at last ! Why, I had sailed The antipodes through, had sought, had hailed All flags, had climbed where the storm-clouds curled, [world. And called through the awful arched dome of the XI. I saw her one moment, then fell back abashed, And filled full to the throat. . . . Then I turned me once more So glad to the sea, while the level sun flashed On the far, snowy Alps. . . . Her breast ! why, her breast Was white as twin pillows that allure you to rest ; Her sloping limbs moved like to melodies, told As she rose from the sea ; and she threw back the gold Of her glorious hair, and set face to the shore. . . . I knew her ! I knew her, though we had not met Since the far stars sang to the sun's first set. 56 SONGS OF ITALY. xn. How long I had sought her ! I had hungered, nor ate Of any sweet fruits. I had tasted not one^ Of all the fair glories grown under the sun. I had sought only her. Yea, I knew that she Had come upon earth, and stood waiting for me Somewhere by my way. But the pathways of fate They had led otherwhere ; the round world round, The far North seas and the near profound Had failed me for aye. Now I stood by that sea Where ships drave by, and all dreamily. xm. I had turned from the lion a time, and when I looked tow'rd the tide and out on the lea Of the town where the warm sea tumbled and teemed With beauty, I saw her ! I knew her then, The tallest, the fairest fair daughter of men. Oh, Venice stood full in her glory. She gleamed In the splendor of sunset and sensuous sea ; Yet I saw but my bride, my all to me, While the doves hurried home to the dome of Saint Mark, [in the dark. And the brass horses plunged their high manes THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 57 xrv. I spake not, but caught at my breath ; I did raise My face to fair heaven, to give God praise That at last, ere the ending of time, we two Had touched upon earth at the same sweet place. . . . Yea, we never had met upon earth at all ; Never, since ages ere Adam's fall, Had we two met in the fulness of soul, Where two are as one, but had wandered on through The spheres, divided, where planets roll Unnam'd and in darkness through limitless space. XV. Was it well with my love ? Was she true ? Was she brave With virtue's own valor ? Was she waiting for me? Oh, how fared my love ? Had she home ? Had she bread? Had she known but the touch of the warm- tempered wave ? Was she born upon earth with a crown on her head, 58 SONGS OF ITALY. Or born, like myself, but a dreamer instead ? So long it had been ! So long ! Why the sea That wrinkled and surly, old, time-tempered slave Had been born, had his revels, grown wrinkled and hoar Since I last saw my love on that uttermost shore. XVI. Oh ; how fared my love ? Once I lifted my face, And I shook back my hair and looked out on the sea; I pressed my hot palms as I stood in my place, And cried : " Oh, I come like a king to your side Though all hell intervene !"..." Hist ! she may be a bride, A mother at peace, with sweet babes on her knee ! A babe at her breast and a spouse at her side ! Have I wandered too long, and has Destiny Set mortal between us ? " I buried my face In my hands, and I moaned as I stood in my place. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 59 XVII. 'Twas her year to be young. She was tall, she was fair Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there ? 'Twas her year to be young. She was fair, she was tall ; And I felt she was true, as I lifted my face And saw her press down her rich robe to its place, With a hand white and small as a babe's with a doll. And her feet ! why, her feet in the white shin ing sand Were so small, 'twas a wonder the maiden could stand. Then she pushed back her hair with a round hand that shone And flashed in the light with a white starry stone. xvin. Then, my love she is rich ! My love she is fair ! Is she pure as the snow on the Alps over there ? She is gorgeous with wealth ! " Thank God, she has bread," I said to myself. Then I humbled my head 60 SOWGS OF ITALY. In gratitude. Then I questioned me where Was her palace, her parents ? What name did she bear? What mortal on earth came nearest her heart ? Who touched the small hand till it thrilled to a smart ? 'Twas her year to be young. She was proud, she was fair Was she pure as the snow on the Alps over there ? XIX. Beneath her blue robe her round bosom rose In sensuous beauty ! She was white as the snows Of the Tyrolese Alps. Oh, the slope of her arm ! Oh, the rounded limbs' length ! The breasts heaving warm As welcomes of love ! The lips pushing out ! The proud mouth gathered in dimple and pout ! Then the dusky depressions, suggestions of night, They did make her pure whiteness but appear the more white : Whiter indeed than the white soul of man, Or the whitest marbles of the Vatican. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 61 XX. She loosened her robe that was blue like the sea, And silken and soft as a babe's new born. And my heart it leapt light as the sunlight at morn At the sight of my love in her purity, As she rose like a Naiad half-robed from the sea. As careless, as calm as a queen can be, She loosed and let fall all the raiment of blue, As she drew a white robe in a melody Of her moving white limbs ; and between the two, Like a rift in a cloud^shone her fair form thro'. XXI. Now she turned, reached a hand ; then a tall gondolier Who had leaned on his oar, like a long lifted spear, Shot sudden and swift and all silently, And drew to her side as she turned from the tide . . . It was odd, such a thing, and I counted it queer That a princess like this, whether virgin or bride, 62 SONGS OF ITALY. Should abide thus apart, and should bathe in that sea ; And I shook back my hair, and so unsatisfied ! Then I fluttered the doves that were perched close about, As I strode up and down in dismay and in doubt. xxn. Then she stood in the boat on the borders of night As a goddess might stand on that far wonder-land Of eternal sweet life, which men have named Death. I turned to the sea, and I caught at my breath As she crouched in the boat, and her white baby hand Held her vestment of purple imperial and white. Then the gondola shot, swift, sharp from the shore : There was never the sound of a song or of oar, But the doves hurried home in white clouds to Saint Mark, Where -the lion looms high o'er the sea in the dark. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 63 XXIH. Then I cried : " Quick ! Follow her ! Follow her! Fast! Come, thrice double fare if you follow her true To her own palace door ! " There was plashing of oar And rattle of rowlock. ... I sat leaning low, Looking far in the dark, looking out as we sped With my soul all alert, bending down, leaning low. But only the oaths of the men as we pass'd, When we jostled them sharp as we sudden shot thro' The watery town. Then a deep, distant roar The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the oar. xxrv. We rock'd and we rode : then the oars keeping pace Gave stroke for short stroke hi the swift stormy chase. I lifted my face, and lo ! fitfully The heavens breathed lightning : it did lift and fall As if angels were parting God's curtains. Then deep And indolent-like and as if half-asleep, 64 SONGS OF ITALY. As if half made angry to move at all, The thunder moved. It confronted me. It stood like an avalanche poised on a hill : I saw its black brows. I heard it stand still. XXV. Then we flew by a great house hurriedly, With its four walls washed by the foamy sea ; 'Twas the place where Shelley was wont to be. I heard in the heavens the howlings of men ; High up in the dark I did hear men shout ; And I lifted my eyes as the lightnings fell, And I saw hands thrust through the bars ; and then I knew 'twas the madhouse howling at me : So doleful, so lone ! Like a land cast out, And awful as Lucifer throned in hell. XXVI. Then an oath. Then a prayer. Then a gust that made rents Thro' the yellow-sailed fishers. Then suddenly Came sharp-forked fire ! Then far thunder fell Like the great first gun ! Ah, then there was rout Of ships like the breaking of regiments, And shouts as if hurled from an upper hell. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 05 Then tempest ! It lifted, it spun us about, Then shot us ahead through the hills of the sea As if a great arrow shot shoreward in wars Then heaven split open till we saw the blown stars. XXVII. i On ! On ! through the foam, through the storm, through the town. She was gone ! She was lost in the wilderness Of palaces lifting their marbles of snow. I stood in my gondola. Up and all down I pushed through the surge of the salt-flood street Above me, below. . . -. 'Twas only the beat Of the sea's sad heart. . . . Then I heard below The water-rat building, and nothing but that ; Not even the sea-bird screaming distress, As she lost her way in that wilderness. xxvm. I listened all night. I caught at each sound ; I clutched and I caught as a man that drown'd Only the sullen, low growl of the sea Far out the flood-street at the edge of the ships. Only the billow slow licking his lips, 66 SONGS OF ITALY. Like a dog that lay crouching there watching for me, Growling and showing white teeth all the night, Reaching his neck and as ready to bite. Only the waves with their salt-flood tears Fawning white stones of a thousand years. XXIX. Only the birds in the loftiness Of column and dome and of glittering spire That thrust to heaven and held the fire Of the thunder still ; the bird's distress As he struck his wings in that wilderness, On marbles that speak and thrill and inspire. The night below and the night above ; The water-rat building, the startled white dove ; The wide-winged, dolorous sea-bird's call, The water-rat building, but that was all. XXX. Silent and slowly, and up and down, I rowed and I rowed me for many an hour, By beetling palace and toppling tower, In the dark and the deep of the watery town. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 67 Only the water-rat building by stealth, Only the sea-bird astray in his flight As he struck his wings in the clouds of night, On spires that sprang from old Adria's wealth, On marbles that move with their eloquence, On statues so sweeter than utterance. XXXI. Lo ! pushing the darkness from pillar to post, The morning came silent and gray like a ghost Slow up the canal. I leaned from the prow And listened. Not even the bird in distress Screaming above through the wilderness ; Not even the stealthy old water-rat now. Only the bell in the fisherman's tower, Slow tolling at sea and telling the hour To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara For tawny fishers at sea and pray. 68 SONGS OF ITALY. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. PART II. I. T TIGH over my head, carved cornice, quaint spire ; And ancient-built palaces knocked their gray brows Together and frowned. The slow-creeping scows Scraped the wall on each side. High over, the fire Of sudden-born morning came flaming in bars : While up through my chasm I could count the stars. [death My God ! Such damp ruin ! The dank smell of Came up the canal : I could scarce take my breath ! 'Twas the fit place for pirates, for women who keep Contagion of body and soul where they sleep. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 69 n. Great heaven ! A white hand did beckon to me From an old mouldy door, and almost in my reach. I sprang to the sill as one wrecked to a beach ; I sprang with wide arms : it was she ! it was she ! . . . In such a damn'd place ! And what was her trade ? To think I had followed, so faithful, so far, From eternity's brink, from star to white star, To find her, to find her, nor wife nor sweet maid ! To find her a shameless poor creature of shame, A nameless lost body, men hardly dare name. o in. All alone in her pride, on that damp dismal floor She stood to entice me. I bowed me before All-conquering beauty. I called her my queen. I told her my love as I would have told My love had I found her as pure as gold. I reached her my hand, as fearless a man As man fronting cannon. I cried : " Come forth To the sun ! There are lands to the south, to the north, Anywhere where you will. Dash the shame from your brow ; Come with me, for ever ; and come with me now ! " 70 SONGS OF ITALY. IV. Why, I had turned pirate for her ! I had seen Tall ships burned from seas, like to stubble from field. [yield, I would not now forsake her. Why should I now When she needed me most ? Had I found her a queen, And beloved by the world, why, what had I done? I had wooed her, and wooed her, and wooed till I won ! Then, if I had loved her with gold and fair fame, Would not I now love her, and love her the same ? My soul hath a pride. I would tear out my heart And feed it to dogs, could it play such a part. v. I told her all things. Her brow took a frown ; Her grand Titan beauty, so tall, so serene, The one perfect woman, mine own idol queen I Her proud swelling bosom it broke up and down : Then she spake, and she shook in her soul as she said, With her small hands upheld to her bent, aching head : THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 71 " Go back to the world ! go back and alone, Thou strange, stormy soul, intense as mine own ! " I said : " I will wait ! I will wait in the pass Of death, until Time he shall break his glass ! VI. "Don't you know me, my bride of the white worlds before ? Why, don't you remember the white milky-way Of stars, that we traversed a life-time through ? We were counting the colors, we were naming the seas Of the vaster ones. You remember the trees That swayed in the cloudy white heavens, and bore Bright crystals of sweets, and the sweet manna- dew? Why, you smile as you weep, and you lift up your brow, And your bright eyes speak, and you know me now ! You know me as if 'twere but yesterday ! 72 SONGS OF ITALY. vn. "Nowhere in the lands where the gods did love, Where the white Europa was won, she rode Her milk-white bull through these same warm seas, Yea, here in the lands where the Hercules, With the lion's heart and the heart of the dove, Did walk in his naked great strength, and strode In the sensuous air with his lion's skin Flapping and fretting his knotted thews ; Where Theseus did wander, and Jason cruise, Lo ! here let the life of all lives begin. vm. " Lo ! here where the Orient balms blow in, Where heaven is kindest, where all God's blue Seems a great gate opened to welcome you, Come, rise and go forth, and forget your sin ! " Then rose her great heart, so grander far Than I had believed on that outermost star ; And she put by her tears, and calmly she said, With hands held low and with bended head : " Go thou through the doors of death, and wait For me on the innermost side of the gate. THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 73 IX. " It is breaking my heart ; but, 'tis best," she said. " Thank God that this life is but a day's span, But a wayside inn for weary, worn man A night and a day ; and, to-morrow, the spell Of darkness is broken. Now, darling, farewell ! Nay, touch not the hem of my robe ! it is red With sins that your own sex heaped on my head ! But go, love, go ! Yet remember this plan, That whoever dies first is to sit down and wait Inside death's door, and watch at the gate." x. Then I grew noble. Yea, I grew so tall I could almost reach to the golden hair Of that poor, pitiful Cyprian there. I did let my mantle of self-love fall, And I stood all naked, so weak, so small, I wondered that I could ever now dare Lift up my prayer to Heaven at all. . . . And I accepted her lesson. I said, With hands clasped down and declining head, " I will go, I will wait by the gates of the dead. - 74 SONGS OF ITALY. XI. " And you, O woman ! go patient" on through The course that man hath compelled you to. Then back to your mother, the earth, my love ; Go, press to her bosom your beautiful brow, Till it blends with your clay, and so purifies Your flesh of the stains that so sully it now : Lie down in the loam, the populous loam, Yea, sleep for the eons with death ; then rise As white, as light as the wings of a dove, And so made holy, oh love, come home ! xn. " Farewell for all time ! And now," I said, " What thing upon earth have I left to do ? Why, I shall go down through the gates of the dead, And wait for your coming your long life thro' As you have commanded, lo ! I shall obey. I shall sit, I shall wait for you, love, alway ; Shall wait by the side of the gate for you, Waiting, and counting the days as I wait ; Shall wait as that beggar that sat by the gate Of Jerusalem, waiting the Judgment Day." VENICE, 1874. IL CAPUCIN. 75 IL CAPUCIN. i. /^\NLY a basket for fruits or bread And the bits you divide with your dog, which you Had left from your dinner. The round year through He never once smiles. He bends his head To the scorn of men. He gives the road To the grave ass groaning beneath his load. He is ever alone. Lo ! never a hand Is laid in his hand through the whole wide land, Save when a man dies, and he shrives him home. And that is the Capucin monk of Rome. n. He coughs, he is humped, and he hobbles about In sandals of wood. Then a hempen cord Girdles his loathsome gown. Abhorred ! Ay ! lonely, indeed, as a leper cast out. One gown in three years ! and bah ! how he smells ! 76 SONGS OF ITALY. He slept last night in his coffin of stone, This monk that coughs, this skin and bone, This living corpse from the damp cold cells. Yet, up in the morn, come storm or shine, And forth at four to wail at the shrine. m. Go ye where the Pincian, half-levelled down, The sixth of the seven rent hills of Rome, Slopes slow to the south. These men in brown Have a monkery there, quaint, builded of stone ; And, living or dead, 'tis the brown men's home, These dead brown monks that are living in Rome ! IV. You will hear wood sandals on the sounding floor, A cough, then the lift of a latch, then the door Groans open, and horror ! Four walls of stone Are gorgeous with flowers and frescos of bone ! There are bones in the corners and bones on the wall ; And he barks like a dog that watches his bone, This monk in brown from his bed of stone Yea, barks, and he coughs, and that is all. IL CAPUCIN. 77 V. At last he will cough as if up from his cell ; Will strut with considerable pride about, Will lead through his flowers of bone, and smell Their odors ; then talk, as he points them out, Of the virtues and deeds of the gents who wore The respective bones but the year before. Then he thaws at last, ere the bones are through, And talks and talks as he turns them about And stirs up a most uncomfortable smell ; Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, till you Wish them, as they are no doubt, in well, A very deep well. . . . And that may be why, As he shows you the door and bows good-by, That he bows so low for a franc or two, To shrive their souls and to get them out These bony brown men who have their home, Dead or alive, in their cells in Rome. VI. What good does he do in the world ? Ah ! well, Now that is a puzzler. . . . But, listen ! He prays. His life is the fast of the forty days. 78 SONGS OF ITALY. And then, when the thief and the beggar fell And had died in the way; when the plague came down, Christ ! who was it cried to these men in brown When other men fled? And what man was seen Stand firm to the death but the Capucin ? HOME, 1873. FAITH. 79 FAITH. days and forty nights, Blown about the broken waters, Noah, and his sons and daughters ; Forty days they beat and blow Forty days of faith, and lo ! The olive leaf, the lifted heights, The rest at last, the calm delights. n. Forty years of sun and sand, Serpents, beasts, and wilderness, Desolation and distress, War and famine, wail and woe Forty years of faith, and lo ! The mighty Moses lifts a hand And shows at last the Promised Land. 80 SONGS OF ITALY. JR. Forty days to fast and pray, The patient Christ outworn defied The angry tempter at his side. Forty days or forty years Of patient sacrifice and tears Lo ! what are all of these the day That Time has nothing more to say ? IV. Lift your horns, exult and blow, Believe and labor. Tree and vine Must flourish, ere the fruit and wine Reward your planting. Round and round * The rocky walls, with faith profound, The trumpets blew ; blew loud, and lo ! The tumbled walls of Jericho. MILAN, 1873. TO FLORENCE. 81 TO FLORENCE. i. TF all God's world a garden were, And women were but flowers ; If men were bees that busied there Through all the summer hours, Oh ! I would hum God's garden through, For honey, till I came to you. n. Then I should hive within your hair, Its sun and gold together ; And I should bide in glory there, Through all the changeful weather. Oh ! I should sip but one, this one Sweet flower underneath the sun. 6 82 SONGS OF ITALY. in. Oh ! I would be a king, and coin Your golden hair for money ; And I would only have to seek Your lips for hoards of honey. Oh ! I would be the richest king That ever wore a signet-ring. FLORENCE, 1874. FOR PAULINE. 83 FOR PAULINE. i. T OVE me, love, but breathe cxx i6mo Edition. 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