A trifler only in her proudest day;
Have been distressed to think of what she once Promised, now is; a far more sober cause
Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land, To the reanimating influence lost
Of memory, to virtue lost and hope,
Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn.
But indignation works where hope is not, And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is One great society alone on earth:
The noble Living and the noble Dead.
Thine be such converse strong and sanative, A ladder for thy spirit to reascend
To health and joy and pure contentedness; To me the grief confined, that thou art gone From this last spot of earth where Freedom now Stands single in her only sanctuary;
A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: The sympathies, erewhile in part discharged, Gather afresh, and will have vent again : My own delights do scarcely seem to me My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves, Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks Abroad on many nations, are no more For me that image of pure gladsomeness
Which they were wont to be. Through kindred
For purpose, at a time, how different!
Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought Matured, and in the summer of their strength. Oh! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods, On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field Of Enna! is there not some nook of thine, From the first play-time of the infant world Kept sacred to restorative delight,
When from afar invoked by anxious love?
Child of the mountains, among shepherds reared, Ere yet familiar with the classic page,
I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo,
The gloom, that, but a moment past, was deepened At thy command, at her command gives way; A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales; Nor can my tongue give utterance to a name Of note belonging to that honored isle, Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, Or Archimedes, pure, abstracted soul! That doth not yield a solace to my grief:
And, O Theocritus,* so far have some
Prevailed among the powers of heaven and earth,
By their endowments, good or great, that they Have had, as thou reportest, miracles
Wrought for them in old time: yea, not unmoved, When thinking on my own beloved friend,
I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed Divine Comates, by his impious lord Within a chest imprisoned; how they came Laden from blooming grove or flowery field, And fed him there, alive, month after month, Because the goatherd, blessed man! had lips Wet with the Muses' nectar.
The pensive moments by this calm fireside, And find a thousand bounteous images
To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and mine. Our prayers have been accepted; thou wilt stand On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, Triumphant winning from the invaded heavens Thoughts without bound, magnificent designs, Worthy of poets who attuned their harps In wood or echoing cave, for discipline Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods,
'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and
Of virgins crowned with roses.
Those temples, where they in their ruins yet. Survive for inspiration, shall attract Thy solitary steps: and on the brink Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse; Or, if that fountain be in truth no more,
Then, near some other spring, which by the
Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived,
I see thee linger a glad votary,
And not a captive pining for his home.
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED.
« AnteriorContinuar » |