Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 30

Above thee still rose lofty mountains, Before thee lay the lake divine, Around thee sang the crystal fountains,-- With all these treasures, why repine?

Religions changed, and shrines were banished, Years slipped away, men came and went, But thou, whatever pleasures vanished, With what thou hadst wast still content.

Not thine our fatal strain of sadness, As cherished fancies fade away; For thee the simple soul of gladness,-- The careless rapture of to-day!

Farewell! within my heart abiding I hear thy music, gentle Faun,-- The wounds of disillusion hiding, The prelude to a happier dawn.

WAKEFULNESS

Drifting, idly drifting, where thought's varied streams Meet at last and mingle in the realm of dreams, Gladly would I join them in oblivion's deep!

Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

Toward the night's Nirvana groping for the way, Striving, ever striving to forget the day, Waves of dreamless slumber, o'er my spirit creep!

Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

By the stream of Lethe, fettered to the brink, Longing for the breaking of the last, frail link, Eager for its billows o'er my mind to sweep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

Waiting, ever waiting for thy soothing call, And the welcome darkness that envelops all, If no more to waken, then no more to weep, Sleep, so dear to me, Sleep, come near to me, Sleep, sweet sleep!

VILLA PLINIANA

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs Slope swiftly to the deep, And silvery streams from ledge to ledge In foaming splendor leap,-- A broad expanse of saffron walls, A wilderness of mouldering halls.

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight On every darkened room, And oozing mosses drip decay Through corridors of gloom, While Ruin lays a subtle snare On many a yielding rail and stair.

There seats, which beauty once enthroned, In tattered damask stand; In gray neglect a faun extends A mutilated hand; And silence makes the festal board Mute as the stringless harpsichord.

The boldest hesitate to tread Those gruesome courts at night; 'Tis whispered that a spectral form Then haunts the lonely height; For he who built this home apart Had stabbed his rival to the heart.

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought Amid those scenes sublime; Forever lurked within his breast The nemesis of crime; Not all that flood of limpid spray Could wash the fatal stain away.

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt Within that haunted pile; Among them she, whose portrait still, With enigmatic smile, Lights up the mansion, like a gem Set in a tarnished diadem;--

The princess, at whose thrilling call Unnumbered patriots rose To drive from fettered Lombardy Her immemorial foes,-- A woman, loved from sea to sea, As Liberty's divinity.

But now the old, historic site Lives only in the past; Neglected and untenanted, Its life is ebbing fast; Each crumbling step, each mossy stone Is marked by Ruin for her own.

Yet one mysterious charm abides,-- The spring, whose ebb and flow Were praised in Pliny's cla.s.sic prose Two thousand years ago,-- A fountain, whose perennial grace Millenniums could not efface.

Thrice daily in their polished cup Its crystal waters sink; Thrice daily do they rise again And overflow the brink,-- Since Pliny's day no more, no less, Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs, Cascade, and storied spring, Ye are the same as when he loved Your varied charms to sing; 'Tis man alone who sadly goes!

The lake remains, the fountain flows.

Like drops in its exhaustless flood, Our little lives emerge, Swirl for an instant, and are gone, Sunk by another surge!

Whence come they? Whither do they go?

O Roman poet, dost thou know?

POINT BALBIANELLO

From Lake Como's depths ascending, With embankments steep Stands a wooded headland, bending With majestic sweep Till its rugged sh.o.r.es, expanding, Join two charming bays, Now, as formerly, commanding Universal praise.

Years ago a papal Primate Built a hospice here, Which, from its delightful climate, Mild throughout the year, Soon became for convalescence A renowned retreat, Where pure air and strict quiescence Made all cures complete.

"Villa Balbi",--appellation Of the Primate's seat--, Gave its name to this location In a form more sweet,-- Soft, sonorous "Balbianello", Spoken, as if sung In the speech, so smooth and mellow, Of the Latin tongue.

Balbianello, Balbianello!

Point of liquid name, With thy walls of golden yellow And thy flowers of flame, When thy varied charms enthrall me Under summer skies, Tenderly I love to call thee Como's Paradise.

From thy base, where in profusion Countless roses bloom, To thy crest, where sweet seclusion Reigns in leafy gloom, All is beauty, uncontested By a rival claim, All is symmetry invested With a storied fame.

Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded, Which thy slopes ascend; Grand the loggia, old and faded, Where those pathways end;-- n.o.ble arches, well recalling Mighty works of old, Columns which, when night is falling, Turn to shafts of gold.

In that loggia, fringed with roses, All my soul expands; Every arch a view discloses Of historic lands; Southward lies fair Comacina, Famed in cla.s.sic lore, Northward Pliny's Tremezzina And Bellagio's sh.o.r.e.

Miles of liquid opalescence Stretch on either hand, Curving into lovely crescents, Each with sylvan strand; While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping Realms of stainless snow, Whence the milk-white streams come leaping To the lake below.

Many a far-off promontory Melts in silvery haze, Many a scene of song and story Tells of Roman days; Real and unreal, past and present, Make the vision seem Like the rapture evanescent Of a happy dream.

Yet this point, so well selected,-- Peerless in its day--, Now, abandoned and neglected, Sinks to slow decay; Sculptured saints, with broken fingers, Line the ancient walls, Like a loyal guard that lingers Till the rampart falls;

Vases, o'er the portal standing, Crumble into lime; Steps, ascending from the landing, Show the touch of time; And its one lone gardener, weeping As he tells his fears, Faithful watch has here been keeping Many, many years!

Even he must leave it lonely, When the night grows late; Then the mouldering statues only Guard its rusty gate; Then no eye its charm discovers, And its moonlit bowers Wait in vain for happy lovers Through the silent hours.

Will no champion protect thee, Fairest spot on earth?

Doth a busy world neglect thee, Careless of thy worth?

Even so, thy site elysian Still remains supreme,-- Acme of the painter's vision And the poet's dream.

AT LENNO

By Lake Como's sylvan sh.o.r.e, Where the wavelets evermore Seem to rhythmically murmur of the cla.s.sic days of yore, Cease, O boatman, now to row!

While the Alpine summits glow, Let me dream that I am floating on the lake of long ago.

Where the Tremezzina ends, And the bay of Lenno bends Till the shadow of the mountain to its placid wave descends, On this strand of silver foam Stood the Younger Pliny's home, When the world at last lay subject to the dominance of Rome.