Poems on Travel Part 8

I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more From the high terraces, at even-tide, To look supine into thy depths of sky, Thy golden moon between the cliff and me, Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses 5 Bordering the channel of the milky-way.

Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico Murmur to me but in the poet's song.

I did believe (what have I not believed?), 10 Weary with age, but unopprest by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.

Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; 15 But thou didst promise this, and all was well.

For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration ... reasoning As if the sight were unimpaired by death, 20 Were un.o.bstructed by the coffin-lid, And the sun cheered corruption! Over all The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave.

W. S. LANDOR.

MESSINA

'h.o.m.o sum; humani nil a me alienum puto.'

Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearns my heart Towards these scenes of ancient heathen fame?

Yet legend h.o.a.r, and voice of bard that came Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art, And shades of power, and those who bore a part 5 In the mad deeds that set the world in flame, So fret my memory here,--ah! is it blame?-- That from my eyes the tear is fain to start.

Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise; 'Tis but that sympathy with Adam's race 10 Which in each brother's history reads its own.

So let the cliffs and seas of this fair place Be named man's tomb and splendid record stone, High hope, pride-stained, the course without the prize.

J. H. NEWMAN.

TAORMINA

'And Jacob went on his way; and the angels of G.o.d met him.'

Say, hast thou tracked a traveller's round, Nor visions met thee there, Thou couldst but marvel to have found This blighted world so fair?

And feel an awe within thee rise, 5 That sinful man should see Glories far worthier Seraph's eyes Than to be shared by thee?

Store them in heart! thou shalt not faint 'Mid coming pains and fears, 10 As the third heaven once nerved a Saint For fourteen trial-years.

J. H. NEWMAN.

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA

n.o.bly, n.o.bly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and grey; 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, 5 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to G.o.d to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

R. BROWNING.

GIBRALTAR

England, we love thee better than we know.-- And this I learned when, after wanderings long 'Mid people of another stock and tongue, I heard again thy martial music blow, And saw thy gallant children to and fro 5 Pace, keeping ward at one of those huge gates, Which like twin giants watch the Herculean Straits.

When first I came in sight of that brave show, It made the very heart within me dance, To think that thou thy proud foot shouldst advance Forward so far into the mighty sea. 11 Joy was it and exultation to behold Thine ancient standard's rich emblazonry, A glorious picture by the wind unrolled.

R. C. TRENCH.

GIBRALTAR

Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screened by either sh.o.r.e Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, 5 Our exile is accomplished. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.

Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. At this door England stands sentry. G.o.d! to hear the shrill 11 Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!

W. S. BLUNT.

FROM 'THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY'

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!

--As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow 5 Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine-- 9 And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted masters of the waves-- And s.n.a.t.c.hed his rudder, and shook out more sail; And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 15 To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits; and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales. 20

M. ARNOLD.

FAREWELL TO MALTA

Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!

Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!

Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured!

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs! 5 (How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu, ye merchants often failing!

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!

Adieu, ye packets--without letters!

Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters! 10 Adieu, thou d.a.m.ned'st quarantine, That gave me fever, and the spleen!

Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!

Adieu to Peter--whom no fault's in, 15 But could not teach a colonel waltzing; Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!

Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!

Adieu, the supercilious air Of all that strut 'en militaire!' 20 I go--but G.o.d knows when, or why, To smoky towns and cloudy sky, To things (the honest truth to say) As bad--but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 25 Triumphant sons of truest blue!

While either Adriatic sh.o.r.e, And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, Proclaim you war and woman's winners. 30 Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is, And take my rhyme--because 'tis 'gratis'.

And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hothouse!

I'll not offend with words uncivil, 35 And wish thee rudely at the Devil, But only stare from out my cas.e.m.e.nt, And ask, for what is such a place meant?

Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book, 40 Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, And bless the G.o.ds I've got a fever.

LORD BYRON.

TO E[DWARD] L[EAR], ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer gla.s.s, The long divine Penean pa.s.s, The vast Akrokeraunian walls,

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, 5 With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turned the page, And tracked you still on cla.s.sic ground, 10 I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age.