She followed down to the sea-sh.o.r.e; I left and never saw her more. 110

How very long since I have thought Concerning--much less wished for--aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, what shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend?

However, if I pleased to spend Real wishes on myself--say, three-- I know at least what one should be. 120 I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood thro' these two hands. And next, --Nor much for that am I perplexed-- Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last --Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength.

If I resolved to seek at length 130 My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared!

My brothers live in Austria's pay --Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates who used To praise me so-perhaps induced More than one early step of mine-- Are turning wise: while some opine "Freedom grows license," some suspect "Haste breeds delay," and recollect 140 They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure!

So, with a sullen "All's for best,"

The land seems settling to its rest.

I think then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt: what harm 150 If I sat on the door-side bench, And, while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes--just Her children's ages and their names, And what may be the husband's aims For each of them. I'd talk this out, And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way. 160

So much for idle wishing--how It steals the time! To business now.

NOTES: "The Italian in England." An Italian patriot who has taken part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian dominance, reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once more the n.o.ble woman who at the risk of her own life helped him to escape. Though there is no exact historical incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a historical background. The Charles referred to (lines 8, 11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of the younger branch of the house of Savoy. His having played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary. As indicated in the poem, Charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin. But when the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the new government, Charles Albert succ.u.mbed to the king's threats and left his friends in the lurch. Later the Austrians marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from Italy.

19. Metternich: the distinguished Austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of Italian independence.

76. Tenebrae: darkness. "The office of matins and lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteen lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle is left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of the other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the world at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death could not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY

Piano di Sorrento

Fortu, Fortu, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet!

I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.

Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; 10 All the Plain saw me gather, I garland --The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads--speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night-- 20 Your mother bites off for her supper.

Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rockside, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, 30 For the prize were great b.u.t.terflies fighting, Some five for one cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. 40 Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth.

And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, 50 Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock.

No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, --Our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, 60 Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle --You see round his neck The string and its bra.s.s coin suspended, That saves him from wreck.

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, So back, to a man, 70 Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began.

In the vat, halfway up in our houseside, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder 80 From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; Your girls that are older,-- For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails 90 Tempted out by this first rainy weather,-- Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow, In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of popes. 100 Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence: Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine 110 From the thin green gla.s.s flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine; And end with the p.r.i.c.kly-pear's red flesh That leaves thro' its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.

Scirocco is loose!

Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Tho' not yet half black! 120 How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest!

No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep.

O how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs 130 Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows?

Last eve, I rode over the mountains, Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-b.a.l.l.s, black, glossy and luscious,-- Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs! 140 But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the f.a.ggots and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged 150 Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath-- Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, 'spite the wind's wrath, 160 So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, And lentisks as staunch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And... what shows a branch Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lad Till, round after round, 170 He climbed to the top of Calvano, And G.o.d's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be.

Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!

No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. 180 Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!

Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And, before they escape you surprise them.

They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) 190 --Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: All is silent and grave: 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair! but a slave.

So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever 200 The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,--halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses-- No farther to-day, Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already.

Fortu, shall we sail there together And see from the sides 210 Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides?

Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, tho' unseen, That ruffle the grey gla.s.sy water To glorious green?

Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, 220 Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear?

--The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know.

Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano; He strikes the great gloom 230 And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume.

All is over. Look out, see the gipsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, 240 While the other, thro' locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall --Chew, abbot's own cheek!

All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At church for the show Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening.

To-morrow's the Feast 250 Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least, As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart.

Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar A-blaze with long tapers; 260 But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoa.r.s.e, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course.

And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp 270 Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp.

All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. 280 At all events, come-to the garden As far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

--"Such trifles!" you say?

Fortu, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise 290 --If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies!

NOTES: "The Italian in England." An Italian patriot who has taken part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian dominance, reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once more the n.o.ble woman who at the risk of her own life helped him to escape. Though there is no exact historical incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a historical background. The Charles referred to (lines 8, 11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of the younger branch of the house of Savoy. His having played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary. As indicated in the poem, Charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin. But when the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the new government, Charles Albert succ.u.mbed to the king's threats and left his friends in the lurch. Later the Austrians marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from Italy.

19. Metternich: the distinguished Austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of Italian independence.

76. Tenebrae: darkness. "The office of matins and lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteen lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle is left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of the other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the world at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death could not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)

IN A GONDOLA

He sings.

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing.

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one s.p.a.ce Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.

She speaks.

Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, 10 In your own voice, in your own way: "This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear, which (say again) I choose to make by cherishing A precious thing, or choose to fling Over the boat-side, ring by ring."

And yet once more say... no word more!

Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Unless you call me, all the same, 20 Familiarly by my pet name, Which if the Three should hear you call, And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all.

Ask of me, too, command me, blame-- Do, break down the part.i.tion-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!

What's left but--all of me to take?

I am the Three's: prevent them, slake 30 Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, In practising with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

He sings.

I

Past we glide, and past, and past!

What's that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast?

Grey Zan.o.bi's just a-wooing 40 To his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide!