A DAY-DREAM.
A day-dream by the dark-blue deep; Was it a dream, or something more?
I sat where Posilippo"s steep, With its gray shelves, o"erhung the sh.o.r.e.
On ruined Roman walls around The poppy flaunted, for "twas May; And at my feet, with gentle sound, Broke the light billows of the bay.
I sat and watched the eternal flow Of those smooth billows toward the sh.o.r.e, While quivering lines of light below Ran with them on the ocean-floor:
Till, from the deep, there seemed to rise White arms upon the waves outspread, Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes, And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red.
Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold, Lay floating on the ocean-streams, And such their brows as bards behold-- Love-stricken bards--in morning dreams.
Then moved their coral lips; a strain Low, sweet and sorrowful, I heard, As if the murmurs of the main Were shaped to syllable and word.
"The sight thou dimly dost behold, Oh, stranger from a distant sky!
Was often, in the days of old, Seen by the clear, believing eye.
"Then danced we on the wrinkled sand, Sat in cool caverns by the sea, Or wandered up the bloomy land, To talk with shepherds on the lea.
"To us, in storms, the seaman prayed, And where our rustic altars stood, His little children came and laid The fairest flowers of field and wood.
"Oh woe, a long, unending woe!
For who shall knit the ties again That linked the sea-nymphs, long ago, In kindly fellowship with men?
"Earth rears her flowers for us no more; A half-remembered dream are we; Unseen we haunt the sunny sh.o.r.e, And swim, unmarked, the gla.s.sy sea.
"And we have none to love or aid, But wander, heedless of mankind, With shadows by the cloud-rack made, With moaning wave and sighing wind.
"Yet sometimes, as in elder days, We come before the painter"s eye, Or fix the sculptor"s eager gaze, With no profaner witness nigh.
"And then the words of men grow warm With praise and wonder, asking where The artist saw the perfect form He copied forth in lines so fair."
As thus they spoke, with wavering sweep Floated the graceful forms away; Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep, I saw the white arms gleam and play.
Fainter and fainter, on mine ear, Fell the soft accents of their speech, Till I, at last, could only hear The waves run murmuring up the beach.
THE RUINS OF ITALICA.
FROM THE SPANISH OF RIOJA.
I.
Fabius, this region, desolate and drear, These solitary fields, this shapeless mound, Were once Italica, the far-renowned; For Scipio, the mighty, planted here His conquering colony, and now, o"erthrown, Lie its once-dreaded walls of ma.s.sive stone, Sad relics, sad and vain, Of those invincible men Who held the region then.
Funereal memories alone remain Where forms of high example walked of yore.
Here lay the forum, there arose the fane-- The eye beholds their places, and no more.
Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous baths Resolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths; Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky, Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie.
II.
This broken circus, where the rock-weeds climb, Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defy The G.o.ds to whom its walls were piled so high, Is now a tragic theatre, where Time Acts his great fable, spreads a stage that shows Past grandeur"s story and its dreary close.
Why, round this desert pit, Shout not the applauding rows Where the great people sit?
Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant; With his bare arms, the strong athleta where?
All have departed from this once gay haunt Of noisy crowds, and silence holds the air.
Yet, on this spot, Time gives us to behold A spectacle as stern as those of old.
As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise, From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries.
III.
The terrible in war, the pride of Spain, Trajan, his country"s father, here was born; Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reign Submitted the far regions, where the morn Rose from her cradle, and the sh.o.r.e whose steeps O"erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps.
Of mighty Adrian here, Of Theodosius, saint, Of Silius, Virgil"s peer, Were rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and quaint With ivory carvings; here were laurel-boughs And sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows, From gardens now a marshy, th.o.r.n.y waste.
Where rose the palace, reared for Caesar, yawn Foul rifts to which the scudding lizards haste.
Palaces, gardens, Caesars, all are gone, And even the stones their names were graven on.
IV.
Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, survey The long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old, The broken marbles, arches in decay, Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolled In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, And buried, in forgetfulness profound, The owners and their fame.
Thus Troy, I deem, must be, With many a mouldering mound; And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, Rome, of old G.o.ds and kings the native ground; And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom Just laws redeemed not from the appointed doom.
The envy of earth"s cities once wert thou-- A weary solitude and ashes now!
For Fate and Death respect ye not; they strike The mighty city and the wise alike.
V.
But why goes forth the wandering thought to frame New themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands?
Enough the example that before me stands; For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering flame, And hoa.r.s.e lamentings on the breezes die; So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell On those who near it dwell.
And under night"s still sky, As awe-struck peasants tell, A melancholy voice is heard to cry, "Italica is fallen!" the echoes then Mournfully shout "Italica" again.
The leafy alleys of the forest nigh Murmur "Italica," and all around, A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound Of that ill.u.s.trious name, repeat the call, "Italica!" from ruined tower and wall.
WAITING BY THE GATE.
Beside a ma.s.sive gateway built up in years gone by, Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.
The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze"s flight, A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night; I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o"er.
Behold, the portals open, and o"er the threshold, now, There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow; His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought; He pa.s.ses to his rest from a place that needs him not.