Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
From Palermo
By John Nichol (18331894)O
To me, an idle wanderer, comes
A memory with the northern breeze,—
A touch of hands from English homes.
And on the days of glory muse,
When Carthage, with her heart on flame,
Wrestled with Rome for Syracuse;
To strike a lyre with sterner strings,
And mingle with remoter dreams
The fights of old Phœnician kings.
And reaches of the silver main,
Encircled by the golden shell,
Demand from me a softer strain.
And climbing cliffs that Pindar sung,
I gather flowers ’neath olive shades.
To speak to thee in English tongue.
When Proserpine, with all her girls,
Forgat the hours on Enna’s mead,
Nor gentler breezes fanned her curls.
The whole dim world of strife and care;
The Graces wreathe their dances yet,
With them I breathe a calmer air.
Revive, fresh splendors are unfurled,
And, treading on a kindlier earth,
I realize a wider world.
Of classic sculpture, Arab dome,
And tropic fragrance, half my heart
Points, with my compass, o’er the foam.
I set afloat my random rhymes;
And pluck the branches that recall
The message borne from colder climes.
Purpling, like eve, in this rich sky;
And daisies, blooming where the day
Beams with an ever azure eye.
Grown where eternal summer smiles,
Round the great gorge, without a peer,
In this the pearl of all the isles.