Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Italy: Vols. XI–XIII. 1876–79.
Lines Written near Shelleys House
By Aubrey Thomas de Vere (18141902)A
With faded leaves his light, swift footsteps crushed;
The odor of yon pine was o’er him blown:
Music went by him in each wind that brushed
Those yielding stems of ilex! Here, alone,
He walked at noon, or silent stood and hushed
When the ground-ivy flashed the moonlight sheen
Back from the forest carpet always green.
Now bends, resilient now against the wind
Recoils, like Dryads that one moment cower
And rise the next with loose locks unconfined.
Through the dim roof like gems the sunbeams shower;
Old cypress-trunks the aspiring bay-trees bind,
And soon will have them wholly underneath:
Types eminent of glory conquering death.
The respirations of a southern sea
Beat with susurrent cadence, soft and slow:
Round the gray cave’s fantastic imagery,
In undulation eddying to and fro,
The purple waves swell up or backward flee;
While, dewed at each rebound with gentlest shock,
The myrtle leans her green breast on the rock.
Streamed from some furthest realm of luminous thought,
Which clothed his fragile beauty with the might
Of suns forever rising! Here he caught
Visions divine. He saw in fiery flight
“The hound of Heaven,” with heavenly vengeance fraught,
“Run down the slanted sunlight of the morn”—
Prometheus frown on Jove with scorn for scorn.
Plunge from the Acroceraunian ledges bare
With all her torrent streams, while from the steep
Alpheus bounded on her unaware:
Hellas he saw, a giant fresh from sleep,
Break from the night of bondage and despair.
Who but had sung as there he stood and smiled,
“Justice and truth have found their winged child!”
Shone clear, and traced a god in each disguise,
Protean, boundless. Like the buskined scene
All nature rapt him into ecstasies:
In him, alas! had reverence equal been
With admiration, those resplendent eyes
Had wandered not through all her range sublime
To miss the one great marvel of all time.
He rose, and trod yon spine of mountains bleak,
While stormy suns descending in the west
Stained as with blood yon promontory’s beak.
That hour, responsive to his soul’s unrest,
Carrara’s marble summits, peak to peak,
Sent forth their thunders like the battle-cry
Of nations arming for the victory.