Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
II. Descriptive and NarrativeThe Ave Maria
A
The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o’er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem’d stirr’d with prayer.
Ave Maria! ’tis the hour of love! Ave Maria! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and to thy Son’s above! Ave Maria! oh, that face so fair! Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove— What though ’tis but a pictured image?—strike— That painting is no idol—’tis too like. Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna’s immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o’er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio’s lore And Dryden’s lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed’s and mine, And vesper bell’s that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti’s line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng Which learn’d from this example not to fly From a true lover,—shadow’d my mind’s eye. Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, To the young bird the parent’s brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o’erlabour’d steer; Whate’er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate’er our household gods protect of dear, Are gather’d round us by thy look of rest; Thou bring’st the child, too, to the mother’s breast. Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day’s decay; Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns! Which ever the destroyer yet destroy’d, Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, Of nations freed, and the world overjoy’d, Some hand unseen strew’d flowers upon his tomb: Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void Of feeling for some kindness done, when power Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.