This eBook was produced by Dagny,
and David Widger,
"Not to all men Apollo shows himself—
Who sees him—/he/ is great!"
CALLIM. /Ex Hymno in Apollinon/.
"Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears—soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."
SHAKESPEARE.
The Beautiful Clime!—the Clime of Love!
Thou beautiful Italy!
Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies
Ever have smiles for thee!
Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows,
But what is in love with thee!
The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!*
Soft lake like a silver sea,
The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen,
Never had bath like thee.
See, the Lady of night and her maids of light,
Even now are mid-deep in thee!
* The ancient name of Como.
Beautiful child of the lonely hills,
Ever blest may thy slumbers be!
No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed,
No life bring a care to thee—
Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread—
And life be a dream like thee!
Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectlytranslated—such were the notes that floated one lovely evening insummer along the lake of Como. The boat, from which came the song,drifted gently down the sparkling waters, towards the mossy banks of alawn, whence on a little eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa,backed by vineyards. On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman,leaning on the arm of her husband, and listening to the song. But herdelight was soon deepened into one of more personal interest, as theboatmen, nearing the banks, changed their measure, and she felt that theminstrelsy was in honour of herself.
Softly—oh, soft! let us rest on the oar,
And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore:—
For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet
With the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet.
There's a spell on the waves that now waft us along
To the last of our Muses, the Spirit of Song.
The Eagle of old renown,
And the Lombard's iron crown
And Milan's mighty name are ours no more;
But by this glassy water,
Harmonia's youngest daughter,
Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore.
They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul,
Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall;
They heard thee, and bow'd to the might of thy song;
Like love went thy steps o'er the hearts of the strong;
As the moon to the air, as the soul to the clay,
To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay.
Honour for aye to her
The bright interpreter
Of Art's great mysteries to the enchanted throng;
While tyrants heard thy strains,
Sad Rome forgot her chains;
The world the sword had lost was conquer'd back by song!
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