From Venice in its golden sea To Postum in its purple light, By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills, Mid Terni's vale of singing rills, In By deathless lairs in solemn Rome, gay Palermo's "Golden Shell," At Arethusa's hidden well We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun That slept so lovingly on all, And made a home of every one Ruin, and fane, and waterfall And crown'd the dying day with glory If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story. We came with Spring to Tivoli. My sister lov'd its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key, And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play, And, like a child that longs for home When weary of its holiday, I sighed for melancholy Rome. Perhaps the fancy haunts me still'Twas but a boding sense of ill. It was a morn, of such a day As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May. Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst, And on the burthen of the air The breath of buds came faint and rare; The small, earth-keeping birds were seen And through the clefts of newer green Yon waters dash'd their living pearls; And with a gayer smile and bow Troop'd on the merry village girls ; And from the Contadino's brow The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown, With air that scarcely seem'd his own; And Melanie, with lips apart, And clasped hands upon my arm, And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. In happiness and idleness We wandered down yon sunny vale Oh mocking eyes!—a golden tress A foot is tripping on the grass! A laugh rings merry in mine ear! O God! my sister once was here! There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore That broken fountain running o'er She listen'd to its babbling flow, And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells Some fountain-nymph's love-story now!" And as her laugh rang clear and wild, He gave the greeting of the morn By those two words so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high And swept by threads of raven hair, The fire of thought was in his eye, And he was pale and marble fair, And Grecian chisel never caught The soul in those slight features wrought. I watch'd his graceful step of pride, Till hidden by yon leaning tree, And lov'd him ere the echo died; And so, alas! did Melanie! We sat and watch'd the fount awhile In silence, but our thoughts were one; And then arose, and with a smile Of sympathy, we saunter'd on; And she by sudden fits was gay, And then her laughter died away, And in this changefulness of mood, Forgotten now those May-day spells, We turn'd where Varro's villa stood And gazing on the Cascatelles, (Whose hurrying waters wild and white Seem madden'd as they burst to light) I chanced to turn my eyes away, And lo! upon a bank alone, The youthful painter, sleeping, lay! His pencils on the grass were thrown, And near him as I lightly crept, Upon his feet he lightly sprung; He said and dropp'd his earnest eyes— "Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee !" |