English

"Whence this delay? " — " Along the crowded street
A funeral comes, and with unusual pomp. "
So I withdrew a little and stood still,
While it went by. " She died as she deserved, "
Said an Abate, gathering up his cloak,
And with a shrug retreating as the tide
Flowed more and more. — " But she was beautiful! "
Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
" And innocent as beautiful! " exclaimed
A matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed

I AM in R OME ! Oft as the morning-ray
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry,
Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?
And from within a thrilling voice replies,
Thou art in R OME ! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images;
And I spring up as girt to run a race!
Thou art in R OME ! the city that so long
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world;
The mighty vision that the prophets saw,
And trembled; that from nothing, from the least,
The lowliest village (what but here and there

Pleasure that comes unlooked-for is thrice welcome;
And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among
The things most precious! and the day it came
Is noted as a white day in our lives.
The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs
And nodding woods, that everlastingly
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice,
Thy voice, V ELINO , uttered in the mist)
Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length
For others still as noon; and on we strayed

It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odors, such as welcome in the day,
Such as salute the early traveller,
And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but blessed the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive!

'T IS morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where C IMABUÈ found a shepherd-boy
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground;
And let us from the top of F IESOLE ,
Whence G ALILEO'S glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
On A RNO'S vale, where the dove-colored steer
Is ploughing up and down among the vines,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee,
Beautiful Florence ! all within thy walls,
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,

Among those awful forms, in elder time
Assembled, and through many an after-age
Destined to stand as Genii of the place
Where men most meet in Florence , may be seen
His who first played the tyrant. Clad in mail,
But with his helmet off — in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass;
And they, that read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks,
There is a chamber that, if walls could speak,
Would turn their admiration into pity
Half of what passed died with him; but the rest,

Of all the fairest cities of the earth,
None is so fair as Florence . 'Tis a gem
Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth,
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without; all is enchantment! 'Tis the Past
Contending with the Present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.
In this chapel wrought
One of the few, Nature's interpreters,
The few, whom genius gives as lights to shine,
Masaccio; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round!
And know that where we stand stood oft and long,

't was night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures — he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrummed his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain,
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,
So well portrayed, and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth,
Were hushed, Bologna, silence in the streets,

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena , where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
B OLOGNA'S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the O RSINI .
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames such as in old romance,

Three leagues from Padua stands and long has stood
(The Paduan student knows it, honors it)
A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church;
And I arrived there as the sun declined
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell-song — the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant;
When, as alive, clothed in his canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path,
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates, mingled in his train,