Part 16 (2/2)

[Footnote 1: _Vaccinium Myrtillus_ known by the different names of Whorts, Whortle-berries, Bilberries; and in the North of England, Blea-berries and Bloom-berries. [Note by S. T. C. 1802.]]

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO

Of late, in one of those most weary hours, When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known May bless his happy lot, I sate alone; And, from the numbing spell to win relief, Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.

In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee, I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!

And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache, Which, all else slum'bring, seem'd alone to wake; O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal, And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, I but half saw that quiet hand of thine Place on my desk this exquisite design.

Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!

An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, Framed in the silent poesy of form.

Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep Emerging from a mist: or like a stream Of music soft that not dispels the sleep, But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, Gazed by an idle eye with silent might The picture stole upon my inward sight.

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.

And one by one (I know not whence) were brought All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost; Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above, Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love; Or lent a l.u.s.tre to the earnest scan Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!

Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves Rehea.r.s.ed their war-spell to the winds and waves; Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades; Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast; Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.

And many a verse which to myself I sang, That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.

And last, a matron now, of sober mien, Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd Even in my dawn of thought--Philosophy; Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, She bore no other name than Poesy; And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, That had but newly left a mother's knee, Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone, As if with elfin playfellows well known, And life reveal'd to innocence alone.

Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, And _all_ awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand, Now wander through the Eden of thy hand; Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear See fragment shadows of the crossing deer; And with that serviceable nymph I stoop The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.

I see no longer! I myself am there, Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.

'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings, And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings; Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free, And always fair, rare land of courtesy!

O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills And famous Arno, fed with all their rills; Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!

Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.

Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, And forests, where beside his leafy hold The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn; Palladian palace with its storied halls; Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls; Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span, And Nature makes her happy home with man; Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn;-- Thine all delights, and every muse is thine; And more than all, the embrace and intertwine Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!

Mid G.o.ds of Greece and warriors of romance, See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees The new-found roll of old Maeonides; But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart!

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse!

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, And see in Dian's vest between the ranks Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes The _vestal_ fires, of which her lover grieves, With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!

1828.

THE TWO FOUNTS

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY [MRS. ADERS] ON HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN

'T was my last waking thought, how it could be That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure; When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.

Methought he fronted me with peering look Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game The loves and griefs therein, as from a book: And uttered praise like one who wished to blame.

In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin Two Founts there are, of Suffering and of Cheer!

_That_ to let forth, and _this_ to keep within!

But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,

Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, _That_ Fount alone unlock, by no distress Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness.

As on the driving cloud the s.h.i.+ny bow, That gracious thing made up of tears and light, Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright:

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